One of my earliest criticisms that I remember concerning poetry, or rather specifically MY poetry was something my father had said to me, after watching me one time while I was deep in creative concentration. Curious, he asked me what I had been working on, and eager to have his attention, I started to tell him about the idea of my poem. When I asked him if he would like to hear it, he acquiesced, but when I was done, and had asked him what he thought of it, he said that he “…didn't know enough about poetry to give an opinion.” I was a bit hurt, since I had finally thought that I would get some feedback; something that I could use to further my craft.
After I thought about it for a while, I told him that he was welcome to read more of my work, on the condition that he not be afraid to ask me questions, and give his interpretations of what he thought the poems might be about. I realized then and there a huge problem that seems to plague so many people concerning poetry; that they are afraid to read it and “get it wrong”. I looked at my father and asked him a simple question-“Do you worry about understanding everything concerning the mathematics or engineering details found in the Sci-fi books you read?”
He looked at me, slightly puzzled, and realized what I was trying to say-that we don't always have to understand every nuance of what a writer is trying to say; but rather enjoy it for whatever reasons we enjoy it for.
Throughout history, writers have deliberated about this, simplifying the question even more, concerning the specificity of poetry. There have been many definitions that generally reveal that poetry is more about the values of the individual writer, and the attitudes of the society in which they live rather than the absolute qualities of poetry.
I myself, am of the opinion that poems are more of a hand crafted object in which sentiments, ideas, observations are blended together; a sculpture that emerges from a hunk of clay, as it were. There are other views no less right or wrong: some people think of poetry as a divine mystical revelation sent from some unknown muse, bubbling up from the unconscious. Still some feel that such words arise from a collective unconscious that we all share.
For many modern writers, poetry thrives on the personal, the intimate, the need to unearth the visceral, deep emotion that writhes within us. Poery often stands at a consciously crafted distance: “It is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality.” Yet we must be careful: if we overintellectuallize poetic interpretation. As Archibald MacLeish protested in “Ars Poetica” :
A poem should not mean
But be.
Some poets create their poems as manifestos; others as intimate secrets, as subtle whispers, or as clenched fists. Some write using the most esoteric of references, others the most commonplace. Poems, like so many other forms of writing, have many different reasons for being written and produce a broad and varied range of responses. We do ourselves a disservice if we think that poems be of only one sort, producing only a narrow range of emotions. When we abandon what we think poems should be, we realize that some poems soothe, others unnerve, excite, or merely amuse. We might find ourselves nodding in acknowledgement at certaing poems, hypnotized by a lush language unfamiliar to us, sometimes haunted by its beauty for days, or even years after we have read it.
Although rationalist formal education has established categories, (such as the sonnet, the sestina, the ballad, etc) poetry in itself, whether modern or classic, have no simple definition. Trying to settle on a particular definition of poetry or on any absolute sense of the effect poems produce in readers is often detrimental and counterproductive to writing in general. I believe, in many cases, that poetry makes something that is not a poem become a poem by looking at it a certain way, or by hearing it in a certain way, that alters our perception of the subject matter. Here is an example of what is known as a list poem, which can function in a variety of ways, depending on what type of message the author wishes to impart:
I Know
I know
that we were happy
and
I know
that we could not continue together, in this place,
and
I know that clouds
are clumps of sodden wetness; dark and cold
and
I know that the sun
is not a magic orb
and
I know that I will never
be a beauty; I've been assured of that;
