The curious remedy of reading poetry
Crying in the aisles
Upstairs, the non-fiction floor of the library was calmer and the book shelves offered a place to hide. When the heaviness in my limbs felt too much, I sank to the thin blue carpet and scanned the row of books in front of me. A red hardback stood out. The cloth cover was embossed with the words Poetry Pharmacy.
The pages were spacious with short passages, carefully chosen to be taken in slowly, in sips if necessary.
I read Nobody by Michael Laskey and sat on the worn carpet tiles, between the shelves, quietly crying into my coat sleeve.
Intention
The intended meaning of this poem is unknown to me. But when I felt completely disconnected from the world, I was touched by those words. Surely that was the greatest intention.
I borrowed the book and wrote the poem in a fresh new journal.
The late starter
Poems didn’t feature heavily at my school and if I came across one I don’t remember it. Fast forward to blogging in the early 2000s and Emily Dickinson was quoted often, snippets out of context that didn’t appeal to me. Poets were a mysterious group of artists that belonged to the romance and melancholy of Dead Poet’s Society, a different time, a different life. I liked the idea of poetry but that was all.
But there I was, more than twenty years later listening to gentle poems being read aloud, welcoming me in. The Daily Sparks that Beth Kempton shared were gems in her Writing Sanctuary sessions.
The books came later.
Refuge in the library aisles
After that winter day, deep in a low mood, the poetry shelves became a safe spot to visit, sitting on the floor with a small pile of unfamiliar books, looking for something I couldn’t name.
Collections by authors I had heard of were filled with streams of words that I didn’t understand. I found new poetry that raged off the pages with blood and bone exposed. Some volumes were filled with soothing comfort. I skipped the giant hardbacks.
I looked up Haiku and Mary Oliver, little by little finding my way, who was still too hard to read, who I liked and who I didn’t, yet.
Occasionally a book or a page chipped at my foggy brain and found a way in and gave me something to hold on to.
Secret poetry
Nobody I knew was reading poetry, unless they were also doing it secretly. Who did I think I was? I imagined my mother telling me I was getting ideas above my station. My library book hauls became piles of non-fiction that needed a bigger bag to carry them home. Some I never finished. Some I never started. But the seeds had been planted and nurtured and nobody knew.
It was just me and the books.
A quiet rebellion
For all it’s rough edges and rude behaviour, social media did something that the orderly shelves couldn’t do. It fed me more of what I liked. A few follows and a few reels meant suggestions for other poets. Soon I had a list of writers to search for.
And slowly, reading poetry began to feel less of an awkward secret and more like a quiet rebellion. Online these writers were describing the seemingly indescribable and reading and publishing words that felt like heart and fire and water at the same time.
When I found poetry, I found words like music, and feelings, so many feelings. Nature was embraced and gently folded into loving lines. Memories, desire and compassion rolled off the paper. Writers handed out their wisdom without apology.
My bookshelves would never look the same.
When reading poetry is not enough
I read mostly without context, clueless. Overwhelmed and out of my depth at times, I often just didn’t get it. Podcasts had readings, explanations and discussion about craft and meaning. Then I began to read books about how to read poetry, to understand it and how to create it. And I wanted to create it too.
The power and problem of self study
Discovering poetry this way meant I had no expectations from stern teachers, no deadlines and no set syllabus. I could follow my interests in my own time. I didn’t have to strip a poem down to its bones if I just loved the sound of it.
But it was sometimes hard to know what to read next or why. I was wading through a list of poets with no structure or history to walk me through it.
On a whim I did some free poetry classes with Open Learn (The Open University). They were interesting enough and I read Sharon Olds and John Keats, Robert Frost and Sarah Maquire, and gained confidence. Although the technical terms felt maddening at times, I made notes and tried to remember them. Using them was another matter entirely.
There was no one to tell when I found beauty, pain or questions in those poems. I just wrote them out and read them to myself.
Tiny poems
I found a street typewriter poet online and William Carlos Williams in the film Paterson and watched uplifting interviews with Joy Harjo.
The tiny poem prompts with Beth Kempton on Substack were creative snacks in my day. My notebooks were holding my own attempts at poetry, little noticings and a wispy dream of one day writing a really good poem of my own. One that meant something.
Most of all, with tiny poems gathering on my pages, I dared to share them in the prompt comments. It was exciting to find myself in a flurry of other responses, each holding their own memory or observation. Creative momentum was gathering.
The generosity of poets
These days it’s recommendations on Substack that feed my appetite. When I joined, following a couple of writers I liked, it didn’t occur to me that there would be poets there too.
Creatives were writing thoughtful essays, making art and sharing their poems, heads popping up occasionally to an encouraging audience. Finding the right people has made me braver.
I fill notebooks now with the seeds of poems, juggling words and lines into something that sounds right. Tips are picked up along the way from generous poets who share their process and experience. Sometimes I’ll finish writing, good enough perhaps, and write it out again on a fresh page, framing it with clear margins. I wouldn’t dare to call myself a poet yet but I will, one day.
Refrain
I still feel a bit awkward in the poetry section, but it’s not a secret anymore. I don’t understand every poem I read or have a good grasp of the history or the significance of it. There is not a single poem that I can recite from memory.
But for now, I have poems that stay with me after I turn the light out, books from Substack poets that I treasure and I have found others who love poems too.
I still feel like a beginner to poetry but I’m sure I am not too late and maybe one day these seeds will bloom into a great poem of my own. Or maybe, just maybe, even a book.
This article was originally published on Substack.