the invisible poet in the land of invisibility
Guest Post by John Compton
i had always imagined my poetry would survive me after i died—but i don't think that anymore. i know my poetry will also die, like a quick flash bang. when i die, my presence will be snuffed out. a voice will no longer be pushing my capability. though honestly, it's not surprising how people correspond with poetry in today's society. the world cultivates itself to the top percentage of poets; the sheep jump on the bandwagon. it is equal to people in the capitalistic world: people worship the rich, imagine that the rich know who they are and will save them. the bandwagon fits many but only holds a few up to a pedigree in which they do not exist. the way these people hunger for these poets who seem to not be able to look outward but only up, their noses like fins. these poets are all writing the same poem but with a different name: they’ve learned the ability to recycle words. the indie class poet is washed under the water, like a stain. we, little citizens, who write our poetry are forgotten about like we are the smaller class. we didn't buy the correct ticket on the ship so therefore, we aren't saved when it goes down.
all poets are writing, all poets are working and all poets are striving to promote and show the world their talent. we see published poets like brands: the poets published in a major publishing house are flocked to; the high class citizens. and why? why is their poetry any better? why do they get the shares and advertisement, the awards and accolades? why is the poet who has the biggest stage in the world get all the publicity?
you ask a person what poet they are reading and they list the same poets, the same poems, the same books. though really we should find our voice in the poetry world. explore the poem by the poet who you don't recognize. lift the poet working themselves to the bone. quit being a robot. quit doing things because others do them. you're allowed to like the poet that hovers next to the sun, but in order to truly love poetry, find the poet who lives in the dwelling of the cave, where rarely the sun reaches.
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john compton (he/him) is a gay poet who lives with his husband josh and their dogs and cats. he is the poet with 14 published chapbooks/books, with the latest book: the castration of a minor god (Ghost City Press; december 2022) and next chapbook: melancholy arcadia (Harbor Editions; may 2024)
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Moved by your post, and glad I've chosen my own path and my own choice of poets who stir my spirit and invite me in—some overlap, I suppose, but there have been so many less-visible and gorgeous works I've discovered since having the time to do so. Long gone is the childhood fantasy of fame, and long gone is the fantasy of being known to, or remembered by, more than a few. The external pressure seems to increase—more MFAs and collection-published poets in bios than I've ever seen—but I hold tightly to writing, to poetry, as foundational to the meaning my life has for me….and maybe for the few who have been touched by something I've written.
Thank you for this post. I spent so many years writing and dreaming how everything would change once my novel was published. But all this time I was writing poetry and my poems would occasionally make their way into the world and my family and friends would be touched by something I wrote. I finally became what I always was. A poet. I’m 60 and my first book will be published next year by a lovely small press and I’m thrilled. I wouldn’t change a thing. I’m not going to be famous or rich but some folks may read my poems and maybe something I’ve written will touch them or make them laugh or recognize themselves, just as I come to know myself through other poets and their poems. Community and connection.