28 July
Dear Christopher Crompton,
I remember clearly the first time I read Burnt Norton by T.S. Eliot. While I had been writing and reading poetry before, this experience stood out to me as what I might call the "spark". Poetry became more than a way of expressing myself—obscuring honesty into ambiguous sentence shapes—it became a means of transportation to another world. I cannot forget the rhythm of the lines, the way my eyes drew down the page, how quickly I read through the poem that made no sense to my mind but felt so familiar. It's a poem I have returned to over and over again, though now I think East Coker has become more meaningful to me. In Eliot's prose works, he speaks about the "difficult poem", the one that is difficult to parse or understand, and that does its work upon us while we work our way through it. Poems become something of an incantation, a magic, when they are written well. It makes me think of how David Abram describes the alphabet and the technologies built from it as a potent magic. Those who love poetry seem to have this shared understanding of the magic of a poem—an ability to surrender to the experience, to allow themselves to slip into the myth, or the trance, or the feeling. Rhythm in the form of rhyme or alliteration is exceptionally powerful for this purpose, as is vivid imagery, and recalling of the familiar. If you haven't had this experience or find it difficult to engage with, how could you love poetry? I appreciate your recommendations for where to start, I imagine it could be what trying to dig a well feels like when you don't know where the underground water flows. I would like to contribute a few more points, which I hope will be helpful. The first is regarding taste, the second is about the anthropology of poetry. Your example of not liking music because of listening to a bad radio station stands out for me. I wonder if the study of poetry has been too much associated with something archaic or pretentious, if centuries of meaning have been encased in a small box of disliked notions, packed away with old high school report cards. I wonder if the movements and changes over many years have been lost in the retelling—much like music composition. Art seems to have enjoyed slightly more differentiation between schools of thought. It may be that paintings are easier to digest, and are therefore easier to like or dislike, whereas with a poem, one must commit to at least reading it once through. There may be an argument here for how attention has been impacted by technology, but I think the more interesting aspect here is taste. Sir Herbert Read's The Meaning of Art is both insightful and insulting in that it provides an encyclopaedic overview of art but also takes time to address what he doesn't like and who he doesn't like. He doesn't shy away from expressing his opinions or taste. The art becomes personal and the artists familiar. I think more people should be encouraged to identify which poems and poets they dislike. I noticed a reply to your letter calling John Donne boring, who happens to be one of my absolute favourites. While I think this writer is wrong, I respect this identification. Even within the single-stanza white-background screenshot poetry, there are vast discrepancies between the calibre of poetry. Upile Chisala is one who stands out as having very distilled poetry that is dense with meaning and feeling. I wonder if those of us who love poetry are doing a good job of recommending? Gretchen McCulloch's advice on recommendations comes to mind, which encourages us to explain why we like what we are recommending, what it is that speaks to us, what is memorable for us. I also wonder if speaking about what we don't like, be it poem or poet, and encouraging others to be opinionated would help open up the vast landscapes of poetry. Donne didn't come alive to me until I read a book about his life and his poems. Once I had a sense of who he was, the age he was living in, and where he was coming from, his poetry became personal. If you tell me you don't like Donne, I would ask what of his works you've read? Is it the cheeky, flowery (and sometimes inappropriate) songs and sonnets? Is it the divine poems from later in his life? Have you considered the wit of his satires or paradoxes? Or was it his treatise on suicide that scared you off? In truth, I don't think Donne would've become so meaningful to me had I not seen him through the eyes of someone who already admired him. This is, I think, the power of a good recommendation. As to the anthropology, even as with my example of Donne, his work makes a lot more sense when you see it through the lens of his time. Context can often be the price of entry, and sometimes this requires long study (I still haven't made it through the first volume of The History of English Poetry), or a helpful guide (like Maria Popova). Once you understand the context or meanings of the words, if you are willing to remain curious, the sense of the poem often folds out in front of you. Sometimes the first time you hear a poem, it sounds like a beautiful language you don't understand. This is helpful, but it's also important to remember that poetry is a part of our culture. It's not just the inclusion of poetry in ceremonies or memorials, it's that our earliest cultural histories were passed down in song and rhythm and rhyme—before there were history books, we had poetry as a way to remember. Consider Beowulf as an example. Good poetry, like any good art, can tell us about the people and their time, about circumstances, feelings, shared experiences, the matter that sits in the gestalt between people for which there are not yet words. I think a lot about the end of the 19th century and the poems that emerged from around then. Joanna Macy and Anita Barrows speak of the premonitions of Rilke, as if he could sense in his bones the coming terror of the early 20th century. He was so aware of his time, like a prophet who saw these things of the future like unknown impressions. I think about Ocean Vuong who's deeply tender poems and expressive story-telling offers a gentle entry into the horrors of war and loss. John O'Donohue is well verse in grief and sadness, which sits beside him like an old friend while he voices his longing. Walt Whitman teaches us how to pay attention, how to see the world, and how to find ourselves. Yoko Ono's poems are ephemeral and feel as though they are the traced remains of whatever universe she is seeing, and yet their staying power and humble wisdom is tremendous.When we see poetry, not as something designed for easy or convenient digestion, but as something that has a secret to whisper into our ear while we are paying attention to something else, then can we begin to engage. To me, the best poems are the ones that feel like they understand me long before I come to understand the poem. Does this make sense? Not logically. But I think that's the point. These poetic ways of expressing felt phenomena are used because there is yet no other way to effectively communicate. If one is closed off to feeling, or believes logic to supersede all else, then poetry may be inaccessible. In this way, poetry is also an invitation to return to ourselves and engage our most basic instincts of feeling and sensing.One of my favourite examples of the power of poetry is an anthology called A Secret Burden: Memories of the Border War by South African Soldiers Who Fought in It. It's a collection of amateur, and sometimes bad, poetry written by soldiers about their experiences. The nature of trauma is such that often experiences feel unspeakable, and even if you could present the facts, that would be a poor communication of what actually took place and what it felt like. Poetry obscures cold hard "fact" like a lens might and illuminates that which a clinical retelling would not. Poetry in this book communicates devastation, confusion, despair, and the slow breaking of will for the young men conscripted. I think poetry could be a better medium here than pictures or other depictions because it obscures what happened and leaves only the processing that takes place thereafter. It allows one to speak in circles around what is unspeakable. Because of this, to some degree, it also provides the dignity of forgetting which Susan Sontag speaks of. I am so grateful to live in an age of technological development and scientific discovery. These are like the buildings of a city, which are beautiful and tangible. But I sometimes worry that this has been held in higher esteem than looking at the movements between, the process, the flow, the shifting change over time that cannot be made sedentary—rather it is sedimentary, the product of water and air over time leaving only a residue of words for us to learn from. I believe poetry is a part of us, it is the companion technology to our scientific writings and it is just as much magic. Here's hoping for the return of the myth of the poem,
Jay Matthews
Jay Matthews