In early July, the Nation magazine published a 14-line poem, “How-To,” by Anders Carlson-Wee. The Scrapbook holds rather old-school opinions on the matter of poetic form, and we found it hard to scan “How-To.” Still, the poem’s language is incisive, it has a distinctive rhythm, and it ends with a punch. Its thematic idea, too—advice from one homeless beggar to another—grabs your attention. “If you’re young say younger,” the advice-giver says.
flaunt it. Let em think they’re good enough
Christians to notice. Don’t say you pray,
say you sin. It’s about who they believe
they is. You hardly even there.
There were just two problems with the poem. The first is that line about being “crippled”—insensitive. The second is that Carlson-Wee is white, and the language sounds African-American; so the poet is guilty of racial insensitivity, not to mention “cultural appropriation.” Denunciations followed.
In the days when poetry was important, both the poet and the magazine would probably have been glad to offend the day’s cultural arbiters. No longer. The Nation’s poetry editors (there are two!) issued one of those apologies with which we’ve become nauseatingly familiar: “We made a serious mistake by choosing to publish the poem ‘How-To.’ We are sorry for the pain we have caused to the many communities affected by this poem. We recognize that we must now earn your trust back.” And so on, for another 125 words.
We were inclined to feel indignant on behalf of the poet, but then discovered that he, too, had issued a groveling apology: “I am listening closely and I am reflecting deeply. I am sorry for the pain I have caused. . . . I intended for this poem to address the invisibility of homelessness, and clearly it doesn’t work. . . . The fact that I did not foresee this reading of the poem and the harm it could cause is humbling and eye-opening.” How quickly and abjectly do our seemingly independent-minded artists submit to the dictates of political fashion!
It occurs to us that with just a little adjustment of language, Carlson-Wee’s poem would make a fine commentary on the backwardness of modern America’s culture industry. The artist doesn’t matter. The work of art is void of intrinsic value. All that matters is whether the cultural pooh-bahs give or withhold their approval. It’s about who they believe they is. The poet hardly even there.
