Over the past few weeks, I seem to have developed a kind of love/hate relationship with poetry. Wow, that looks wrong; I never thought I would say I hated poetry, but this reading has helped me to narrow the source of my frustration, here it is: I spent over three hours reading the first fifteen pages of this Hirsch book. That's five pages an hour!, certainly my slowest reading ever. You see, every few lines I read something that cought my attention and caused me to spend some time thinking about it. When I came to page 9, I began my inquiry. 'Wallace Stevens asserted, "you must love the words, the ideas and images and rhythms with all your capacity to love anything at all" ("Adagia"). Stevens lists the love of the words as the first condition of a capacity to love anything in poetry at all because it iis the words that make things happen.' (Hirsch, How to Read a Poem, p.9) This jumped at me because I don't love the words, I don't think I've ever loved any words. As long I can remember I've seen words as an opponent or a second-rate translator. Words have always been synonymous with awkwardness and misunderstanding for me. Writing has been particularly cumbersome since it isn't dynamic like speech and always seems slow, that is slower than thought or feeling.

Feeling is an absolute to me. Words can change your feeling and you can describe that change, but the substance is in your feeling, your resulting state. The real truth of anything seems to exist in what processes your perception, your reason, your emotion. It seems to me that words are always coming from here, and that something is almost always lost in the translation, at least for me. I realize some people have a wonderful ability for verbal expression and can transmit this truth, beautifully employing words (of course they also use other means like facial expression and body language). Further still, masterful writers can almost fully express an event or state, but it can requires several hundred pages of words to describe one moment. Poets then, can use very few words to express something much greater, they can insert more into their words. So perhaps the truth in poetry is not the words, but the result of those words on a reader. If I read poetry this way, it seems poetry should be the form of writing I like best. But then am I always reading the poem looking at the reader and not the poet? A better question: Where am I going with this? Is my real problem focus?

"The reader actively participates in the making of meaning through metaphor, in thinking through the relation of unlike things." This is true, even on a more fundamental level, because it could be said that all of literature is metaphoric. That is, even a straight up image requires the reader to connect two unlike things. For example, "The brown horse whinnies.", factual, yes, but you as a reader must supply your own mental associations to this foreign image i have created and introduced into you via words. The words go into you from me, but the associations come from you. The meaning in this way emerges from my words and your memories (the source of associations.) Are we seeing the sexual connotations(?), but i never said sperm and egg, that was your own child. What this book really is doing so far is dispelling the illusion that meaning is able to exist disembodied, immortal, unchanging on a page in a bottle. But meaning morphs, changes, and is pliable. It must be, because the words squeeze into a new mind and encounter a new mental landscape/context. The meaning that will arise is dependent on the associations that mind binds to those words. "The brown horse...", what do you see? Meaing does not exist outside of relation and communication. "There is no art except for and by others", Sartre says. The same is true of meaning.

Poe's Poignant Point

In the English world, when it often seems as if everyone has the "leg up" except for you, it is wonderful to hear a poet of known caliber comment on the difficulty of the entire poetry creation process. Within the pages of Hirsch, Poe is quoted as follows:

Most writers- poets in especial-prefer having it understood that they compose by a species of fine frenzy- an ecstatic intuition-and would positively shudder at letting the public take peep behind the scenes, at the elaborate and vacillating crudities of thought- at the true purposes seized only at the last moment- at the innumerable glimpses of idea that arrived not at the maturity of full view- at the fully matured fancies discarded in despair as unmanageable… (Hirsch, How to Read a Poem, p. 25).

One opening passage in Edward Hirsch's book immediately sent shivers down my spine: "I am at home in the middle of the night and suddenly hear myself being called, as if by name. I go over and take down the book--the message in the bottle--because tonight I am its recipient, its posterity, its heartland" (Hirsch, How to Read a Poem, p. 2). I absolutely love these two sentences. It's almost as though Hirsch has captured my fascination for literature in these lines. No kidding, this could have been taken directly from a letter or journal entry of my own. (Of course, if I had actually written it, the sentence most likely would have been disfigured in some shape or fashion, serving to ruin the entire effect, but that's another story.) I love the connection between the poet, the reader, and their shared message in a bottle. To me, a poet really does place a poem in a bottle and let it out sea, later to be read or not. The author, therefore, finds satisfaction with his art regardless of who receives it, yet leaves it to the reader to become "its recipient, its posterity, its heartland." The poem exists without an audience (contrary to some opinions) but finds its rhythm and home in the one who receives it. Also, I like this image because it leaves open the possibility that we may never find the one poem which speaks directly to our hearts. With so many bottles at sea, we must cherish the ones that are found, yet continually search for the special one that's addressed directly to us. Moreover, it lets me feel comfortable as I begin my journey into the world of poetry. Though I have spent little time studying the works of the great poets, it's merely because I haven't reached over the side of the boat and picked them up -- not because they're not meant for me at all. In this one passage, Hirsch has helped me to capture the meaning of a community of poets, each of whom tosses something overboard (preferably a poem, not a person) for the one who stands at the shore patiently awaiting its arrival. One more thing: I like the idea of being called out to a poem in the middle of the night, almost to the point of no control. When one finds an activity he or she loves, it's nice to lose your struggles and inhibitions in the process. That is what poetry does for Hirsch. Poems are his blanket on a cold night; his body and mind need the satisfaction of one more line, one more chance for understanding. The poems come to him trapped in a bottle, but they enter his body through his beating heart.

Unfortunately, however, I feel Hirsch's writing comes down to earth, if only for a moment, a short time later in his opening chapter. My complaints are few and far between (I thoroughly enjoyed the reading), but he seems to dismiss the conscious reasoning of a poet a bit too quickly for my liking. After spending a copious amount of time explaining the magic and mystery that goes into the creative process, he leaves only a half-page to explain the outward struggle and skill that a poet uses. Edgar Allan Poe writes, "Most writers--poets in especial--prefer having it understood that they compose by a species of fine frenzy--an ecstatic intuition--and would positively shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the scenes, at the elaborate and vacillating crudities of thought--at the true purposes seized only in the last moment...the red paint and the black patches, which, in ninety-nine cases out of the hundred, constitute the properties of the literary histrio" (Hirsch, How to Read a Poem, p. 25). Granted, Poe may be exaggerating in a most extreme fashion, but I truly do believe that much great poetry comes from the conscious genius behind the work, at least enough to devote more than one small portion of how poetry is created to its importance in the craft. In my opinion, magic may help the poem begin, but the artist must have some concept as to what he or she wants to do with the poem too. That's why authors like Hemingway and Faulkner spent countless hours examining each word they placed on the page -- they already had some idea as to what they wanted to say, even before they put their pens to paper, or fingers to typewriter. Magic, mystery, spirituality, emotion, care -- all these things and more are part of a poem. But so too, in a significant way, is the conscious artist working for the right voice and tone for his or her work. Perhaps this complaint is frivolous, but I like to think that poetry is a process of great care and consideration, much in the same way I like to think it's mysterious and unexplainable.

In the Preface to the first chapter, Hirsch begins telling us that HE is not going to teach us how to read a poem, but rather the poems will. The best teacher of poetry is the poem itself. Therefore, we must "learn about poetry from the poem…" (Hirsch, How to Read a Poem, p. xii.). I think this is a fascinating concept. Why? Because in two years I will not be sitting in the classroom with a teacher in front of the room. I will be my own teacher. Life is a journey of learning. Learning never stops. Rather than dragging a teacher alongside of me as I head out beyond the walls of the classroom into the real world, I can more easily carry a book of poetry to be the teacher-at-my-side.

A poem is a great teacher. Like a teacher, a poem is not going to give you the answer right away. You’re going to have to do a little work to find the answer. Whereas in education where a student completes the role of a teacher, in poetry a reader completes the role of the poet. A teacher never criticizes if you ask a dumb question, and neither will a poem. Both teachers and poetry teach us how to love life and how to love learning.

While being taught by Walt Whitman’s poem "To You," I could relate the poem to a learning experience I had with a stranger. Here is Walt Whitman’s poem:

Stranger, if you passing meet me and desire to speak to me,

And why should I not speak to you? (Hirsch, How to Read a Poem, p. 3.)

When I came back to college for spring semester, I rode the Greyhound bus from Fargo to SJU. On the bus, I was looking forward to reading a book that I had brought with me. There were only a handful of other passengers on the bus, and everyone seemed to be content in his or her own little world, except one grandfather-like man. We’ll just call him Al. From the moment I stepped on the bus to the moment I got off, I always saw Al talking to a stranger. Black, white, disabled, old, or young, he talked to EVERYONE on the bus. While I sat reading a book, I observed how Al had transformed the once quiet and empty bus to a bus filled with friendships and singing. Rather than joining in, I continued to sit in the back of the bus, content with a book in my hand. I really had no desire to meet any new strangers. What I really wanted was to finish my book. We got off the bus at a rest stop at a small café in Melrose. While I was reading my book and eating an apple, Al pulled up a chair next to me and began talking to me. We had a nice conversation before we got back on the bus. Even though I still filed to the back of the bus to read my book, I felt like I was in community now with the other members of the bus. Al was my teacher for the day. I learned that we all should feel that we are in community with one another even if we are strangers. There was no need for our bus to be quiet and full of strangers at the beginning of our trip together. When the Greyhound pulled into the drive in front of the SJU Abbey’s Bell Banner, Al smiled and said, "Good luck," before I got off the bus to find my luggage. I replied, "Good luck to you too."

After taking a wonderful theology class this past semester, I learned a lot about Christianity in general and the differences among Christian denominations. The one thing I missed from this class was the discussion of spirituality which is able to unite all people. In Hirsch's book, and in other readings, I love the connection between poetry/art and spirituality.

"The poem delivers our spiritual lives precisely because it simultaneously gives us the gift of intimacy and interiority, privacy, and participation" (Hirsch, How to Read a Poem, pg. 4). No matter what religion or denomination we are, what church we belong to or even what God we worship, poetry is neutral medium which reaches and touches our spiritual selves. Poetry unites humans in our quest for "something more" in life, for something beyond ourselves. A poem can be very personal, but it also has the potential of being a very communal and "participatory" action. In poetry and spirituality, what is often most important is what a poem means to ME, or what God means or has done for ME. Without losing that individual connection, I think it is important to move to place where we see ourselves in a community, participating in life together, reading poems together, and listening/searching for God together.

"Reading poetry is for me an art of the most immense intimacy, of intimate immensity. I am shocked by what I see in the poem, but also by what the poem finds in me. It activates my secret world, commands my inner life . . . words pressure me into myself" (Hirsch, How to Read a Poem, pg. 8). Poems at times enable/force us to think of the glorious/painful memories of the past. I think poems touch places in ourselves that we have tried to forget or places we thought didn't exist anymore. They may light ideas or passions in us that we had put aside, and now want to focus on again. This awakening is a good thing, but not always easy. Many times I have heard the lyrics or music of a particular song (in the mall, on the bus, in my room), and all of a sudden a certain memory/experience flashes in my head, and I am lost in it. When reading poems, what amazes me is the emotions and thoughts that pop into my head. I poems are the safe mediators which release our barriers and walls and allow us to think/feel freely whatever we want. Lastly, I think it's so important to feel all of life (the joy and the pain), to be enchanted by the little things, to play hide and seek, to swing on the swings .... we must hold on to our inner child. Poems can be our playmates.

Metaphorical Enhancement

The section in Chapter 1 of Hirsch's How to Read a Poem that I liked the most was Metaphor: A Poet is a Nightingale (13). I believe that a sound metaphor can make a poem, that a poem can grow into a beautiful flower from its metaphorical seeds. As Hirsch explains it, "Poetry evokes a language that moves beyond the literal and, consequently, a mode of thinking that moves beyond the literal" (Hirsch, How to Read a Poem, 13). When I began to explore poetry, moving beyond the literal was my greatest challenge. When first writing my own poetry, ironically, I wanted to live in the abstract world since that's what poetry is, right? ;-) I had professors tell me that I just needed to relax and let go of some of the logic in life. That's where my poetry began and metaphors helped me break away from logic into the irregular beat of the poet. I started writing bad poetry but I would have one good line--it would always be my metaphor. That's how my poetry developed. First a good word, if that, then a good metaphor, then maybe two or three, and then finally a poem! And what a feeling! I guess the reason I'm rambling about this is because Hirsch's description of metaphor sank deep within me to resonate in my bones and it withdrew my experience with poetry.

On p28 Hirsch quotes Halo Calvino's "Sis Memos for the Next Millenium" saying "outwardness and innerness, the world and I, experience and fantasy, appear compsed of the same verval meterial. ...visions of the eyes and spirit are contained in uniformed lines of small or capital letters, periods, commas, parentheis - pages of signs, packed as closely together as grains of sand, representing the many-sided spectacle of the world as a surface tht is always the same and always different, like dunes shifted by the desert wind." Hirsh goes on to paraphrase another of Calvino's ideas: "all the incitement and grace of leterature has to take place in the line-up of written characters on the page." So this is our lace curtain? It seems so inconsequential, this pattern of lines and curves and dots... yet after reading this chapter in Hirsch, how can we not be awed by this communication - the miracle of the written word. To go back to our discussion from a few classes ago, is the lace curtain the focus of the poem? It seems rather that the curtain's flapping catches our attention and merely frames and illuminates the room behind it. LIke Kate's memory of the curtain which symbolized and showed the emptiness of the house, so are words merely the symbols revealing the truth. Heidegger's etymology of the greek word for truth, "a-letheia", shows "letheia" to mean forgotten or hidden.

Hirsh attempts to explain the eternal question "why poetry?" in the first chapter of his book. he uses many quotes from authors that use natural metaphors to explain elements of poetry. One of the ones i found most striking comes to us from Shelley, " A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds; his auditors are as men entranced by the melody of an unseen musicain, who feel that they are moved and softened, yet they know not whence or why." (Shelley, qtd in How to read a poem, Hirsh, 14) I love this image. I myself have had the pleasure of spending an autumn evening listening to the sweet songs of said bird. The poet doesnt write for the readers, htey write for the RIlkesque reason that they need to, something deep within their soul forces them to create. Which brings me to my major point, it is essential for humans to have poetry of some kind. It is part of our nature and our very being to have an outlet for the emotions, thoughts, and creative forces that well up inside of us. We choose to vent these urges in many different ways; some by art, some by sport, some by cooking. We all have that one thing that we must do in order to keep sane. For a select few, the medium is poem.

"We discover in poetry that we are participating in something which cannot be explained or apprehended by reason or understanding alone. We participate..." (Hirsh, 24) Poems speak to us, in ways which we cannot fully understand. As Jung might say, they are part of the collective unconscious, and by reading them we are tapping into that well. When we read a poem, we are getting a glimpse, through the eyes of the author, into the very base elements of humanity. The same drive that causes the poet to write, pulls us to read. Through the act of reading, we come in contact with that part of human nature that lies below the surface, with the Jungian shadow.