Interactive poetry boards are a fact of life on the internet. They are volatile communities that tend to self-destruct; they rebuild, only to become a thing much along the lines of what they were. Those sites that proclaim their distinctiveness in not being part of the game- of a freedom from expectations and rules- the very sites that loudly tout themselves as having neither, have both. They shout they're avantegarde till their very
'funky-ness' becomes the thing that is expected. It's my
opinion, that poetry boards are the very kiss of death to any germ of originality, any singularity of voice a writer may have had when first they entered.
Buying into the idea of synergy, that something is much stronger and better than the sum of its parts individually is a lie. What I have seen happening time and again in most poetry communities is what happens within social structures in general: there is a central strong figure who overshadows the others- that is the one who sets the tone for the room. I have observed the inevitable competition, hostility and theft of deas begin to escalate until what is left is a homogenized, weakened and rabidly competitive circle of self-contratulatory enablers; I choose the word enablers because posting for comment becomes addiction for poets who post on boards. Writing for the sheer joy of writing flies out the window, and what's left is writing for results: for response.
Most odious of all are the 'circus rooms'- in which one hokey contest after another is thrown together, supposedly in order to stimulate a flow of creative ideas. Nothing kills creativity like pitting one writer against another. That is sport; it is neither nature or nurture of the creative spark. There is much back-patting and smarmy gushiness in these rooms and only those whose egos have been weakened by such places will attest to their value-----the truth is, they find they crave the competitiveness, and must justify their inability to write for other reasons: they become 'board junkies' who need applause.
I know that many of you will object
in reading this and say, "No, no. It's not
true. We must seek out one another's
critique in order to hone our writing skills"
and I respond, "No. That too, is a myth."
How can anyone ever develop their own rhythm, find their own voice if with every sixteen lines offered, there are three or four critiquers dissembling the structure and inserting their ideas into what started out as the vision of one individual's mind and heart. If at the time this is happening, the author has already bowed to the wisdom of the group or to the strongest person therein, what possible end can this serve other than creation of self-doubt and agonized second guessing. I've seen instances where the group redoes a piece until it is lightyears away from the author's initial intent. I have seen examples aplenty of the copying of styles and themes so the poem that engendered it is rendered a voice in the chorus and not the solo it was meant to be.
Why do writers of internet poetry fear the desire and the ability of some to shut out the cacaphony of it all and simply make a split with it, trying once again to find the sound all their own, one that somehow became enmired in the hatcheting, gossiping, flirting, coffee-klatch atmosphere of internet poetry boards. I think the notion that it is quite practicable to achieve this beyond their influence scares them shitless; they need to be necessary to sustain their own sense of validity. They need true believers; the success of the loner calls all that into question. For many writers, line by line critique is unnecessary and may in fact do harm to gifts already there by subverting their true bent.
Come out of the hives---the space will do you good---listen to your own head, pen your own thoughts- chance being alone; that's the place you'll find the only truth that matters. Be a bell with its own clapper. Step away from the ever constant seeking of plaudits, and write what only your silence is able to hear- for pity's sake: find your own ears.
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Give 'em hell,
ruffledpanties
