Rant: The Real Difficulty

“In fact, one could argue that poetry's difficulty for some readers stems from the very source of its incredible power: the merging of its irrational procedures with the rational nature of language. So that one mistake we often make is as simple as expecting poetry to be apprehended by the same reading methods and habits that "grasp" prose. While instead--mere practice and exposure to the art form aside--it's probably more a matter of avoiding the interference of fear in reading; more a matter of reading with one's most natural instincts and senses.”

-Jorie Graham, in her introduction to Best American Poetry 1990

Yes. Yes. Yes. Of course she’s right. And for some reason that I couldn’t possibly know this was exactly what I need to hear right now.

The balancing act, then, is one of keeping the reader on your side as you take them into truly dangerous territory. “Experienced” poets are seasoned guides we are willing to follow. Their danger is, hopefully, actually dangerous, and for us is a return instead of a risk—of being confused, bored, uninspired, unimpressed. To be made to question if it is worth it, this art form we choose to inhabit.

New poets don’t have the luxury (earned or otherwise) of being followed without some persuasion, nor should we. So what happens? Either we can appeal to more readers by making poems that aren’t dangerous (having only the illusion of danger) or we can attempt to make our initial readership self-selecting—make ourselves the gayest gay poets, the blackest black poets, the drunkest drunk poets, the funniest funny poets (need I go on?) that we can be. New poets rely on untidy excesses, beg you to participate by appealing to your vanity—we make promises (or perhaps our publishers do) that readers will find in our poems a startling and rewarding voice they’ve been waiting to hear. A voice like the reader’s own?

So many poets have to play the cards their dealt in order to play at all—but most of us aren’t interested in playing games, let alone ones that transform our individual insights, political interests and anxieties into sermons being preached, essentially, to the choir.

When I speak of interests in pop art and culture it is not so that I can get more royalties, hold a broader shadow of influence or keep any other figurative ball in my court. Like most poets, I’m in it for the art (a poet being one of the few professions in which a lifetime of even well-received work won’t necessarily yield financial or social rewards).

What is my point?

I’m not entirely sure, other than the fact that if I want to make a difference I have to decide if I want to spend my time getting my poems into the hands and hearts of readers outside my “given audience,” or if I’m going to focus on making the most “dangerous” and rewarding poems I can with faith that if they’re good enough my poems will be found by the readers that need to find them.

The decision is, of course, never to be wholly made—at least not if my faith in the poetry world is in question, which it almost always is.