The breadth of my poetry-reading is, to put it charitably, not much. And by “not much”, I mean: Emily Dickinson. Just Emily Dickinson.
[Unless you count Ralph Waldo Emerson’s poetry, which I don’t. It is poetry, technically, but it does not plumb the mysteries of life. It is Emerson, in a different layout, but still Emerson. I like him and appreciate the alternate layout but it doesn’t feel “poetic” to me.]
I have read Emily Dickinson since I was 16 years old and that’s about it. She writes very short poems which, I will admit, may be part of her appeal to me. But I don’t think so. I like her, who she is, and who she is comes through immediately when I read her poems. I never have to ponder or ruminate over what she is saying. She is often saying more than one thing, which makes her compelling and worth rereading, many times. I am not sure what it says about me but when I read Emily Dickinson, I feel she is speaking straight to me.
So, that’s the breadth of my poetry consumption.
Yet, I think a truly well-read, deeply educated person reads poetry. I recognize its importance in the canon of literature. I know that being able to recall/quote/call up poems is a mark of culture and has served as a great comfort to many people, for centuries. And, if I were ever banished to solitary confinement, I would draw great solace from poems that I had memorized.
But I am not in solitary confinement – unless you count shelter-in-place-during-a-pandemic, which I don’t. I am not cultured. I am too picky and impatient to be cultured. And, I am not really well-read. I read what I like. I don’t finish books I don’t enjoy, even if I know they are something I “should” read. So, there it is: I am not a lover of poetry. (Phew. That still makes me feel kind of bad, admitting that.)
All of which is prelude to saying: I am amazed, shocked even, when I come across a poem – by someone other than Emily Dickinson – that moves me in some way. And by “some way”, I mean, tears. I like a poem that makes me cry.
Yes, I know, I cry a lot and hardly need a pretext to cry but I like it when a poem reaches down into my heart and yanks hard enough to bring tears. It makes me feel like there is something worthwhile about being so emotional. And it makes me feel not alone.
I may share the other poem that brings forth tears (yes, apart from Emily Dickinson, who, for the record, makes me laugh as well as cry) but for now, I am sharing this one. I just read it a few days ago and have thought about it every day since.
Adrienne Rich wrote, in a 1977 poem called Natural Resources:
My heart is moved by all I cannot save:
so much has been destroyed
I have to cast my lot with those
who age after age, perversely,
with no extraordinary power,
reconstitute the world.