Poetry, as I observed recently in that most august of domains—a Facebook comment thread—is like war. Neither of them do I fundamentally object to as a point of principle: both are occasionally necessary, though almost always regrettably so. It may even be possible to defend an instance of either as having provided, in the past, a net benefit to society. But this is no reason to encourage the production of more.
Wars beget more wars, and poetry—especially the bad—begets more poetry. Yet whilst the world has procedures, however flawed, intended to hold those who conduct illegitimate warfare to account, we have no comparable system in place with which to punish the perpetrators of literary crimes.
This can no longer stand. I therefore hereby convene, and declare myself the sole advocate, jury, and judge of the International Court of Poetic Justice (ICPJ), which will hear cases from across all time and duly, summarily, and wholly arbitrarily dispense justice. No case shall be too big for us, and none too small. Our nets shall be cast wide. Be it the krakens of the literary deeps—ancient, silent and brooding, yet still capable of rising to the surface covered in the centuries’ accreted slime of mindless and unquestioning reverence—or the minnows of poetic world—flashing rapidly past us with barely a mouthful of mawkish nonsense, individually little more than a sickly sweet burst of sentimentality, but en masse forming a vast, swirling maelstrom of maudlin gush—the court considers itself fit to try them all.
The court is well named, for not only will its sole task be the handing down of judgments upon these poetic violations of reason, but the penalties imposed shall be apposite to the nature of the offense. As a minimum they shall manifest poetic justice, but the court reserves the right to extend its punitive powers to the ironic, the sarcastic, the vexatiously obscure (where fitting: watch out, Ezra Pound, we’ve got our eye on you), and almost certainly the excessive and hyperbolic.
The first case has already been dealt with.
Re: The Court vs Andrew Motion
No poems were cited in evidence, for none were needed. The sole exhibit offered by the prosecution was a 2002 interview with the Daily Telegraph, in which the guilty—sorry, accused—indicated that he drank a daily cup of Lemsip to aid his poetic muse. It helped him achieve the sensation of having a cold, “that sort of slightly introverted self-pitying mood that a mild illness can give”; a state which, the defendant brazenly admitted, was “absolutely conducive to poems.”
Held, that the court could think of no other such open and shameless defence of everything that it stands against. That, on those few occasions where it is justifiable, poetry is so by virtue of concision in both language and imagery; the making of a precise and effective point. That “introverted self-pity” is for teenagers’ bedrooms, and should not be paraded anywhere else. That the defendant has willfully promoted exactly the kind of mawkish, intellectually flaccid, and emotionally vapid view of poetry that the court exists to stamp out.
Noted, that though the court has not read any of the defendant’s works, it vaguely recalls he wrote a poem on Diana’s death. Holy crap, wasn’t there enough unrestrained emotional diarrhoea over those few days?
Ruled, that since Motion appears so fond of snot, he is to be immersed in a lake of it up to his neck, until he has had enough (we are stern but humane, here at the ICPJ). His poems, since they were assembled deliberately and with scant regard for public welfare to emulate the excreta of contagious illnesses, shall be declared a species of biological weapon, and handed over to the corresponding authorities to safely destroy.
We shall, I suspect, hear more from the ICPJ. Its backlog of cases may be vast, but its mission is vital.