Why you should: Read more poetry

I really truly try to read poems more often than I do. I buy poetry collections. I carry these collections in my purse in case I might find myself waiting somewhere alone for more than thirty seconds. Sometimes. Not always. But I have them. And I reach for them. And then I get distracted by an insect on the sidewalk. Or a snippet of conversation floating in the background. Or the made-up history of the neo-punk couple walking across the street.

I feel guilty about this lack of discipline, even though I likely read more poetry than the average North American. My guilt is rooted in this: I am a writer of poetry. Poems have always been my preferred output, and they are relatively rarely my literary choice. I used to believe, as many young writers do, that reading too much poetry would stifle my creativity and somehow deform my developing voice. Which, of course, is poppycock. Far from being damaging, reading good poetry is a humble reminder that every single thing has been written about a thousand times over and the best you can hope for is a slightly new arrangement of words. If you’re very lucky, you might discover an underused metaphor to exploit. Creative isolation only leads to unreadable drivel and a sense that you’re among the best poets of your time. But because I am aware of all this, I should be reading as much poetry as I can get my hands on as often as I can get my hands on it.

The truth, however, is undeniable: poetry is hard. Even when it’s short and simple and charming, it demands cognitive space that I don’t often believe I have. Understanding and enjoying a poem requires a mental state that is out of phase with the movement of life. Which is why I think we need it more than we know and why I don’t bother with it often enough. I’ve let my mind become flabby with too much prose, and it doesn’t like the exercise of trying to understand four lines of good poetry.

But putting in the effort to find good poems and reliable poets is usually rewarding. Poets notoriously look at people and emotions and events cockeyed. And then they share their cockeyed vision in the fewest words possible. They can tilt and jostle you, then guide around the house looking into a mirror that’s pointed at the ceiling. It can be incredibly liberating to stand on your head, even if it’s only for a few lines in a year.

I am hopeful that I can find a larger place for other people’s poetry in my life. I do have my favourite poems and poets, and I would like to keep discovering them. Discovering more. Sharing them and encouraging others to discover and share. Because if I’m not promoting and supporting other poets, I can’t complain that no one is promoting or supporting me.

I would have explained, but the silence is more fun

Each day, this stilted attempt at conversation shudders and chugs along rickety paths. And the words collect in my clavicle until I’m gasping for another way out. And perhaps you think my smile is enigmatic when it’s only embarrassed. Or maybe it’s just another convention to keep me from hurling fist-fulls of paper clips at your forehead and shoving the eraser ends of pencils up your nose.

Just the regular carnival fun-fair in my brain

The kind of carnival with bumper cars and a Ferris wheel and a rickety roller coaster and an unofficial freak show behind the concession tents. There is a brown bear on a tricycle wearing a party hat. He’s not a very happy bear, but the tricycle is better than the one he had in Russia. He dreams of eating candy floss with a gooey child centre and doesn’t remember how to forage for berries.

There is also a whack-a-mole game. But just one.