The Fear of Reading Poetry
My mother loves poetry. She’s told me for years that it’s the hardest writing format and that in order to become a better writer, I need to read it.
She’s right, of course, because MOTHER. If I were to be honest with myself, I think I would admit that I (and probably you, too) am terrified of poetry. I’m scared to be the person in the room that “doesn’t get it.” I’m an English Major. I’m supposed to know good poetry when I read it. But what is good poetry?
Several years ago I decided to become a quilter. I had no real sewing experience. I’d made a few things here and there for my babies, but I really liked the idea of making art out of fabric. When I found out there was more to quilting than fabric perfectly cut and sewn in to the shape of stars or houses or wedding chains, I was freed from artistic structure. I realized that I could put together any fabrics, any way I wanted and sew them together. As long as I had a “sandwich” of fabrics with a filler, usually batting, and held the sandwich together by sewing, I could do what I wanted.
In learning how to make these kinds of quilts, I came across a number of exceptional quilters and artists. The designs I am drawn to are more modern and abstract; they’re made with no real pattern. I can see what I want to see in the colors and shapes, but like other forms of art, the work takes on more meaning when I get close and pay attention.
I decided to approach poetry in the same way.
Classifying poetry can include a number of sub-genres and, just like quilt designs, I need to find what draws me in. Harvard has a helpful list of poetic genres here, for those that are into categorizing things. For me, the ideal would be a poem that feels approachable. I’m reading contemporary poets who write words that make my stomach lurch. Even brief, these poets write words that make me grieve, or laugh, or sit in appreciation. They make me wonder how a simple turn of phrase can leave a mark, a stain, and imprint on the mind and heart.
I started with Rupi Kaur’s book of poetry called MILK AND HONEY. She’s a popular poet and I think it’s because her poetry is accessible. I know. This term is over-used, but I think it’s a nice way of saying the writing isn’t fussy; it’s easy to understand and relate to. It’s not high-brow. If you need a good place to start, this might be it.
Pablo Saborío is a poet and artist. His poem SWEET MESS was the first of his I read. A few lines:
To the lake of doubt that drowns the hope.
To the ache of death that drives the howl.
I understand.
And this is where I started to understand. If a novel is the macro, the poem is the micro, the overall and the minute detail. A novelist can pine over a sentence, a word hoping for the right description in a scene, but for the poet that sentence or word is all she has. Like the quilter, the expression of the work can change depending on the cut or color of fabrics she is piecing. A stitch out of place and the piece is altered.
Andrea Cohen’s collection of poems called NIGHTSHADE was included on The New York Times “Best Poetry Books of 2019” list. One of my favorite Cohen poems is SHIVA, which appeared in The New Yorker here. In all of her poems, her words taken one at a time, are average, everyday words. Somehow, though, she strings them together and produces a wound or in the case of SHIVA, a way to heal.
So, what is this doing for my writing? Think about it like this: reading other writers in your genre is like taking a 101 class. You are familiar with how the prose sounds, the character archetypes, the literary level of the writing. And that’s good. Keeping up-to-date on your genre is a sound strategy. It’s necessary. It’s also comfortable.
Reading poetry is the 300 or 400 level class. Maybe it’s the one you’ve been avoiding for whatever reason. You’ve heard it’s hard. You’re intimidated by the cliques that form around a “lofty” genre and think no one will want to sit next to you during instruction. It’s probably boring, you think.
All of that can be true if you let it. Just like other writing, there will be a lot of poetry out there that doesn’t work for you. Mostly, though, it turns out to be a lesson in how to be grateful for the perfectly chosen conjunction, the thoughtfully placed comma, the flow and beat created with word choice. It teaches us how to zero-in on meaning, to slow down, to connect more deeply with our own writing.
When we stand back and look at a quilt, we see the art as a whole the same way we do when we read a poem. If we go closer, taking in the stitching, the joining of colors and textures, we learn what is personally appealing. Do I like the way that came together? What is the artist trying to say? And, most importantly, how can I improve my work based on what I’ve learned?
For me, poetry is becoming a lesson in the placement and choice of words that creates a new way of connecting the reader with the message. It’s the slow roll a poet has of delivering a punch to the gut or the sweeping sense of awakening. This is what will make me a better writer, and if not, at least a better person.
