You have found the phrase I’ve been seeking for a long time. Inaccessible/impenetrable poetry is my peeve.
Don’t get me wrong, I love poetry and I don’t mind being challenged by it, but much contemporary poetry
seems to be created with the intent to baffle and exclude all those except (presumably)holders of PhD’s in English and/or MFA’s.
It does not take a genius or a paranoid to discern the disdain these poets seem to hold for the average reader and, no surprise, the contempt is often reciprocated.
Some years ago I attempted to share with my step-daughter (a college graduate and an English major) a volume of poetry I had recently read and enjoyed. Which one it was escapes me now, but it was accessible and not a ‘head-banger.’ To my surprise she cut me off angrily stating, ‘I hate poetry!’
It is not an exaggeration to say that she had been traumatized in her college experience with professors and others for whom inaccessibility was a criterion for excellence and to be a poetry lover was to be member of an exclusive intellectual elite.
Since that conversation in which my step-daughter barely surpressed her tears, I have met many many people who will not look twice at a poem, for similar reasons. Is it a surprise then that so few volumes of poetry are sold and poetry has such a miniscule place in our national life.
The pity is that there is so much wonderful and accessible poetry extant that doesn’t get read because of image ‘serious’ poetry has acquired.
Incidentally, I love ‘Prufrock’ and think that precocious seventeen year old was being a little hard on herself to expect at that age to ‘get it’ in its entirety.
If she had used ‘Wasteland’ as an example I would have agreed.

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There’s no more pernicious evil in this world than people telling you not to love what you love.

I have a friend who’s ashamed of all the stuff that he loves: comic books, science fiction, and gaming. You know, “geek” stuff.

He thinks he should be reading The Illiad, Dostoevsky (sp?), and The Great Masters.

And it’s great that he does want to embrace the classics — they’re the backbone for some of the best writing in comics, science fiction, and mainstream fiction. But, what a shame that he won’t allow himself to love what he loves.

Are there different levels of merit in different kinds of literature? Perhaps. But, we can’t help that which touches us deeply.

If comic books sing to your heart — fuck it, read ‘em, love ‘em.

I dare anyone to call Alan Moore’s work in “Swamp Thing” and “Watchmen” less than literature. JM Matteis’ “Moonshadow” is both great writing and some of the most gorgeous art work you’ll ever see. Pretentious as it could sometimes be, Neil Gaiman’s work on “Sandman” was brilliant. And Bill Willingham is re-working the whole concept of fairy tales into a glorious new world in “Fables.”

2. I do not understand comment #15.

3. This is a highly irregular group of people you have over here.

4. There are seven stars and a cascade of diamonds. Look East. Soldiers and orchids. Waxen wings.

So to some extent I come at this from the other side around, loving Eliot (I didn’t read him until college) but always feeling that certain ways I enjoyed being entertained were, well, unworthy. Or ought to be.

I think we underestimate the intellegence of the audience at our own peril. As a writer, it’s my job to tell a good story the best way I know how. But first, I must please myself with my work. (Hence the reason I get so little done.)

As for accessability, as Alden said, some people will get you and some people won’t. That’s just the nature of the beast.

I hate literature that hates me. People that are desperate to show me just how smart they are. People whose distain for my point of view is hidden, if at all, by a thin veneer of civility.

I read Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, and took from it that he hated himself and, by extension, those around him. It was a good book, but made me sad. Finnegan’s Wake and Ulysses were unsurmountable for me because his raw dislike for the reader was (to me) clear. You just weren’t good enough for Joyce, no matter who you are. No amount of artistry can compensate for misanthropy – I simply can’t enjoy the result.

In the initial Italian, the soul in hell was _only_ telling the story because he was sure the hearer would never be able to tell anyone in the real world – a sealed confession. The women that come and go, whether in Prufrock or NYC, are speaking lies of omission, and their conversation is empty. Out of fear, they (and J. Alfred himself) will never reveal their truth. They will never squeeze the universe into a ball, or roll it toward that important and overwhelming question. That would expose them to the ridicule, rejection and snickering they so fear. So their eyes fix others with formulated phrases, becoming the monsters they fear. They will never tell truth where others might hear. It’s calling, but seawater does terrible things to white trousers. They have great excuses for their fear, but never break out.

I think Eliot encapuslated what I hate about deliberately false human interactions – the destructivenness of fear. I read some of the book-club books my wife’s friends bring to her, and most I drop like a hot rock. They’re false, and the author knows it as well.

When I was finally experienced enough to read the Silmarillion or the Hyperion/Endymion books, or Dune, or Pride and Prejudice, it was a joy to read them. There were times before that I tried and failed to enjoy them – and I didn’t push it. I just set them down for later. They had the germ of truth, though.

Ender’s Game was something I *got*, immediately, when I read it as a 9-year-old. Speaker for the Dead I found impenetrable until a couple of years after its publication. It meant _much_ more to me after I was a missionary in Brazil for two years. Card really likes being clear and accessible, but he also doesn’t write Hardy Boys novels, and there’s always a threshold to pass.

The ADA comment is interesting. There has to be a whole range of levels of literature for people of different tastes and capacities. There are people who enjoy rock climbing, which cannot be made accesible to quadriplegics. There are those who love walks in rolling, wooded hills – less strain, but no less beauty or joy. There are still others who love both. I love my Harry Potter and my Tolstoy. And my Monte Python.

It doesn’t matter how accessible you are – there will always be those who find you incomprehensible and others who find you way too obvious and dull. Many of them are talking about Michealangelo, anyhow. Let your characters and stories tell truth as you know it. That’s what’s attractive. When there’s an attraction, people find ways to access the previously inaccessible.

As has been mentioned by more than one of us, in some recent posting and comments about our families of origin, I grew up feeling like an alien in my culture. I’ve always felt disconnected from anything that might be called mainstream.

On the other hand, I’m determinedly blue-collar in most ways. I have little appreciation for art or literature. I like good, clean, powerful writing, but all that stuff with allusions and metaphors and parallellograms tends to put me to sleep.

Not that I’m saying I’m stupid (I’ll leave that to others here), but I just don’t have much interest in subtlety. As a counselor, I like to think that I was attuned to subtleties in human behavior and voice and such, but in art and literature, I get bored.

This is reflected in my everyday conversation and in my sense of humor.

Around people like Brad and Caroline, I often feel like a blunt instrument to their rapiers. I’m actually pretty comfy with that role.

Like the rest of you, I often feel like I come from a different planet.

But it’s a planet where they play the blues, drop acid, and make hot lesbian babe jokes, rather than one where they talk about Michelangelo.