Why can’t I appreciate poetry?

 Why can’t I appreciate poetry?

 

Those of you who follow this blog may wonder why I have suddenly switched from weighty matters to something apparently so frivolous. But believe me, the question I ask, is nontrivial, and is also forged in some (minor) childhood trauma. And some of that childhood angst has resurfaced, as I have been encountering more poems than usual. On of the reasons for this is a 2016 film called Paterson (by Jim Jarmusch, with Adam Driver in the lead: https://www.imdb.com/title/tt5247022/) which I serendipitously ended up watching, twice. The film is a gentle rumination on life, poetry, and poets from the city of Paterson, New Jersey. By the way, highly recommended if you wish for a quiet meditative afternoon. Anyway, all this got me thinking about why I have difficulty understanding poetry, all over again. I realize that what follows is a very personal lament that may be of little interest. But then again, dear reader, with regard to the appreciation of poetry, you are more likely to be like me than not! I say this with some confidence because, a survey by the National Endowment for the Arts in the US, found in 2017 that a mere 12% of the population had read poetry in the previous year! (https://www.arts.gov/stories/blog/2018/taking-note-poetry-reading-federal-survey-results#:~:text=Nearly%2012%20percent%20(11.7%20percent,That%27s%2028%20million%20adults) Even among college graduates, the proportion was a piddling 15%. So, optimistically, there is an 85% chance that you will empathise with my predicament.

 

Concrete versus abstract

Now I must clarify that my incomprehension of poetry is not complete. For example, in primary school, we had this poem translated from the Russian, called The Muddlehead. It was simple, unambiguous, funny, and it rhymed too! So I had no problems there. But then, a couple of years later (I suppose they thought that it was enough time for minds to reach sufficient maturity), we had to study this poem called Beauty by Nissim Ezekiel. It’s a short, and deceptively simple one, but has left a lasting impression. I just realised to my horror, that I can still recite it verbatim! Anyway, the gist of it was that the poet is turning the pages of a beautiful bird-book and comes upon a “fine bird”, which he goes on to describe:

 

“In my bones the marrow stirred

It held a lizard by the head

Which was beautiful and dead”

 

While this was all very vivid (and arguably traumatising) imagery, I never really understood what it all meant. So I was (and continue to be!) completely stumped by questions such as “Elaborate on the poet’s idea of beauty”, and “What does the dead lizard signify?” It took a few years, and the simple and straightforward “Confessions of a Born Spectator” (by Ogden Nash), for the angst to subside. But from time to time, it resurfaces, during casual conversation, when my incomprehension is attributed to “linear thinking” as if it is a handicap. Call me simple-minded, but I am deeply suspicious of any “understanding” that comes from a fanciful flight of ideas. Of course, I am not saying that poets are nonsensically free-associating in verse; simply that they’re saying things in their own quaint ways, driven by their own emotions and circumstances. So, I am willing to wager that very often, what we make of a poem may not always be what the poet meant to say.

 

Poetry is subjective, and personal

Anyone who has trouble appreciating poetry probably rationalises by pointing out how subjective it is. I struck upon this line of defence early on. And found moral support from an unexpected quarter: an account of the misadventures of the physicist, Richard Feynman “Surely you’re joking, Mr Feynman!” In his book, Feynman recounts an incident during his university days, when he inadvertently caused chaos in a philosophy class by posing the seemingly benign question: “Is a brick an essential object?” (An “essential object” is apparently a concept in philosophy which I haven’t tried to understand). But the upshot of his question was that there was a general meltdown with everyone in the class having a different understanding of what the humble brick meant (did it refer to just that one brick? Or to its general “brickiness”?). If a simple brick could be interpreted in so many ways, I reassured myself that a dead lizard in a bird’s beak could mean way more things to many more people. So, subjectivity of poems is a given; even the most militant of poetry-fans would readily agree. At least I think they will.

 

But what I think really sets aside poetry from prose is that it is deeply personal. Every poem holds special meaning for the poet. That it also may mean something to someone else is incidental. In short, a poem is the ultimate act of self-indulgence. And there aren’t any rigid set of rules to follow. Consider this poem which I discovered from watching the film Paterson. It’s by an American physician-poet William Carlos Williams. It’s called, This is just to say, and goes like this:

 

“I have eaten

the plums

that were in

the icebox

 

and which

you were probably

saving

for breakfast

 

Forgive me

they were delicious

so sweet

and so cold” 

 

 (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/56159/this-is-just-to-say)

 

Now, I am aware that this is a beloved classic, but I still can’t help but think that writing this one provided vastly more utility to the poet than to anyone else who has read it. Unless of course the reader herself had also committed a similar minor transgression, and could fondly identify with it. For every other person, I would be surprised to think that it means anything at all. It would of course be a different matter if your grades depended on it! There is a far straighter, predictable path to understanding and appreciating prose.

 

So, after a few days of introspection, I have come to this conclusion: If you cannot understand or appreciate a poem, don’t worry. Be assured that it wasn’t written for you. But it doesn’t mean that you are incapable of appreciating any poem, and I wouldn’t rush to join a poetry appreciation course. You may yet get immense pleasure out of writing one. You may also love something written by someone, because you already know her thoughts. And then there are of course the simple, unpretentious ones that rhyme!

 

(As a sort of epilogue, I would like to add that this was a difficult piece for me to write. Mainly because this is a subject about which I know practically nothing. And it’s quite possible that these thoughts apply only to me! So if anyone out there feels very strongly, please feel free to post your comments.)