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The North Carolina controversy is now familiar to all in po-biz. The governor of North Carolina, Pat McCrory awarded the poet laureateship to Valerie Macon, a 64 year old state worker without academic creds; there was an uproar in the creds universe, and as a result, Macon resigned.
The North Carolina Arts Council—complaining vociferously—was not consulted by the governor in his choice of Macon.
The NC law says the governor appoints the laureate, which is how it happened the first time in 1948; governor Gregg Cherry, and the first poet laureate of North Carolina, Arthur Talmage Abernethy, who never published a book of poems, were friends.
The appointment was lifetime until Governor Jim Hunt told Fred Chappell he had 5 years; when Chappell stepped down in 2002, he was only the fourth laureate in over 50 years; since 2002 there have been four, including Macon: Byer, Bowers, Bathanti—with Bowers, the appointment was sliced to 2 years.
Compared to Fred Chappell, Byer, Bowers, Bathanti, are, in terms of reputation, nobodies.
Macon is to Bathanti what Bathanti is to Chappell.
That didn’t prevent the Council from choosing Bathanti.
Macon is not the issue.
Bad poetry is.
A quick glance at poems available on-line reveals that no North Carolina Laureate, no Arts Council member, no poet, no journalist alive today in North Carolina is not a substantially better poet than Valerie Macon. So what is all the fuss about?
If the following poem was written by Louise Gluck, the gods of po-biz would swoon in appreciation.
Clicking into Vinny’s Pizza
in Jimmy Choo platform pumps,
a woman, six feet tall
and straight as a sunflower,
in high-waisted leggings
and gold cropped tee.
Her boyfriend,
a weed sprout beside her,
ambles in Old Navy flip-flops.
She holds her yellow head high
like a flower tilted towards sun,
scans the chalked daily specials,
tapping Black Truffle acrylics
in the rhythm of a gentle spring rain.
She orders vegetarian pizza.
The boyfriend, arms coiled around her,
orders the meat lover’s special.
Unfortunately for this poem, the author is Valerie Macon.
We don’t say this is a great poem—not at all.
But we know what the fuss is all about: bad poets with more creds than Macon wanted the Poet Laureate job.
The Star News story announcing Macon’s resignation quoted poet (with creds!) and journalist Chris Vitello—no doubt aching to be poet laureate—who wrote in a blog:
She’s a dabbler as a poet and a question mark as a thinker, educator and advocate.
Star News got Vitello’s name wrong—the graduate of The Naropa Institute spells his last name Vitiello, in case you want to google this genius.
Here’s a sample of the previous North Carolina Poet Laureate, Joseph Bathanti’s poetry:
The City Jail spiked out of Fifth Avenue
in the heart of downtown Pittsburgh.
When we drove by it, my father would pause
and signify in its direction,
never uttering a word. Riding shotgun,
my mother on cue blurted she’d glimpsed
our imaginary condemned prisoner
in the jail’s uppermost barred window.
In this whole ‘creds’ controversy, it seems no one has bothered to look at the actual poetry of the participants in this North Carolina drama.
The above lines ends the controversy for us. Let Macon be the poet laureate. No law was violated. Macon’s poetry is equal to Bathanti’s.
Let us firmly assert that there is not a shred of poetry in the above excerpt from Bathanti.
Poetry is known immediately by its passion, inspiration, sublimity, beauty, unique expression, and the above is clearly nothing more than the prosaic opening of a short short story randomly brokenly into lines. “Fifth Avenue?” “downtown Pittsburgh?”
Is Mr. Bathanti familiar with this sonnet by John Keats?
If not, he should acquaint himself with it, forthwith, and then, as punishment for his insolence, he should go about North Carolina reciting it.
The House of Mourning written by Mr. Scott,
A sermon at the Magdalen, a tear
Dropped on a greasy novel, want of cheer
After a walk uphill to a friend’s cot,
Tea with a maiden lady, a cursed lot
Of worthy poems with the author near,
A patron lord, a drunkenness from beer,
Haydon’s great picture, a cold coffee pot
At midnight when the Muse is ripe for labour,
The voice of Mr. Coleridge, a French bonnet
Before you in the pit, a pipe and tabour,
A damned inseparable flute and neighbour -
All these are vile, but viler Wordsworth’s sonnet
On Dover. Dover! – who could write upon it?
Defenders of Bathanti and his “downtown Pittsburgh” verses will say:
Look at the detail! Bathanti avoids Hallmark cliches! He gives us ‘real life’ by evoking “downtown Pittsburgh” with phrases like “Fifth Avenue!”
Bathanti writes about what he knows; about his lived life: “my father would pause” and “my mother on cue blurted she’d glimpsed!”
Bathanti paints the scene! “When we drove by it” and “Riding shotgun” and “the jail’s uppermost barred window.”
Good. Let Bathanti publish fiction if he wants.
We say: take the laurel from his head, and shame on everyone who embarrassed poor Ms. Macon—who writes no worse than Mr. Bathanti.
Image may be NSFW.
Clik here to view.
Image may be NSFW.Clik here to view.
