The intuitive mind is a sacred gift and the rational mind is a faithful servant. We have created a society that honors the servant and has forgotten the gift. – Albert Einstein
I saw an article on Salon recently in which the author found numerous poems or parts of poems whose content seemed relevant after the terrorist attack. I tried to read it, but bailed after about five minutes.
Later, while grabbing some SOS as I soaked in the scenery on this postcard perfect frosty fall morning, it occurred to me that maybe I just haven’t acquired a taste for other people’s poetry yet. I know poetry is probably good for me, but maybe I’m too shallow to appreciate it. Or my attention span is too short — I’ve got a literary strain of ADD. I rarely seem to be able to listen to someone reading a poem and make any sense of it.
I do a little better if I read a poem quietly to myself, but only if I read it line by line and reread it several times. I nearly always end up asking myself “Ok, what the hell did the author mean by that?” And more often than not, “Ok, forget this one, I have no freaking clue what it’s about.”
I know part of my problem is that I’m too left-brained. Trying to figure out the logic of a poem ruins it, like over-analyzing a work of art, or having an in-depth discussion about the subtleties of a fine wine or a gourmet meal. Don’t worry about it… just drink it, just eat, just look at it, and move on.
This makes sense, but it’s still somehow not quite satisfactory. Not all that different from spending $20 on a meal at a fancy restaurant (here in Northfield, that’s a lot of money for an entre) and wolfing the sucker down in 15 minutes, nary a clue about why it tasted good. “Hey, who gives a shit, I’m full, let’s go.”
Then I figured that if I keep working at it, maybe I’ll acquire a taste. And that maybe it’s not unlike acquiring a taste for fine wine.
My daughter’s been writing poetry for the past several months and both my wife and I were surprised at her knack for it. I don’t see her reading lots of poems, though, so maybe she’s onto something. The hell with other people’s poems. Write my own.