Blasted prose is all telly, takes the engine out, no matter, it is what is at hand. All that's left some say. Not much point in disagreeing, since there will be enough of that.
Might be, that by 1930 it was all finished, that is the New--what followed was an interpretation, and elaboration, a thinking through. (yet one would not limit the renaissance to a small span of years, so be not too hasty as yet). Still, the reverberations of those working in those years are still with us, coloring every line of verse whether we acknowledge it or not. It is not even a matter of knowledge in most cases--the sad lot of education being what it is.
Pieces of this or that are taken and declared New, at best there is an evolution--language overtakes the poetry and the poetry itself is forgotten, whatever the genre which one might choose to subscribe to, thus there is dogma and counter-dogma and anti-dogma and the piss blew the ants away and so forth. Somewhere in the center of it all the poetry still remains, and if it is lost who shall we blame, why only the poets who sit in the flame and prefer not to be burnt--
and if they are not burnt dare we call them poets?
Dog poopy. It is worse than Plato thought, lies and evasions; such promises as would make a televangelist blush were one capable of such a thing. There is nothing that would make the axes in the grasses spring forth to strike these poets down, and if one should dare; the ridicule from his brethren would deafen the heedless gods themselves. (That was fun, where was I?)
Oh yeh! Political correctness masquerading as poetry would be one way of putting it, another would be banal pap best left in secret diaries with the rest of the public secrets that make the housewives titter and gasp--
one wonders if they still do that.
Maybe it is the convergence of science & spirituality--at this crux, this vantage point which we have we are halved by both certainty & uncertainty.---our existence is predicated on the signposts we leave for those who follow; the questions become finer, ethics, consciousness, spirituality--in our hubris we do not wish to be wrong yet cannot escape that destiny even as our artificial society sinks in the mud and we can quite plainly see it. Boogers we say, and argue over the angels on the head of the pin!
Schools they say! Schools of this & that--periwinkles and pop-tarts, pink commas in the hem of the schoolgirls miniskirt, and who's in charge of story time. Techniques is all they are! ways of saying that which must be said. I happily steal from all of them. If I have to--if I don't I putter down whichever road presents itself. If in the before of all that, I absent myself to take a pee you must pardon me.