Editor’s note: In this week’s Poetry Corner, we feature an essay by poet Julianna Baggott. She is the author of four novels and three books of poems, including “Compulsions of Silkworms and Bees.” She also writes novels for younger readers under the pen name N.E. Bode. Visit juliannabaggott.com for more information. About a month ago on a poetry listserv, I came across someone asking for advice on how to handle an acquaintance that had heard she was a poet, asked to read her work, and, simultaneously, wanted to show her poems of her own. The poet on the listserv was pretty sure—adding up some context clues—that this woman’s definition of poetry might include Hallmark cards, and she didn’t want to read the poems or hand over her own. The other poets wrote in a lot of great advice, but as I perused, I realized that much of it was of the “how to insulate yourself” variety. I got frustrated. Do poets need to insulate themselves anymore than they already do? Do we need to wrap ourselves in more asbestos? And then one poet confessed that she was happy that she wrote poems that didn’t really make sense, and that she actually thought that maybe she wrote that way as a form of protection against judgment. It seemed like it surprised her, but it didn’t come as any surprise to me. For the purpose of this essay, I’m going to refer to the kind of poetry this poet writes as “poems that don’t make sense.” You all know what I mean by this. I refuse to go into it. If you want to get derailed by an argument about these kinds of definitions, go to a cocktail party in academia, and leave me and this essay alone. OK, I’ll concede: The world doesn’t make sense and so a proper reflection of the world shouldn’t either. Point granted. Honestly, I adore a lot of poems that don’t make sense. But I’m just going to tackle one thing here: Insulation. I’ve theorized that some poets who write poems that don’t make sense have been hurt by any number of things—as we all have—and, to survive, they’ve decided to no longer try to communicate—for fear of what—rejection, or something like it? The desire to communicate is still there, I assume, but they can no longer risk the vulnerability involved in attempted communication. These poets remain insulated from the larger world—filled with family, colleagues, contests, literary magazines, awards and people who want to show them their poems, Hallmark rhymes and all. It doesn’t insulate them from rejections from magazines devoted to poems that don’t make sense, but, hell, that’s still some pretty good insulation. I’ve always thought this must be a grand lifestyle—stunning views of poets past who didn’t make sense, inscrutable facial expressions, invitations to cool parties, and, most importantly, the full battle gear of senselessness. If someone admits they don’t get your work, the reward is superiority, pity—not rejection. I guess by now you’ve sensed that I’m writing with some frustration of my own. I can read the work of poets I admire—with or without sense. Ignore the others. What’s the fuss? The fuss is that these poets who insulate themselves consciously (you can’t blame the subconscious ones) are often the same poets complaining about the pathetically small audience for poetry. Here’s the deal. You can’t consciously insulate yourself with senselessness and then bemoan the fact that people don’t read poems—the poems you are purposefully excluding them from. You cannot have it both ways. When I get in situations where I have to tell people what I do—that I’m a novelist and a poet—I’ve noticed that there are two distinct reactions. If the person is well educated, middle to upper class, he/she dismisses poetry quickly, “I’ve never understood it,” and then talks about novels. The better educated the person, the more thorough their education that poetry is something beyond them, otherworldly, sometimes senseless. However, when I’m with working class people, I often find that I’ve run into someone who thinks of himself or herself as a poet—or was raised by one or is married to one. This isn’t usually the type of person who’s published, but one who might be really good if they put their mind to it. And this is kinship with poetry that I find time and again strikes me as a good thing for the world of poetry. One time, I was signing in a mall bookstore near Baltimore. It was set up by the publisher of one of my novels, but I worked the books of poetry in. A group of about six teenage boys skulked up, looking thuggish. We bantered. Finally, the leader of the pack said, “So what’s in that book of poems? Read us one.” It was a dare. I took the bait, and read the lead poem, a love poem for my mother, really. I’ll never forget standing there, reading to those boys in their thick chained necklaces and their T-shirts. They were completely quiet. At the end, one said it was beautiful. The poem wasn’t written with them in mind, but I was trying to communicate something, and they accepted it. Two of the boys bought the book, and a third who claimed he couldn’t read, came back later, alone, and asked me to inscribe one for his girlfriend. I don’t care about the book sales. That’s far from the point. What I care about is that we connect on a quiet human level. That’s a moment I’ll never turn my back on. I want poetry that’s demanding and rigorous, but one that stakes a claim on the human heart by attempting to communicate, with all of the vulnerability that demands. How are we going to have an audience if we don’t hand over our poems when asked? How will people know that poetry is more than Hallmark if we don’t give them the goods? How will they know that we’re here at all if we continue to wrap ourselves in asbestos? This insulation is warm, but it’ll suffocate us in the end. Snuff us right out.
 favorite (19) ~  quote ~ Views: 637
Powered by AkoComment Tweaked Special Edition v.1.4.2 |
