Day 20: I'm a poet (reader), and didn't know it

I've never thought of myself as a poetry reader. It's kind of ironic because I get the spelling of my name from the African American poet Nikki Giovanni. But because we shared the same name, she was more like a part of me than other poets. As a child, I absolutely loved Shel Silverstein, but reading his poems  seemed way to enjoyable to be considered "Serious Poetry".

LISTEN TO THE MUSTN'TS

Listen to the MUSTN'TS, child
Listen to the DON'TS
Listen to the SHOULDN'TS
The IMPOSSIBLES, the WON'TS
Listen to the NEVER HAVES
Then listen close to me--
Anything can happen, child,
ANYTHING can be.

- Shel Silverstein

Serious Poetry doesn't rhyme. Serious Poetry is hard to read because the phrases are broken up and impossible to decipher. In school, reading poetry seemed like speaking a foreign language. Frankly, I was way better than reading, speaking, and understanding my foreign language. Serious Poetry is dark, illusive, formidable. It is a secret language spoken and understood by elite intellectuals who had no time or patience to explain themselves to the masses. Long story, shore: Serious Poetry made me feel dumb.

But poetry has been sneaking up on me as of late. Poems that I can not only understand, but I can see myself in. And sometimes I'll hear one that just won't let me go. My latest discovery: Mary Oliver. Maria Shriver interviewed her for Oprah Magazine's poetry issue. I was going to skip the article thinking it would be boring, but I was in the tub, near the end of the issue, and I wasn't ready to get out so I kept reading. It was a really good piece about how this woman, this Pulitzer Prize winning poet, at age 76, is still learning about herself and growing as a result.

I make the mistake of thinking of my life in terms of arrival, rather than the process. To read that this "accomplished" woman is still on her journey gives me encouragement. I don't "get it" and I probably never will. At the halfway point of my 40 Day Writing journey, I can feel how it has changed me. It has opened up how I listen and watch the world. When I start to feel panicked because I won't have anything to say, I allow myself to sit and write about "nothing". The content is the bonus, the process is the gift.

Poems are best experienced when they are read aloud. It's like drinking wine or eating a good meal. You can't tell if it's good just by looking at it. You've got to let it roll around your mouth and linger on the palette to taste it. Same with poetry. The way a poem lays on the page and the way the lines break are meant to give the reader an indication of its rhythm and flow. It can be read silently, but to bring it to it's fullness, it must be read aloud. The article included Mary Oliver's "The Journey" and it spoke (roared) to me. So me being me, I first went online to see if I could find a recording or video of the poem. Right before I hit play on the YouTube video, I stopped myself. I read the poem aloud in my own voice. I'm not going to lie. It felt odd and a little uncomfortable hearing my own voice. I am always looking for someone's voice to take the lead. Reading this poem in the tub was good practice. I'm actually looking forward to hearing more of what I have to say.

The Journey
Mary Oliver (1935- )

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice --
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do --
determined to save
the only life you could save.