Neil Dongre (he/him) ’27 is a philosophy and psychology double-major at William & Mary and has an appreciation for creative writing. Some of his commitments include writing for (and being part of) the Gallery, as well as non-writing clubs like Club Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu and Club Wrestling. In his spare time, he likes to read, write, and miss appointments. Contact him at nddongre@wm.edu.
Writing and reading, specifically writing and reading poetry, can seem like a wasteful thing. For some people, I am sure that it is. Reading and writing outside of the classroom, or for any purpose other than work, is impractical to them. The poet is a vocation lacking any use, and, outside of the English classroom, the poet must die a quiet, unrecognized death.
I am sure that those types of people, people who are skeptical of art and artists, are quite content with this arrangement for poetry. I do hope that they are, for a simple reason: no one has to make art. No one has to write or read, and no one has to write or read poetry either. I cannot find a reason, honestly, compelling one to do anything one doesn’t already want to do.
It must be said as well that that writing is not for everyone. Even if I could make a case here for everyone to pick up the pen, I would not, because that case is purely self-interested. But this opinion piece is not self-interested. This opinion is for everyone.
This opinion seeks college students who, like myself, are either resuming — or perhaps starting — their college journey this semester. We are in the best place, now, to try something new. What else are we advised to do in college, if it is not to try new things? And, if we should try new things, why not let one of these things be poetry?
Such is my central point: I think that more people should read (and write) poetry. Poetry is not a wasteful thing. To me, poetry is the clearest opposite to waste that exists in this world. That simple notion is why I am writing this opinion piece: because I am afraid. I am afraid that with fewer and fewer people reading and writing poetry, less and less knowledge of the joys of poetry will be known by all. And that is a ghastly thought. Poetry is too important to die quietly. Poetry is too important to be left solely to academics, to creative writing or English degrees. No, instead, we must all read and write more poetry.
But why must we? What’s the harm of leaving poetry to the people best suited for understanding it, for loving it, for reading and writing it, for studying it? I say, great harm. We cannot leave poetry to one group any more than any other art form must only be left to the experts, to the critics, to the artists. Art is not made for only one, and is meant for everyone. Not everyone must consume art, but everyone must be afforded the opportunity to.
In line with this, I believe that people must reconsider their ignorance of poetry as a forced, not free, choice. It is not you who decided to leave poetry behind, or to never have encountered it. That fact lies squarely in the court of society. When we were taught what poetry meant, what it stood for, and what it did, we were made to think of poetry as a riddle to be answered, a question to be settled. Something deliberately obtuse, obscure, ineliminably complex. After a long struggle to determine the symbolism and themes behind the poetry we read, the poem was discarded and replaced with another one. And so did the cycle continue, until we (as a generation) swore never to read poetry (or any book, really) again. We knew the price that we paid for trying to read it as study; and for too many of us, it simply wasn’t worth it.
For the most part, I approve of this resentment — when appropriate. This resentment flows from miseducation, rather than too much education, in my opinion. We were never taught why we read, why we write, but instead how to read, how to write. We were not taught to be curious, we were simply taught how not to be curious. We were told to chase a goal — true understanding — in our classes without understanding why this goal should matter to us. In our frustration, I believe we pinned our disdain onto the art, rather than onto the classroom, or the school. We thought then — and still think — that the art of poetry is a vestige of wealth, a pretentious and vague craft, a mere formula to be manipulated by its readers in order to find its answer.
But poetry, to me, offers no answers. It offers no explanations. No one should know how to do taxes from a poem. But when we are taught poetry as though it were like taxes, like eating or cleaning, like it is work, it is a small wonder why our generation does not partake! We must therefore majorly readjust our thinking of poetry, if we want it to survive. My interpretation of what poetry is, what it does, follows from this idea.
Perhaps, instead of an answer, all poetry contains a premise. A premise, a simple statement, any adage that takes a position on something. Our fiction holds premises, our actions do, why not therefore our poetry? For poetry, in my opinion, the premise is often found in the title, or in the first (or last) few lines. What you make of the premise is up to you; the poem wants you to understand it — and this is the key to enjoying it.
In discovering the premise of the poem, and understanding the premise for ourselves, we learn that much more about the world. This is why poetry is so important; when we answer questions we do not even know we have — merely by considering them — we learn something new we would not have otherwise known.
But it is hard to know where to start with poetry. How do we start with a premise, if we don’t know what poem to start with? What poetry should I read? What if I don’t understand what the poem is saying, even with knowledge of its premise? What do I do with a poem after I read it once, twice, three times, and still don’t ‘get it?’ These are wonderful questions, and I think they only prove my point. Poetry, just as a mere topic, is already encouraging us to be curious, to question, and to answer our own questions! Curiosity is at the heart of poetry, and we have gotten somewhere with it already. It’s quite simple in that way, isn’t it?
Yet perhaps not so. There are so many poets to read — and so many more not to. So many poems to write — and so many more poems to avoid writing. Poems are rarely loved universally, poets even less so. Even when one likes a poem or a poet (regardless of whether they should), a poem can still elude our understanding. Inevitably, when faced with an obstacle, we become frustrated — and this applies to poetry as well. When we read a difficult poem, we question ourselves and whether what we are doing is worth it.
I think we are right to do this. We are right to question the worth of what we read. But I do not think it is our fault if poetry eludes us sometimes — or often. We don’t know what to make of it, partly due to a poor education, partly due to inexperience. But, when we start to do anything, how much do we really need to know beforehand just to start? Must we have to be experts already in order to just, say, enjoy doing something new? For example, I did not have much of an in-depth education on poetry and poetic form prior to reading poetry and writing. As I became more interested in poetry, I was rewarded with more knowledge. This knowledge became a key for greater enjoyment, and so the cycle continued for me. I hope, if you are inspired to read more poetry, that this is true for you as well. When it comes to reading poetry, don’t try to read — just read.
As for writing poetry, I think the same thoughts apply. You do not have to be good. You do not need a rigorous schedule or a station. Just start writing. Do it as much or as little as you like — as long as you do it. When I started writing, I wrote in all sorts of places, at all sorts of times, like on a bench, on my phone, in a bus, in my car, on my car, on one leg or two, in a cramped store bathroom or on a walk outside. I use many different tools: my fingers, my pencils, my pens, or my speech, all to compose whatever comes to mind. Most of my writing (in general) is dull. Most of the poetry I write is remarkably bad. But I keep writing anyway, which is the key. Eventually, some of my poetry becomes less bad. Some of my poems became decent over the years, and a few — I thought — became quite good. As I kept writing poetry, I even noticed my general writing improving in other genres: nonfiction, fiction, etc. Those few successes I have with poetry make it all worth it — I imagine it is like how an athlete feels finally perfecting a technique or breaking a long losing streak with a well-earned victory.
At the end, perhaps there is nothing to the word ‘try.’ We either do or do not. We either are or are not. We either write or we don’t write. We either read or we don’t read. If it is really that simple, then perhaps I have little to fear after all, for some people will always choose to read, to write, to be. Some people will always choose the opposite. Yet, I know that I was never obliged to write or read poetry. It was a choice that I made once — a commitment to something for no other reason than to feel committed.
I knew then I was not a poet, just a writer of poetry. Not a poet, just a reader of poetry. I was a nobody, a nobody who wrote and read poetry for fun. I was part of a group of nobodies, I thought to myself, who are out in the world right now doing the exact same thing I was doing. And that was a wonderful feeling.
Some poets will never write, and some poets will never read. There will be artists that will never be artists, because they choose differently — or perhaps because the choice was made for them. Perhaps the choice has already been made for you. Certainly, for some of you, it has been — and my words have only revealed that truth. But for some of you, the choice is still yours. Urgently it calls to you, asking you to decide. Whichever choice you make, I applaud your courage, for there is bravery in decisiveness. There is confidence in certainty.
I am certain you, my reader, will choose well. I am certain you, my reader, know exactly which choice you ought to make. I am certain you know which choice to keep making. I hope that choosing here will be the easiest thing you’ve ever done. I hope that choice is simple. I hope that choice is poetry.
