by Neal Whitman, Poetry Prof
Last month I professed the belief that it is good to read bad poems in order to learn how to write good ones. Journal editors are less patient out of necessity. The late John Ciardi, when editing poetry for The Saturday Review, said he knew in one line when a submission was not good enough for his magazine. David Wagoner at Northwest Review said that his agony was not over until the third line. How do the rest of us, who perhaps have more time and gut it out until the last syllable, decide when a poem is good or not?
Every year since 1988, guest editors for the Scribner Poetry Series pick the best 75 poems of the year. The aforementioned Mr. Wagoner just edited the 2009 edition. In his Introduction, he admitted that he could have chosen a different set of 75 poems and they would have been just as good [The Best American Poetry 2009]. Since this series, year in, year out, identifies “the best,” it follows then that there must be “the good” and “the better.”
So, who can say what makes a good poem?
Dare me. Double dare me.
I can.
Here goes.
Yes, I am presumptuous. No apology. All writing is a presumption. One puts pen to paper, or nowadays, perhaps opens a WordPerfect document, with the presumption of having something to say worth reading. The one exception I can think of is the diary. So, when it comes to poetry, what is worth people’s time to read (other than reading bad ones to learn what not to do if you presume to write poetry)? I believe that “worthies” make good on two intentions fulfilled.
Intention #1:
The poet has written words that, when heard, offer a bonus over what is read silently. Moving your lips does not count. Speechwriters and lyricists share this intention, of course. I might add that the type of poetry we call lyric poetry has its origins in the human voice accompanied by stringed instrument, the lyre. My point here is that a good poem is one worth listening to. If listening to a poem adds nothing to the written word, then it is not a good poem. Poets have many tools available to making sound add value to the poem. Not my topic here and not my intention to repeat the “how to” available in textbook form.
This criterion excludes what is called “concrete” poetry when the typographical arrangement of words is more important than its meaning, never mind its sound. Of course, how a poem “looks” can add to its “goodness,” as is the case with 17th century poet’s George Herbert’s, “Easter Wings,” a poem that sounds and looks good, as well as one that speaks to me. This leads us to my second criterion.
Intention #2:
A good poem is written to one individual at a time. That is so, of course, with personal correspondence, for example a letter sent to a friend. But a good poem is one written to readers one at a time — of course, as poet I hope that many individuals read my poem. Even with what we call the “occasional” poem written for a special event such as a birthday, wedding, or funeral, the poet can write a really good one by thinking of the audience as a collection of individuals and aiming at each one at a time.
A good poem, then, is the most intimate of writing. It is one heart speaking to another. Dare I call it a “heart to heart” conversation? I speak to you and imagine how you might respond. The reader, of course, gets the last word. If you read a poem and cannot “hear’” this conversation, it is not a good poem.
Let’s hear from two readers:
1. Stanley Kunitz: Ur Reader
Ur Reader? Mr. Kunitz was a good — a very good — poet. He also wrote movingly about reading poetry. Kunitz, who made it to the century mark, at age 95 recalled reading the Gerard Stanley Hopkins poem, “God’s Grandeur,” 70 years earlier. “I knew he was speaking directly to me and giving me a hint of the kind of poetry that I would be dedicated to for the rest of my life.”
2. Me: Common Reader
Common Reader? Well, as a poet, I write for what I call the “common reader,” of which I consider myself one. Before I began reading poems (good and bad ones) to learn how write poems, I read poetry on a regular basis for pleasure without benefit of an M.F.A. Dip and dive into Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. No, I am not related to him. Oh, if only I were. In 1855, he opens Leaves of Grass, in the first person: “I celebrate myself and what I assume you shall assume.” Six editions and 37 years later he concludes, “Good-Bye my Fancy! Farewell dear mate, dear love.” He wrote and spoke to me and to you and you and you.
Whitman speaks to Everyone and to Anyone successfully because we do not feel he is shouting to a crowd; he is talking to me and also to you, but to each of us personally. I can see his beckoning hand:
Come closer to me and take the best I possess
Yield closer and closer and give me the best you possess
Last year, the editors of Getting Something Read sent me a ball cap with the logo Readers Rule. You rule. And, you can post here your own rules. I dare you. I doube dare you.