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Local walls and halls have plenty to say

Let's be honest: It's been awhile since any truly new form of literature has been invented. We're mired in the syrupy dregs of post-modernism, which might be a literary school, but no one cares. Post-modernism has deconstructed itself to the point of ineffectuality. In the meantime, authors (I use this term loosely, very loosely) like John Grisham and Danielle Steele continue to inflict their writing on the American public. Well, damn it, I'm here to tell you we don't have to take their crap anymore. We finally have a group, right here in Ann Arbor, whose members we may designate as poets.

Just who - or what - constitutes this group? I haven't the slightest clue. I have unfortunately no ties with the members of this group, and am able only to admire their work as I come across it in the street. In the street? Yes: In the street. Shocking, isn't it? Street poetry. I originally decided, after much careful deliberation, to name the writings of this movement "Urban Verse," but I've since decided to change it to Vers Urbana, because French makes me sound intelligent. Vers Urbana - or the Vurb, as I like to call it - does not bow to the traditional use of paper and pen as a vehicle for its poetry. Instead, these writers choose to compose upon the imposing manmade structures that comprise the city; the very concrete and steel become their notebook, their publishing company, their collected works. I have little doubt that, were it possible, they would reject the use of solid matter entirely, and compose on the very air they breathe. But a new group can only do so much at a time.

Let us leave behind this vaporous philosophizing and discuss the poetry itself. First, a few general observations:

It seems to me that this group recognizes where it stands in the long literary tradition. They draw aspects from past movements and change them for their own purposes. This is especially clear in the length of Vurb. Take, for example, this brilliant piece by the Poet With Bad Handwriting: "Jesus=God." Obviously, the members of the Vurb movement adhere to one of the theories of Pound and Des Imagistes: Admit no word that is not absolutely necessary to the poem. But this short piece, which was scrawled emotionally on the side of a local cafe, is much more than a regurgitation of juvenile modernism. Notice, for example, how the Vurbs manage to blend literature, metaphysics, and mathematics, creating an entirely new form of poetry. The use of the mathematical sign "=" not only demonstrates a desire to escape the tyranny of words, it gives a sense of tangibility to something we do not generally consider tangible. The eternal is reduced to a simple mathematical formula. I defy anyone to show me where this has been done before.

Enough discussion of the background: What of the actual poetic merits of this composition? Without hesitation, I call it a masterpiece. I mean, good god, think of the hours that went into its composition! This is not the quick, shoddy product of misdirected teen angst, nor the trite, pedantic verse of a pseudo-scholarly mind running amok. Though I can't say for sure, it's my guess that you could find rough drafts of this piece littering the city if you knew where to look. If you're interested in locating these early drafts, I suggest you check public bathroom stalls, where, evidently, the Vurbs do some of their best thinking.

But, you ask, why is it poetry? What makes it so? That's a very good question, and I'd be happy to invent a suitable answer for you. Consider, first of all, the rhythm of the line. The Vurbs refuse to constrain themselves with standard meter, choosing to write instead as people speak, with natural rhythm. And yet it's apparent that the Poet With Bad Handwriting understands the use of meter, else how would this poem be arranged as it is, a pair of stresses framing a trio of unstresses? What an uncanny sense of balance! Sheer genius! Or possibly mere coincidence; but given the evidence, which do you think it is?

I point further to the fact that this poem is constituted of a mere five syllables. What other poetic form does this recall? Anyone? No, not "There once was a man from Nantucket." Put down the book of dirty limericks and listen to me. I'm referring to the haiku. The haiku, as you will remember, is comprised of three lines, having five, seven, and five syllables, respectively. The Vurb poet is making an allusion to the ancient poetic form by using just five syllables in his composition, paying the haiku the respect it deserves ... and then burying the haiku in the dust of its own obsolescence. In this poem, which I have taken the liberty of naming "Father and Son," the Vurbs are clearly saying there is no place in the present for forms of the past. Down with the damned sonnet, to hell with the abused ballad; let the decrepit old haiku wither and crumble! We must make our own forms, fit for the psyche of our time! If you're not for us, you're against us! Slogans! Panic in the streets! Murder! Riot! Mayhem! Revolution! Taco Bell! Arrg!

Sorry, sorry. I got carried away. But the point remains the same: Vurb poetry is incompatible with today's lethargic society. Which means, of course, that one or the other must go. Now, I hate to make predictions, but I'll make an exception in this case. For the record, it's my belief that society as we know it will crumble before the onslaught of the Vurb. Oh, yes indeed. And there will be hangings! Beheadings! Looting! Burning!

Phew! For a minute there, I lost myself. And it seems I've run out of space for this week. Well, never mind, we'll continue this exhilarating discussion next time, with a look at more Vurb writings; and possibly, if I feel like making one up, a lifelike interview with one of the mysterious poets. Until then, I'll be doing a bit more research into this literary phenomenon. You can find me, if you need to, in the Men's Room of Mason Hall, third stall from the left. Please knock before you enter.

Andrew Mortensen Big Ideas (Don't Get Any)

10-01-98