Poetry Thoughts

I've been writing a tad more poetry recently since my Art History class is basically finished, and I've actually also been thinking about getting it published, which I know is quite presumptuous, but I really do think I've stumbled into writing some good poetry.  Part of my belief is based in my incredible snobbishness, which has led me to regard all poems regarding or referring to mundane subjects, like baseball, Hollywood, a pet dog, etc. as horribly lacking in some sort of refinement, which I guess I should call maniera, seeing as such judgment is no less silly than the exercises of 17th Century art theorists who said that history paintings were innately superior to genre paintings.  In fact, I'm sure William Carlos Williams would have no qualms writing about such silly things, and he probably did, though I choose instead to remember the amazing Elysian Fields metaphors in "Asphodel: That Greeny Flower" instead.

That said, I just can't get behind something like this (http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/243858), all due respect to Mr. Blackburn, the poet thereof:

—for Joel—Nice day,
sweet October afternoon
Men walk the sun-shot avenues,
                                                     Second, Third, eyes
                                                     intent elsewhere
ears communing with transistors in shirt pockets
                                    Bars are full, quiet,
discussion during commercials
                                                      only
Pirates lead New York 4-1, top of the 6th, 2
Yankees on base,    1 man out

What a nice day for all this  !
Handsome women, even
dreamy jailbait, walk
                                      nearly neglected  :
men’s eyes are blank
their thoughts are all in Pittsburgh

Last half of the 9th, the score tied 9-all,
Mazeroski leads off for the Pirates
The 2nd pitch he simply, sweetly
                                                           CRACK!
belts it clean over the left-field wall

Blocks of afternoon
acres of afternoon
Pennsylvania Turnpikes of afternoon  .  One
                                    diamond stretches out in the sun
                                                     the 3rd base line
                                    and what men come down
                                    it

                                    The final score, 10-9

Yanquis, come home

It's a nice poem, but it makes me feel nothing, and I grant that I misunderstand the meaning of baseball to this country.  To me it is nothing, but to apostles of Whitman, I'm sure it's just as valid as the Greek plays and olympics, about which so many great sculptures and, I'm sure, poems were created.  I'm sure Joel liked it too, because it is fun, but in the end, to me, it just reeks of commercialism and some sort of nostalgia for "The good ol' days" that were just like ours today.

So what is poetry to me? To me it's supposed to be art, and I do not claim to have achieved such a lofty goal.  I do hope, however, that in time I will be able to do so by asking people what they think is most powerful and most permanent (because I think Ancient Rome more permanent than Baseball - the irony is not lost on me, but I disregard it nonetheless).

It would be unfair to take pot shots at the above poem, which I believe I have done courteously since I am not here to criticize it's poetry but only use it as an example of what I perceive to be a misuse of the medium, if I did not post one of my own, so here is one:

But how to change the stony will of fate
And bring my own to a more happy end?
What pleas can bring those three scions to bend
Their iron rulings, determining my days so late?
Perhaps the words of mighty Jove, so great,
Can change the flowing course of fate and mend
This lonely heart that otherwise will rend
With knowledge it will never have a mate.
I hope that if fate does indeed exist
And is not but a myth devised by man,
It be to me benevolent and just,
And leave not love to lie outside my midst.
If such were true, I'd be more happy than
Those ancient souls that satisfied their lust.