What then is this mysterious thing called a poem?
some thoughts on poetry
Poetry is coming back, someone told me the other day.
I didn’t know it went away, I responded.
Don’t be smart, they countered.
But I wasn’t being smart.
I simply never changed my belief that every one of us has an intrinsic need for self-expression. Even before we had words, we used various art forms, from handprints to drawings and carvings, to do just that. Which is why allowing or enabling non-human intelligence to create rather than just compile, analyse, synthesise, etc. — all functions useful in a myriad of ways, is, in my view, if not dangerous, at least risky. But that might be a story for another time.
This time, we are looking at poetry and why one of the greatest poets — Pablo Neruda, believed that —
poetry doesn’t belong to those who write it; it belongs to those who need it.
While all writers must first be voracious readers, poets are especially engaged with reading, because they are looking for both — what has been said and how it has been said on the page. This is to say — not what a poet believed or envisioned their words say, but what they actually say to the reader. The difference is vast.
The questions aimed at examining a poem range from the shape of the poem on the page to the rhythm, patterns, imagery, sensations, atmosphere. And then there is the question most of us have heard in some form —
is this even a poem at all?
I know I have and in more than one language. Long before I knew of the rhetorical voice confident enough to retort with —
what is a poem anyway?
The in-between time was consumed by fears, sickness, decay, and crickets on summer nights. We are still at it — the crickets and me.
But the question —
what then is this mysterious thing called a poem?
— never went away.
Emily Dickinson famously declared, If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can warm me, I know that is poetry.
Don Patterson said poems are, Little machines for remembering.
Dylan Thomas knew it was poetry, If it makes my toenails twinkle.
Of course, there are countless definitions of poetry, but it was perhaps T.S. Eliot who summarized it best —
We learn what poems are, if we ever learn, by reading them.
I believe that to be true because it would be impossible to paint or compose if we never admired paintings or listened to music. The same, I think, applies to poetry. As we read poems, we learn how they work, what makes them work and that informs our own writing.
We often hear that poetry is a rule-free zone, a view I too subscribe to — providing we know the rules before we embark on breaking them. And no, it is not for the sake of the old, crusty rules imposed as a form of poetic oppression, rather it is because, as poets and writers (aspiring or established), we need each and every tool we can get, and the rules are just that — tools.
While the way to create art is, in the words of glorious Charles Bukowski —
to burn and destroy ordinary concepts and to substitute them with new truths that run down from the top of the head and out of the heart
— even he was well familiar with all those old concepts.
His genius was his ability to examine them, courage to destroy them and talent to create new from the carnage he left behind. Those are rare and precious gifts. I know … he would laugh his balls off at me! That too, was his genius.
But in any case, reading widely is, I think, critically important — mainstream and experimental poems, by dead and living poets, translations (these are especially valuable).
Perhaps try challenging yourself as a reader — if a piece looks or feels odd, makes you uncomfortable — ask yourself why, what caused those feelings. Likewise, if words on the page elicit no feelings — ask yourself why.
As we live in times when written words are everywhere and anywhere, thanks to the proliferation of keyboards and internet connections, offerings are endless. From poems collaged from WhatsApp messages, and various platforms, to poetry magazines, competitions and collections. Many believe that is a blessing. While all for self-expression and accessibility, I am mindful of the tsunami effect.
Lastly, listening and watching might be equally important— as our language comes alive every time we speak — so do the poems. Poetry started as an oral tradition. Read, speak, shout, sing out loud. It really does make a difference.
I am considering starting a semi-regular column to share some of my favourite poems and poets. Not because I know poetry (I don’t) but because I love it (I do). Maybe, one day, I might even learn how to write it.
Let me know what you think.
