100 years ago today, Marinetti proclaimed the virtues of Futurism. There is something melancholy about such an anniversary, since it emphasizes the way that history has a way of becoming antiquated, and the new of becoming old hat. For the experimentalist wings of 21st century poetry, avant-garde work of 100 years ago continues to be a red herring with the scent of an elixir - a potent promise of renewed relevance - even though its historic course, as Danto argues (persuasively to a point) the age of manifestos is kaput. Still, poetic enterprise lacks any vim if it doesn't have some lead in its pencils, and that just may be a fuel driven by youth, energy, or even brash stupidity.
Futurism retains its ability to shock and amuse, if not inspire, because its design style is impressive, and because its claims are truly destabilising. Much of what Futurism endorsed, of course, seems "morally wrong" - notably the celebration of the beauty of war - and hardly the stuff to sit well with ecocritics (machines, etc.) - but the painting, especially, offered a way of seeing that was vital and novel. Poetry seems always caught between the twin seducers novelty and tradition - the one old and doddering, the other suave and all-too-infantile. The urge is for poetry to be forever closing - and opening - onto new vistas. Currently, London has a bunch of young poets and impresarios, like Tom Chivers, shaking things up. Will a new manifesto emerge? One half-hopes so.
Otherwise, the ongoing rather tedious "marketing" of poetry will continue, where large publishers basically chew up and spit out a few new "new poets" every decade, expecting the public to lap them up. As for Futurism's speed - did that become Virilio's velocity?
Futurism retains its ability to shock and amuse, if not inspire, because its design style is impressive, and because its claims are truly destabilising. Much of what Futurism endorsed, of course, seems "morally wrong" - notably the celebration of the beauty of war - and hardly the stuff to sit well with ecocritics (machines, etc.) - but the painting, especially, offered a way of seeing that was vital and novel. Poetry seems always caught between the twin seducers novelty and tradition - the one old and doddering, the other suave and all-too-infantile. The urge is for poetry to be forever closing - and opening - onto new vistas. Currently, London has a bunch of young poets and impresarios, like Tom Chivers, shaking things up. Will a new manifesto emerge? One half-hopes so.
Otherwise, the ongoing rather tedious "marketing" of poetry will continue, where large publishers basically chew up and spit out a few new "new poets" every decade, expecting the public to lap them up. As for Futurism's speed - did that become Virilio's velocity?
Comments
Maybe because we are up here what we're doing isn't linked into a metro-buzz. And I'll take the flack for that. Approaching the marketing of poetry in a way that isn't tedious for the publisher or the recipient takes time. I hope we'll get there eventually, gathering velocity on the way, only to discover 'there' is elsewhere.
The young need the old as much as London needs 'the provinces'. And vice verse. Check us out, sometime. And let us know what you think
Incidentally, I *do* think that London has a hugely disproportionate amount of the best stuff at the moment, but so many of the poets are not actually from London - they're working here, passing through, on the margins, whatever. People often accuse me (in a nice way) of being Londoncentric, but then I'm actually from here. Born and bred, like.
Hope all's well in the North West.
Tomx