can poetry matter?

that's the title of a book, and an essay by dana gioia. as a poet gioia (pronounced joy! ah!) is only so-so, but this essay actually makes a lot of good points. can poetry matter? ..well, it matters to me. it matters to the other poets in my classes, and the teachers i've had. but that's kind of what he's saying- that poetry is only being read by other poets and this is a problem because poetry IS for everyone. i swear. it's about being human, it's about taking your private language (we all have one or many, come on, don't lie) and fitting it together like a little puzzle that hopefully makes someone else feel something. it's cool! you should try. i would like to see poetry appeal to the general population outside of colleges and MFA programs.  i mean it would be nice to not feel completely embarrassed when someone asks me what my major is (literally my least favorite conversation to have.) i bet a lot of aspiring "professional" artists feel this way. it makes one vulnerable to admit that they care about something that they could fail so easily and miserably at. i remember someone once asking me how i would do an internship for a career in poetry and i said i guess i'd spend a lot of time looking out the window. it's really not easy at the college level to say "i want to be a musician." but still, music is so much more widely appreciated in our culture than poetry. same goes for movies, acting, photography and a bunch of other different visual medias. even novels and short fiction are way way way more popular.

WHY!?!?! for real, everyone is a poet. there is not one person that i know who i haven't heard say or do something poetic at one time or another, and the poetry that i like best is the kind that sneaks up on me when i'm out in the real world (i.e. not my blog.)

check out this poem by jeffrey mcdaniel, my advisor here at school. he has four books: alibi school, the forgiveness parade, the splinter factory, and the endarkenment (such a bangin title.) he rules. get into him. 

Poetry Nation

In the capital square there is a statue of Jack Spicer,

puking his guts out, his last words- my vocabulary

did this to me! - inscribed in the marble base. 

In nightclubs, supermodels stomp their heels

and dream of their small, dark hearts

being enlarged with compassion implants,

as the poetess gets all the attention.

Guys in trendy rock bands mope like damp rats

whenever a poet storms into a room.

Everyone wants to be a poet, even the coroner

scribbling in his note pad at the crime scene:

a drowned man is judged only by his piers.

Carjackers pause in mid-heist to consider the moon. 

Hallmark is burned to a crisp. Bill Knot's sillhouette

appears on every thirteen dollar bill. 

Homeless people stand in line for Pablo Neruda. 

In hospitals, they feed cancer patients Carolyn Forche.

In churches there are giant wooden replicas 

of Emily Dickinson nailed to a cross. 

Instead of NBC and CBS, there is W.S. Merwin,

the Walt Whitman channel, and Sappho at Nite.

The Constitution was written by Tristan Tzara.

All men are created equal under Dada.

The drug czar makes sure everyone gets enough.

Lucille Clifton for president!

Charlie Parker is the national bird.

Howl  is recited before pro football games.

You can pay for groceries with words.