How to read poetry without feeling foolish, and how to write poetry without any shame.
It takes guts to write your heart out, and it takes heart to read poetry. Who knew this was such an anatomical process?
A note: I had something else planned for this week, but I don’t have the neuro capacity to get it out in the way it should be said. And I have one unfinished homework article that I can’t say the dog ate — it really comes down to my brain clunking into its parking space with steam coming out my ears, and nothing escapes my attention more than the need to do less. (We’re being gentle with ourselves, remember?)
So today we are taking a right turn, and then another right turn, only to end up where we started: deep within ourselves.
Poetry is the electric field and we are its conductors.
I hear it time and time again, though it doesn’t bother me — and it happens everywhere, but especially where a live reading or performance of some kind took place:
I wish I could read poetry, but it just doesn’t make sense in my head.
It makes perfect sense, because many times, it’s true. Poetry is always in motion, and it requires a certain sameness of energy and tone from the reader.
You cannot greet the poem in mourning with a joyous voice.
It serves no one to drone through a children’s rhyme in a monotonous tone.
You need to almost sing when reading Ginsberg or Kerouac.
And Angelou is almost always singing to you.
Poetry is the electric field and we are its conductors. If your voice doesn’t rise and fall with the words — if the pauses aren’t respected — if the piece strips into tatters at rushing beyond its strength . . . it gets messy. Things fall apart. The meaning washes away because no roots took hold within you.
I can’t say what way works best for everyone, but what I can do is write and wish you the best on your journey — moving along with poetry.
HOW TO INFLATE A POEM
Listen.
I know poetry can be a troublesome thing for some to read.
I’ve heard it said
many times before.
I, too, fear scrambling up the stanzas,
whose fanciful words fold up like accidental, origami swans, slowly flying away over your wagging tongue.
I’m aware that esses and tees escape sharply or not at all,
leaving vital plots of open real estate
between letters on the page.
I know the words can go all mish-mash and misshapen,
and I am sure we’ve all bleated a frustrated sigh at the lack of anything resembling a poem coming out —
instead,
it’s our diary with naked dream nightmares penned on our bodies in permanent ink,
it’s a thing to rush through and let out relief when it’s over
(it’s over, it’s finally over)
it’s a thing to gloss over like scanning a metallic, scrolling text in a nine-paragraph greeting card
assuring you that you are a good person and of course you’re worth celebrating—
I mean —
at least vis-a-vis this poetic greeting card,
equipped with someone’s signature seal of approval.
The thing is,
it’s not only for you,
this poem.
This poem is and exists as simply as you do and this is your moment together.
It was put in front of you and now you must act, or
as someone nearly said,
to do or not to do?
I suppose
you could do something to distract yourself while words unbelonging to you
make way from your mouth
into little cartoonish bubbles floating
out the door and along the gables,
straight up into the lower stratosphere, you
left foolishly standing there while helium
in a polymer shell goes further than you’ll ever go in your wildest dreams,
rises lighter than air itself,
alight with the glow of the circling moon,
disappears into the arctic ice blue of ozone on the path of the northward wind.
Yes,
that balloon is living out the rest of its seconds unmoored by your tongue and cheeks, full of charcoal letters all mixed up in an alphabetic stew.
While you furrow your brow and reach the end,
the poem releases itself into the atmosphere
ready to fall as far and as wide as your voice could carry it,
unaware of whether it moved you or not,
or was kind to you or not,
or if it gave you pride to speak aloud,
or if it will echo from the ether of your voice ever again.
As it pops and splinters into the vacuum of quiet lingering from moments before,
it is still sailing
on your breath,
to its end.
Shameless, Silly, You
I encourage everyone to write the silliest thing they can think of. Something for your funny housecat, or the pile of laundry that needs to be washed, or your bedhead from an epic sleep.
Let this be yours. Your poem.
You set the pace. You can yell or blame or shame. That is the great freedom of writing poetry. For a moment, you have something, like a burst of light, and now is the time for it to shine.
It doesn’t have to be many lines, rhyme, or even make sense. Lean into a haiku if you need structure to safely follow.
This is where any useless self-shame begins to fade and we find little prisms of merriment to fill the space all around us.
It feels good — this exercise. Be light. Make yourself smile. You look radiant when you smile.
This Thursday is the next chapter of Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet, On Love.
Y’all, this. is. my. niche. and I cannot wait to get into it.
Live in there.
Eat the words like alphabet soup.
I am always hungry for philosophical love talks.
You can catch up by reading my last post. Get cozy, she is a large, lovely ship ready to take you on a homeward voyage.
For Love & Poetry,
Tiffany