Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Tom Wayman’s "Marketing" is a satirical and sharply critical poem that exposes the commodification of literature in the modern book industry. Written in free verse with a conversational tone, the poem adopts the voice of a bookseller or publisher, detailing the absurd ways books are treated as perishable consumer goods. Wayman uses an extended metaphor—comparing books to food—to highlight the industry’s obsession with rapid turnover, profitability, and the disposal of literature that fails to meet market demands. Through humor and irony, "Marketing" critiques the commercial pressures that undermine the value of books as enduring works of art.

The poem opens with an immediate assertion that challenges the reader’s expectations: "A book isn?t a TV dinner." The contrast between books, which traditionally symbolize knowledge and permanence, and TV dinners, which represent disposable, mass-produced convenience, sets the stage for the poem’s critique. The speaker then proceeds to describe the handling of books in retail: "Unlike food, nobody has found a way to preserve books: / you can?t freeze them, or dry them, or add chemicals." This ironic statement suggests that, in the eyes of the industry, books should be treated like food—something with a limited shelf life that must be consumed quickly or discarded.

The deterioration of books is depicted with grotesque imagery: "It seems fine on the outside, / but open it—see how soft these pages are? / And back here—ugh—rotten, brown, gooey." The exaggerated language makes the comparison absurd, as if books, like fruit or meat, physically rot. By having the speaker claim that books "go bad in a day," Wayman satirizes the disposable culture of modern publishing, where books are valued only for their ability to sell quickly. This approach mocks the lack of regard for literature as something lasting or meaningful.

The poem also critiques publishing industry practices, particularly the handling of backlist titles—books that are no longer recent but still hold literary merit. The speaker cynically notes: "Publishers will take returns, / but not if the books are what we call 3-D: diseased, damaged, or decayed." The alliteration of "diseased, damaged, or decayed" reinforces the absurdity of treating books like spoiled goods. The irony here is that books do not physically decay in a matter of weeks, but the industry?s logic dictates that unsold books must be discarded as if they do.

The poem then shifts its critique to mass-market publishing: "The mass market people / are the most considerate: all they ask is a chance to display their wares." Here, the industry’s impersonal, corporate mentality is mocked through the use of "wares," a word associated with cheap commodities rather than literature. The speaker describes a particularly wasteful practice: "If a title doesn?t sell in twenty days, they tell us to just tear the covers off, return the covers for full credit / and pulp or otherwise destroy the rest of the book." This revelation is shocking, exposing the extreme lengths to which publishers go to maximize efficiency and minimize financial loss. The casual destruction of books—objects that traditionally symbolize knowledge and cultural preservation—illustrates the prioritization of profit over intellectual or artistic value.

The poem takes a further satirical turn when discussing future industry trends: "I hear that without being requested to by the government / they?re going to start putting on each book one of those labels to tell how fresh it is: / Best before such-and-such a date." The idea of books having an expiration date is laughable, but it serves as an effective critique of how the industry treats literature as ephemeral and disposable. Similarly, the notion of listing "the ingredients of each book on the cover"—such as "girl meets two men, marries one, some explicit language, that sort of thing"—mimics the nutritional labeling on food packaging. This suggestion satirizes the growing consumer demand for instant gratification and easy categorization, reducing literature to formulaic plot summaries.

Wayman closes with a final ironic twist: "But I don?t think they?ll ever do that: / people seem to like to be surprised by what?s in a book when they read it. / After all, a book is not a TV dinner." The repetition of the opening line serves as a bookend, reinforcing the core metaphor. However, the statement "people seem to like to be surprised" carries a subtle critique—while readers might value literature for its unpredictability and depth, the industry itself treats books as predictable commodities that must conform to market trends. The implication is that the commercial side of publishing is out of step with the true value of books.

Structurally, the poem’s free verse form mirrors the natural rhythm of speech, making the speaker’s voice sound like that of a cynical bookseller or industry insider. The enjambment throughout the poem, with lines frequently spilling into the next without pause, reflects the relentless, unbroken cycle of publishing and disposal. The lack of traditional poetic devices such as rhyme or meter allows the content itself to drive the poem’s impact, emphasizing its conversational yet biting critique.

"Marketing" ultimately presents a bleakly humorous indictment of the publishing industry’s treatment of books as disposable products rather than lasting works of literature. Wayman uses satire to expose the absurdity of treating books like food—something to be consumed quickly before it "spoils." The imagery of book decay, the discussion of mass-market wastefulness, and the speculative future of expiration dates and content labels all contribute to the poem’s critique of commercial priorities. By juxtaposing literature’s enduring cultural significance with the industry’s obsession with profit and efficiency, Wayman forces the reader to confront the unsettling reality of how books are valued in the modern marketplace.

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