This week's New Yorker has an execrable 'poem' by Joni Mitchell. Alice Quinn, the resident poetry editor--known for her gushes over John Ashberry, her deification of Elizabeth Bishop, and her otherwise inscrutably hit and miss taste--is either a star-fucker or is being forced into this by the publisher to jack up sales. Either way, they spent their entire literary equity on this bone-headed move. The 'poem' perhaps meets the standards (barely) of a song, which would explain the oddly placed occasional end-rhyme, and perhaps permit the polemic, but here we have the mighty New Yorker and the lofty Ms. Quinn calling it a 'poem.' Alice, perhaps it's time to step down. You've betrayed us. Joni, stick with painting. You're not half-bad at that.
--R Skogsberg
No comments:
Post a Comment