What does a person who regularly reads poetry look like?
Do they wear linen and silks, and always take time with their appearance? Do they
give preference to the artistic and the aesthetic? Do they always have a vase of fresh
flowers in their rooms? Do they choose unusual taste combinations when ordering
from a menu? Do they complete studies in the arts at an ivy league university? Do
they seek the esoteric and the sublime? Do they always possess presence of mind
and are they always in tune with their inner thoughts and feelings?
Did they always think that poetry was important? Do they realise some truth about
poetry that an ordinary person does not? Do they consider that there is always at least
one poem in an anthology worthy of respect, if not joy?
Can ordinary people like poetry? Like it enough to look with eagerness for it in the
magazines they read, or to purchase a book or two of poetry that they occasionally
take down from the bookshelves to read? Ordinary enough that their bookshelves are
overflowing with the pulp fiction that is so easily obtained, and so difficult to refuse, but
are equally happy to have a small volume of poetry sitting amongst all these other
titles? Ordinary enough that their friends don’t know they like poetry?
I like poetry, but I feel ordinary. I dislike about fifty percent of the poetry I read; either I
don’t understand it or it’s too obtuse, or it is simply too aphasic for taste. Much of the
rest leaves me unmoved. I don’t dislike it, but it does nothing for me. I feel nothing. Did
the poet feel anything when he/she wrote it? Isn’t poetry supposed to move me, make
me think about the topic differently, improve my perception of life in general, give me a
new glimpse into a field I thought I already knew? Only a small portion of the poetry I
read moves me, makes me sit up and take notice. It makes me stop and think and
often sends me off into the realms of thought that are deep and too seldom visited.
And what does a poet look like? Most biographies of the life of bards I have read
indicate that they were closet poets until the weight of their work could no longer be
hidden. Did they hide themselves because they were ashamed of being a poet,
embarrassed over the quality of their writings, fearful of mockery and ridicule? Do we
expect a poet to produce simple, even mundane, thoughts wrapped in a beautiful
conception, a delightful artistry, while at the same time dressing carelessly, living
poorly, and enduring a life of deprivation and penury?
Poetry is a mystery to me. I feel it has a lofty mission but is that really the case? And
what, exactly, might that elevated purpose be? Surely it must be more than mere
linguistic synthesis. I hope that it is more than trite re-articulation using pentameter or
iambic structure. I don’t mind careful interpretation being a requisite commitment to
appreciate what the poet is declaring, but wilful obfuscation and obtuseness cannot
be condoned. Impenetrability is not the measure of good communication let alone a
work that should, at least in part, inspire, inform, or edify.
The poetry that I like, the poetry that inspires me, informs me, and edifies me, makes
my life richer. I look for the aesthetic beauty it brings to my day, and I enjoy the way it
furnishes my thoughts with deeper meanings and understandings. But clearly, a very
large portion of the world’s population do not think the same way. I doubt more than
ten percent of my friends and family could give two hoots about poetry. Even less
would go out of their way to read a poem. The thought of spending hard-earned
money to purchase a book of poetry never arises in their mind, and if ever it did, it
would be immediately discarded as either wasteful or extravagant.
I wonder, is poetry a metaphor for how we live? We, each, ascribe different weights
and measures to things in accordance with a subconscious world view, and that is
what makes the world multicultural. Some of which is good, and some which is terrible
from almost any perspective. Will there be poetry in Heaven? Will only the same ten
percent give a hoot, and will heavenly community poetry nights eek out a sparse
existence for lack of attendance?
You know, there are many, many things in this life that puzzle me, and no doubt, there
are many more important things to wonder about than where poetry sits in the
collective subconscious of our society, but I cannot help myself. I think about this far
more often than even I think is useful. What do you think?
