I love Sean’s definition (posted nearby) :”Poetry is basically clouds. Read the clouds.”
There’s a sort of purity to dispensing with the front-loading & framing that signals and orients a reader with cues to enter the poem here, see it this way, get to the obvious poetic climax, congratulate yourself on “getting” a meaning so damned spelled out and literal that it hasn’t sent its needle through any fabric at all. There are of course similar cues and nods toward prevailing styles that help a thing be seen. Some framing seems helpful yet I think the bulk of what’s out there will collapse around whatever core it had, if any.
Frameless construction is different than willful obscurity or solipsistic spewings yet it is often dismissed because a quick look declares it senseless or not up to prevailing standards. By pre-collapsing itself it is a response to the overwhelming multiplicity of life–an internalization, a sort of pinhole camera at work inside some dark canister.
I’ve condemned a few fine writers by not seeing what the hell they were up to. I’ve been accused of obscurity and inaccessibility by people too conventionally habituated to see that I am writing about obscurity and inaccessibility with an isomorphism required by the topic (more specifically, the obsessive and private worlds of schizophrenia).
Who have you condemned to hell and then drawn back up to perch upon your angelic shoulder? Who is the most apparently or actually senseless writer you’ve read?