Machines Made of Words

What if we approached poetry with a clearer understanding of its challenges for readers? What if we helped widen the audience for poetry by letting readers know that, like most worthwhile activities, reading poetry is best accomplished when the reader is at least somewhat prepared?

I collected a few of my thoughts with that premise in mind.

Poetry collections are not like other books. This may seem obvious, but I sometimes wish that books containing only poems came with a brief set of instructions, a gentle “To the Reader” preface. I think readers would benefit from a few paragraphs explaining that they should be prepared for an intense, challenging experience, as well as a few tips for getting the most out of the book. For example, sometimes you need to put the book down for a few hours (or days, or weeks) in order for the poems to fully penetrate your brain.

Maybe books of poems should come with a warning (with apologies to Emily Dickinson): “This book is liable to levitate the top of your head.”

If, as William Carlos Williams wrote in The Wedge, a poem is a machine made of words, then a collection is a factory. Each book hums with the energy of thousands of carefully selected words, words that attract and repel, like the force from two magnets. These words rise up from the bodies of poets, distilled through the complexities of the individual writer’s experiences, thoughts, dreams, and emotions. In this process, poems that start as fragments become whole works of art, connecting to the larger human condition.

Reading poetry is not like reading prose. Again, maybe this seems obvious, but I’m always surprised when readers approach poetry as they would prose.

It’s possible to skim prose and still get a large part of the meaning. However, due to its powerful concentration of words, it is not possible to skim poetry and have any idea what the poem is about. Readers, unprepared for the attention poetry requires, often find themselves completely baffled at the end of a poem. Too often, they state that poetry is confusing, and give up on reading it.

Poetry is intense, distilled, potent. It is not the same thing as prose. As Williams puts it: “Prose may carry a load of ill-defined matters like a ship. But poetry is the machine which drives it, pruned to a perfect economy. As in all machines its movement is intrinsic, undulant, a physical more than a literary character.”

Children understand the physical nature of poetry instinctively. When I’ve taught poetry to children, I don’t need to explain this concept to them. As I begin to read poems to them, they respond by rocking their bodies, laughing, or clapping. Sometimes they mutter, “that’s weird!” or “that’s dumb,” but they almost always respond.

Reading poetry takes discipline, but, as the children I’ve taught have shown me, it should also be fun. Sometimes I read poems that make me jump out of my chair and do a little dance. Often, I’m struck with the power of just a few words, carefully arranged, fixed to a page of paper. I think of phrases that have stayed with me over my years of reading poetry.

Reading poems brings a level of concentration sorely missing in our ever more distracted world. Helping our fellow humans to achieve focus through reading poetry is a worthwhile endeavor, especially if we give them some support. If someone you’ve just met admits that they don’t like poetry, or that they find it hard to read, tell her you understand. Tell her that a poem is a machine that flies, like an airplane. See where the conversation takes you.