Poetry – A Beautiful Disappointment We Keep Returning To

The enduring fascination of poetry, despite its failures

©Karolina Grabowska via Canva

I wake pondering the mystery of poetry.

No particular poem, though that’s fine sport, but the expressive form itself.

I hate reading poems, much as I love to. I clench my jaw, wince anticipating disappointment. A poem can’t be “just OK,” like a TV series: either it thrills – which is rare – or it thuds. Roulette players may feel this way, hope their only reliable return.

From the Romantic era onward, even the best poets wrote unbearable poems. Before then, poetry functioned more like prose, as a natural form of discourse. Shakespeare’s, Milton’s and Pope’s verse had a story to tell. Even today it doesn’t sound odd for Romeo and Juliet to coo in iambic pentameter.

Lyric poetry functions more like music. Either a song lofts you or you’re earthbound, tetchy on the runway. When a lyric poem hits, it’s magical – abracadabra, you’re winging – but the odds are long.

I read poetry to get to know its maker. Who’s pressing that pen and why? A poet who succeeds becomes my…