Poetry Muses
ho they are, what they write, and why I don’t let them out too often
My relationship with poetry is complicated. It started out well enough—I really loved Shel Silverstein when I was in elementary school (still do, actually) and memorized and recited his poems like they were a language of their own. Even now, I can pick up one of his poetry books, smiling and visiting old friends
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The problem began when it wasn’t about the rhythm anymore, but about understanding what the poet was trying to say. At some point in school, we begin reading poems that are written by people who lived dozens, if not hundreds of years before our time and were asked to not only translate but understand and interpret what they are trying to say. I was rarely able to do this. This kind of analysis was incredibly difficult until my junior year of high school and didn’t become fun until well into my college years.
School children can’t get deep meaning from Emily Dickinson or Robert Blake or William Shakespeare. They can get it from Shel Silverstein, the Beatles, Eminem, Aerosmith, Pat Benetar, Kim Carnes, Billie Eilish, Dr. Seuss, Foo Fighters, Taylor Swift. As I got older, I started responding to Maya Angelou, Edgar Allan Poe, Elizabeth Barrett Browning; I eventually understood and loved William Shakespeare, Anne Bradstreet, Allen Ginsberg, but that was after years of reading and analyzing poems and other works of literature. For a long time, it was 1 poem out of 100 that spoke to me. Now, it’s maybe 10 out of 100.
I do have a few poetry muses who gladly come to the forefront when asked—even though I rarely ask. The muses that like rhyme don’t request too much, but do give me a particular topic and help me with the rhyme scheme and meter until it’s done.
Most other times, when the poetry muses want to surface, it’s for a thoughtful, reflective poem, perhaps to help cure the angst I have surrounding poetry (the angst has gotten better, to be clear, but I can speak for hours on why Emily Dickinson shouldn’t be taught in grade school and will if given the opportunity). These days, if I’m going to read any poetry, it’s reflective or incites deep emotions. Poems by Mary Oliver, Jenny Joseph, Rumi, Mary Fons or other slam/spoken word poets, or poems written by published friends fit into the first category; poems by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Maya Angelou, and William Shakespeare fit into the second.
And when I write poetry, unless it’s satirical and I spend days trying to get it to rhyme, it doesn’t ever feel like I wrote it. That’s the case with a poem that came to me early Saturday morning. It’s a new muse—I know because it’s in a voice I don’t know and a style that doesn’t feel like mine. It’s deep and reflective and words I need to hear, particularly as we are snowed in (well, by southern Washington standards, not by Midwest or east coast standards).
I will return to this particular poem throughout the rest of the winter, and be grateful for the regular reminder. Who knows? Maybe this particular muse will help me get over my poetry angst.