WHO DECIDES WHAT IS GOOD FOR US
Michael Walsh
It seems society lost the plot but we the people never did. We have never lost our love for true art in all its forms. I often hear the words; ‘people are too dumbed down these days; they are totally focused on celebrities,’
This is not true at all. It is a tiny minority in the ever changing world of fashion that decides what is best for us. These fashionistas create what are supposed to be our tastes in fashion, music, art and literature. It is so subtle and ever changing that we hardly notice it happening as we get on with our lives.
Think about it: if the creators of wonderful arts beautiful enough to enchant the world across the centuries; if they were alive today, would they be noticed? I doubt it very much. I can well imagine the reaction of a modern publisher’s agent if a manuscript should arrive from any of Europe’s great writers.
Can you picture the expression on the face of a music agent on receiving a piece of music called the Moonlight Sonata from a gentleman calling himself Beethoven? I dread to think of the reaction if poetry came in from Rudyard Kipling. Pass the smelling salts please.
When a poet sets out his heart-thoughts he or she does the same as does the artist. The only difference is the artist uses a paintbrush to create images; the poet and writer uses pen and paper. From this imagery you experience joy or sadness; empathy or inspiration.
The proof that people reject the fashionistas offerings is found in my own experience and that of others. My pastime was to keenly observe life around me. I would jot my thoughts down in poetry form; people do the same with sketching pencils.
My poems became so popular they were soon avidly copied and passed on. Giving it some thought I decided to put a collection in a small book; we poets call these anthologies. I tried every darned publisher of poetry but got the thumbs down from all of them. I couldn’t understand this as modern poetry simply didn’t make sense. That was not my biased opinion; it was everyone’s. I decided to self-publish.
I bought a copy of The Writers and Artists Year Book. It sternly warned poets: do not even think of printing more than 500 copies nationally as poetry is not popular. I am not surprised. Are you?
Because the cost of printing 1,000 was little more than the cost of printing 500 I went for the thousand. They were sold out in six six weeks. I printed 2,000 copies of a second anthology, which sold out as quickly in one city alone. I constantly heard the words; ‘why can’t all poetry be like that?’ It is because fashion is not user-driven it is imposed.
WHERE THE SKYLARKS SING
The summer air so balmy brought the fleet of clouds to rest,
They drifted aimless; some were caught upon the mountain crest.
The maid was plucking flowers though her shoulder turned aside,
To hide the blush upon her cheek, perhaps a flush of pride.
That I should speak of poetry and sonnets for her heart;
Create a word-spun spider web that brings romance to art.
So while she stepped through flowers she beguiled and won my soul;
I chased until she caught me and to both of us our goal.
She sat her chin within her hands and smiled a thought unknown;
I closed my eyes and dreamed that she might one day be my own.
We felt the heather in the air and heard the skylark sing;
The curlew's call to higher realm where seagulls rest the wing.
And in her hands the harvest of the pastures summer filled,
Across the vale, the dingle dale; where all the flowers spilled.
To ripple, dance to summer's tune, the ocean's breathing sigh;
Where skylarks sing and flowers grow and maiden lovers lie.
Michael Walsh
Michael Walsh’s poetry is published throughout the world. He was recently awarded ‘Writer of the Year’; published and honoured by a major Russian literary magazine. He divides his homeland between Spain and Latvia.