As the saying goes, most people ignore poetry because most
poetry ignores most people. For simplicity’s sake, let’s say that there are two
reasons for people’s lack of interest in poetry. In the first place, some
people simply prefer writing that is straightforward and to the point. Of
course, it’s true that any number of poets do not in fact intend to hide what
they are trying to express - although they will use words and phrases that sing
and dance about a bit.
But enough poets have seemed to revel in writing poems in a
perplexing manner, and frankly, I think that these poets may have given poetic writing
- as opposed to a more prosaic kind - a reputation for obscurity. It need not be.
Poetry and clarity can coexist.
But here’s where many honest readers find themselves lost.
They simply are not interested in what a particular poem is about.
I can say again that some poets do seem to delight in hiding
their subject under phrases where meaning is unlikely to be found, or perhaps they
hint that what meaning there is to be found in their writing turns out to be
something only they have discovered. But let’s simply forget about those poets.
There are plenty of others.
Still, if a poem is not about something – at least something
that a reader might actually care about, even if the subject needn’t be
entirely and explicitly spelled out – why indeed should anyone read that particular
poem?
So what should poets write about to interest readers (beyond
those current readers of poetry who are already drawn in by the somewhat more
winding ways of somewhat elusive poets, readers who find certain poetical styling
an enticement of its own)? But for the rest of us, surely we don’t need more
poetry about college basketball or which foods you should eat to be healthier
or whatever else so very many people seem to be interested in these days. I’m
not asking poets to pander.
I look at poetry as simply another way of expressing ideas -
as is painting or music or tweets, for that matter. Poetry is a form, or some
multiplicity of forms - that is, simply, poetry is first a collections of words
used to communicate or share feelings or visions. There is more to it than
that, of course, but I will leave that more or less undefined. But ask this question: just what can be said in
a poem that needs to be said – that might indeed best be said as poetry?
William Carlos Williams suggested that people die for the
lack of poetry – poetry which is not found in our straightforward news. Who
knows whether he meant that literally - he was a poet after all, and one that I
have had a hard time following quite often. But he wrote this:
“This
is Just to Say
I
have eaten
the
plums
that
were in
the
icebox
and
which
you
were probably
saving
for
breakfast
Forgive
me
they
were delicious
so
sweet
and
so cold”
That is an example of a kind of poem that I think that more
people need to read more often. Of course, many poems are about more than that.
Still, the words could hardly be simpler, but there is possibly enough to think
about in those few words to give a little pause – which is the overall point of
poetry, in my opinion. Sometimes I think that more people need to read less and
more slowly about the things that not only interest them, but that actually matter
to them, so that they will recognize and remember what matters. I repeat: I think
that good poetry leads the reader to pause.
Here’s a poem of mine to illustrate what I have said here. I
can call it a poem if I want to because it expressed my subject in not very
many words and I broke the lines instead of writing it in the form of a
paragraph. I hope that there is more poetry in it than that. Of course, maybe what I’m writing about here doesn’t
interest you very much. If so, tell me what matters to you, and I will look
into my pages of writing and see if I can find something that you might like.
Or maybe I can recommend something another poet has written. I’m not sure, but
I think people might languish, if not actually die, for lack of the right poem
now and then.
Crossing Mass at 9th
In the folds
of her dark green
sweater
lie hills and valleys
of sunlight and shadow,
each one a new horizon
across her form.
She walked ahead of me,
her face looking forward,
pale sneakers
marking the pavement
with disappearing steps.
