Thanks to the WD Poetry Awards and the November PAD Chapbook Challenge, I’ve been writing a lot more poetry lately. And I’m rediscovering how much I’ve always loved it.
I cannot explain poetry. That’s partially why I gave it up in the first place — I could never figure out how one could tell whether a poem was good or bad, unlike a prose narrative, which has clearer landmarks telling you where you are or where you should be. I didn’t understand the purpose for poetry and felt guilty spending money on printed collections (“Wouldn’t a novel be so much more USEFUL?”).
Now I suppose I’m beginning to understand, but only intuitively.
Poetry will run from you if you approach it in a hardened or cerebral manner, trying to demand a straight answer. You need to cultivate receptivity, an attitude of listening — and you need to keep dancing between your mind, heart, and spirit as you read in order to understand it and, ultimately, to see its value.
Sounds like fluff, but it’s what I’ve learned through my limited experience. Perhaps I should re-word it, without the fluff:
There isn’t a how-to book of rules. You need to tear down your walls, humble yourself and read the dang poetry until it clicks.
