In the UK, there is a sense of reckoning. The Arts Council has issued a new report, which is the basis of a Guardian editorial today. At the core of the report, and the deep cuts to many arts projects, is a false dichotomy made, between "ticking boxes" and "excellence". The report, in fact, confuses the idea of excellence with innovation (see the Heaney post, above), but worse, assumes that one cannot tick boxes while pursuing the "real" goals of artistic endeavour. In Britain, "ticking boxes" is a euphemism for multicultural inclusivity, and socio-economic outreach. Over the last ten years, the Arts Council funded any number of museums, galleries, theatres, ballet companies, orchestras, and publishing projects, and one of the criteria was the relevance of the work, in terms of reaching out, or relating to, any number of British (often non-White) communities. I have often heard that sneer, from the Oxbridge elite, about those damn boxes - because "excellence" all too often is simply a comfortable status quo zone, where one class, and one culture, see eye-to-eye. Ticking those boxes allowed my Arts Council-funded Oxfam project to be the success it was. I was compelled to think outside my own limits of experience, and stretch, to consider, and get into dialogue with, cultures, communities, and values, different from mine - and sometimes on society's margins. It is true that, for instance, a poetry world funded only to reach the margins, and historically-underepresented cultures, might punish the established heart of things, where much good traditional and mainstream work gets done. However, aside from the few success stories, like Apples & Snakes, the performance poetry, and multicultural, poetry communities in Britain, have yet to really come in from the cold, and become productively integrated with print-based lyrical work. My fear is, in the new environment so openly opposed to the ticking of boxes, resides a ticking time bomb - one that may go off, when a whole series of people, places, and concerns, are once again sidelined and left relatively mute.
When you open your mouth to speak, are you smart? A funny question from a great song, but also, a good one, when it comes to poets, and poetry. We tend to have a very ambiguous view of intelligence in poetry, one that I'd say is dysfunctional. Basically, it goes like this: once you are safely dead, it no longer matters how smart you were. For instance, Auden was smarter than Yeats , but most would still say Yeats is the finer poet; Eliot is clearly highly intelligent, but how much of Larkin 's work required a high IQ? Meanwhile, poets while alive tend to be celebrated if they are deemed intelligent: Anne Carson, Geoffrey Hill , and Jorie Graham , are all, clearly, very intelligent people, aside from their work as poets. But who reads Marianne Moore now, or Robert Lowell , smart poets? Or, Pound ? How smart could Pound be with his madcap views? Less intelligent poets are often more popular. John Betjeman was not a very smart poet, per se. What do I mean by smart?
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