Last summer it was impossibly hot, and I was stuck on a story that wouldn’t budge, and my dog was too heated to walk a long way, so I went to the Phillips Museum. The Philips was the first museum of contemporary art in America. It is also the closest museum to my house. I love it there because it is a small museum. I’ve always loved art and studied it for a while, even thought I would be a painter before I realized making paintings hardly ever makes you enough money to live. Though I guess that was before I realized that these days, almost nothing makes you enough money to live.
Anyway, I went on a Tuesday afternoon. There was no one there on the first floor, but as I ascended the broad spiral staircase, I heard small voices. Upstairs, in one of the galleries was a herd of children. I don’t know how old they were because I don’t spend much time with children, but they were in elementary school. They were being asked by a curator at the museum to stand next to whichever painting in the small gallery that they liked best. Once they had chosen a Monet or a Picasso or a Bonnard, the curator asked them why. I like how blue it is. I like how much paint there is. I like that it makes me sad. I like this cat here in the corner.
I was stunned. They didn’t know the terminology, but they did. Innately. They were describing the formal elements and principles of art without the words color and texture and subject and value and shape. I knew these words ( the “correct” way to talk about art) because I was educated in them. But they knew them innately.
We make the consumption and discussion of all art complicated. It is unsatisfactory to know that some people naturally see something in a piece that we don’t, so we give that way of seeing a name. We call it “form” or “tension” or “contrast” so that even though it is not in our nature to notice it, we can train ourselves to see it nonetheless. This is what it means to be “educated” about an art form: to have memorized the terms created to describe natural reactions and to use them fluently. But understanding a piece of art is only one form of experiencing it, and a fairly boring one at that.
All of this is to say that just because some people know terminology and how to bullshit does not mean that they are more qualified to react to a piece of art than you are. They may be better at situating it in a historical context or judging it against others, but that’s a career. Consumption of art is a joy. It is personal. You do not have to appreciate things you don’t like. You can just find the things you want and have those.
April is National Poetry Month. Everything in the outside world is scary and bad and it seems good to divert our attention to something a little different. Poetry, like fine art, is scary. It has been reserved for the educated, for the wealthy, for so long that now it inspires a kind of fear similar to a daunting physical education mile time. This month, we are going to try and make it a little less scary. In this newsletter this month we will meet some American women (and men!) writing poetry both modern and older, we will talk about the scary words that educated people know, I will give recommendations of books I’ve liked, and we will have a few guest poets join us to tell us how they read!
For today, though, we are just beginning.
how to read a poem:
poems can be scary because they
have line breaks and strange punctuation and a
form that isn’t natural.
We are used to paragraphs
to pages of text, to comfort, to knowing
what comes next.
The terror of a poem is in its space, in how much room it gives us
to think
of everything else.
But the best way to read one poem is
to read it.
Straight through out
loud
then again
Just to flip through a rack of poems
to hold one up to the florescent lights
too shiny, too sequiny, too colorful
but it is your size after all
try it on, I (your friend), nag. Just try it on.
and you huff, but pile it onto your arm.
In the dressing room you feel so
silly and not yourself until
you turn and there you are
like a colored disco ball and…
you like it?
you look great. you know you do.
you just had to try it on.
This is not a good poem because I am not a poet, but it will server our purposes! But poetry is fun. Poetry is about risk. It is about telling little stories and making them a little more uncomfortable with breaks and space. Here is the same text as prose:
Poems can be scary because they have line breaks, and strange punctuation, and a form that isn’t natural. We are used to paragraphs: to pages of text, and comfort, and knowing what comes next. The terror of a poem is in its space, in how much room it gives us to think of everything else. But the best way to read one poem is to read it straight through out loud, and then again. The best way is to flip through a rack of poems and hold one up to the florescent lights —too shiny, too sequiny, too colorful—but it is your size, after all. Try it on, I (your friend), nag. Just try it on. And you huff, but pile it onto your arm. In the dressing room you feel so silly and not yourself until you turn and there you are like a colored disco ball and…you like it? You look great. You know you do. You just had to try it on.
When you finish reading something, you often come away entranced by it. It is as if the writing itself has a fragrance you have inhaled, and that lingers in your nose afterward. Poetry, by changing the shape of the words also changes the way you breathe them in. It is learning to breathe slowly that is hard, to be uncomfortable for a minute with a shape you don’t know, and see if there is something there you could like.
Whenever I take a friend to a museum, I ask them to tell me what they see. I want to know what they are drawn to, what it is that appeals to them. Usually, once I understand what they admire, I can direct them toward other work they will enjoy, that won’t frustrate them. But that’s the first part, the hard part, looking. Window shopping for a style you like. So for now, read.
This week, I bring you a few poems that I have loved recently. Read them! Maybe one of them will fit you. Maybe, it’s just your size:
“I was born in the Mall of America” by Amy Saul-Zerby (2018)
“At the House Party Where We Found Out Whitney Houston Was Dead” by Hanif Abdurraquib.
“I’m Only Not Embarrassed When I’m Waking Up” by Liz Bowen” (2018)
“The Glass Essay” by Anne Carson (1994)
“Nucleation” by Sally Wen-Mao (2020)
“Goodtime Jesus” by James Tate (1979)
“Because I Could Not Stop For Death” by Emily Dickinson (1890)
“The Armadillo” by Elizabeth Bishop (1979)
“Riot (three parts)” by Gwendolyn Brooks (1973)
Let me know if you find one that fits!
Painting is Torajiro Kojima’s “Woman Reading”
I have a couple of people who love poetry/are poets lined up to write a couple guest posts this month. If you think you or someone you know might like to do that, I do pay from the subscriber fund and it is very fun!
On Friday, I will be writing for subscribers about THE DREADED POETRY METER and accents.