Thursday, April 12, 2007

Chop, Chop Chop It Up

There are as many poets in New London as there are people. In a Whitmanesque sense, we are all poets. We all create art, just by going about our business and we create beauty just by being ourselves. It is easy to be beautiful in New London, Conn.

There are about twelve serious poets in New London who consider themselves a school. They share New London in common and that makes them of like mind and intent. They are in love with the sounds of their own voices, as any real poet should be. Whalehead King, though he strikes many a off-key note, is a perfect example. This most prosaic of writers is lumped in with the caste of poets, though he would never call himself one. He is hard to pidgeon hole and the pidgeon is the mascot of The New London School of Poets new journal. It is called Chopper and the poets chose that title for a reason. They parse words and ideas with a certain dogged sensibility that only New London could nurture. Dogs scare and chase pidgeons off New London's sidewalks every chance they get.

You can't swing a dead cat without hitting a New London artiste, be it a poet, actor, playwrite or painter. This is a city that encourages creativity. If you cannot entertain yourself, you won't find much to do in New London. It is a city of exhibistionist mastubators. This is not an observation of those who write poetry in a New London state of mind. It is an observation of creators who put their product in front of a public that doesn't care.

This is an essay that goes nowhere, it circles its tail the way New London poetry falls into ellipses.... Sometimes you don't know when the writer/reader is done until the awkward pause when nothing is going on so people start to clap. At least on a page, you will be able to tell when a poem has finished. The page ends and another title appears opposite.

That is literature.

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