There's this thing you see in every group -- subgroups. At group meetings, they usually sit together (which is why, if I'm new to a group, I deliberately sit in the back, away from the main body. This allows me to see all the subgroups.)
At poetry readings/meetings I've been to, there is the main group -- the core, the nucleus. They sit front-and-center, usually.
Then, there is usually a pair of support groups -- the wings, the banks, the estates. Yes, they often group politically and in the proper side relation, at least in view of the aforementioned subgroup watcher in the back of the room in that little table by himself.
Then, there are little nests of secondaries. Some carp, some kibbitz, some sit politely while wishing they were sitting further front. An interesting subgroup flits here and there among them -- the semi-outsiders. In poetry groups I've been in, the last are primarily musicians. (They want to play.)
Then, there are those around the bar. The rebels, outliers and mad scientists of the group, they form a nucleus of their own. The barista front-to-side, the barkeep/owner in the rear are referees, umpires, enforcers. The emcee/chair/etc. sits at the bar, keeping an eye on the rebels and an ear toward the barkeep/owner.
My seat is next to the swinging door where the cafe/caterer staff exit to dump garbage and wash dishes. Right where I belong.
What has always bugged me is this -- the subtext to these subgroups seems to be sustaining the attitude that such groups are all about being poets, want-to-be being poets, wish-to-be being poets or having-given-up-wanting-or-wishing-to-be-being poets.
Assuming all in the group-at-large have a gift for writing, this just seems to be a waste of valuable resources. Where are the critics? Where are the promoters? Where are -- most importantly -- the editors?
Are there critics at elbow with the rebels at the bar? Are there promoters sitting in the wings? Are there editors among the nests?
Critics, as I have tried to point out here, do not necessarily carp and tear down. They can, and should, serve a positive function in setting canons of taste (for which there is no "accounting" -- Victorian English for "quantifying"). This function has both a general aspect and a local aspect. ("A good poem is a good poem, but what's best for here?")
Promoters get the general audience to come to events. They make sure the events are run well, publicized and set in good places, and also feature the best and most exciting talent for that particular event (a New Talent Night would feature different poets than an Old Guard Night.).
I've saved the biggest waste for last: editors. They are often the poets who count themselves lucky to get (1) an honorable mention in contests, (2) more than a smattering of applause at open mic nights, or (3) anyone at the front table to remember their names.
But do they write well? Have they considered prose poetry, for instance? Writing essays about poetry of any kind? Starting or taking up or working on a journal? While I agree with most that you need to be a poet yourself to properly edit a journal, review or chapbook series, I don't see why you have to be a Dante or a Milton to do it. (I don't recall reading anywhere that either great ever edited anything other than his own work.)
To me, a great editor is a good poet with the broad taste of the best critics, an abiding concern with promoting other good poets, and a searing passion to make sure the best poems in every category see the widest possible circulation.
We need more of this water. Such growth happens around the country, but it occurs in diffusely localized situations. Hundreds of tiny puddles instead of a few big new waves.
If you're in a poetry group, you might use what I have written above (or what others you respect have written elsewhere) to re-assess the potential of your contribution. Critics, promoters and editors alike form the aqua vitae (in its literal sense) for great poetry movements.
And consider this: T.S. Eliot would have had to leave his masterpieces to the care of relatives (as Emily Dickinson had to do) without people like Harriet Monroe and Conrad Aiken. Without people like Joyce Glassman Johnson and Mark Van Doren, Jack Kerouac would have been the writer of one or two failed novels and a desk full of semi-coherent scribbles. And without Eliot or Kerouac or their like, who would remember the critics, promoters or editors who supported them? There is mutual benefit available to those ready and willing to grasp it.
My message is this: You, O poetry club member, can do more.
Just what is up to you.
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