In talking about poetry with people, inevitably I hear, “I don’t get it.” For sure, poetry can be resistant to immediate interpretation, but isn’t this true of all art? T. S. Eliot once wrote, “If I understand a play the very first time, then I know that it isn’t a very good play.” Is this because art is elitist? No, but understanding cannot be bought with a credit card; it must be purchased with hard work. And haven’t we all performed activities with our bodies that demonstrated the presence (and ache) of heretofore unknown muscles? Such is the case with engaging art; it utilizes portions of one’s being that maybe were not known to exist: especially the often atrophied muscles of imagination. But I digress, for this article is about one specific artist, poet Kay Ryan—the current poet laureate—and her book Elephant Rocks, and the one simple reason why her poetry should entreat a first then closer look—it is fun.
Immanuel Kant speaks about the nature of play in art; how true it is, as long as we do not consider it the exclusive aim. What drew me to Milton was his playful combining of Greek and Christian mythologies; to T. S. Eliot his playful, modern often shocking metaphors of life, love and nature; to Gerard Manley Hopkins the playfulness of his near dancing rhythms. Kay Ryan plays, too; consider this verse:
Bestiary
A bestiary catalogs
bests. The mediocres
both higher and lower
are suppressed in favor
of the singularly savage
or clever, the spectacularly
pincered, the archest
of the arch deceivers
who press their advantage
without quarter even after
they’ve won as of course they would.
Best is not to be confused with good—
a different creature altogether,
and treated of in the goodiary—
a text alas lost now for centuries.[1]
It isn’t until the second to last line that one realizes they might have mispronounced the title. What else was missed? And it begs a second reading. Of course, as one reads it again, maybe the distinction between best and good becomes a bit more apparent. Plainly, Ryan suggests that the good are not frequently categorized or chosen as the best. I think of the naturalist with his species and genus; I consider the phrase, “only the strongest survive”, and I wonder as to its veracity. I ask do I want to be good or a beast (may be the title wasn’t mispronounced after all)? The playfulness of the poem belies a weighty set of questions.
Throughout the book, Ryan looks at the very ordinary and guides us through its enchanted landscapes to find both elations and revelations.
A Plain Ordinary Steel Needle Can Float on Pure Water
Who hasn’t seen
a plain ordinary
steel needle float serene
on water as if lying on a pillow?
The water cuddles up like Jell-O.
It’s a treat to see water
so rubbery, a needle
so peaceful, the point encased
in the tenderest dimple.
It seems so simple
when things or people
have modified each other’s qualities
somewhat
we almost forget the oddity
of that.[2]
The fun of her rhymes (Jell-O and pillow), off-beat word choices (cuddle sounds so much like puddle), and misplaced adjectives (rubbery water and peaceful, tenderest needles) all contribute to a sense of play and the pure charm found in this witnessed oddity. She sees like a child something of wonder that must be passed on, and even if that sense of surprise at seeing the unexpected is all that the reader derives, is it not a worthwhile poem? But everything in this poem is precise including the delivery of its fine point; the language changes here, becomes more terse—more plain—and resonates cleanly at the pricking end of the needle.
Not every poem in the book is a treasure, but they are all at least fun (read them aloud, the sounds are great). This is part of the work, though—sifting to find the genuine nuggets. Of the 60 or so poems, I marked 22 of them as “something special”. Honestly, this is a good number of poems in a single volume for me to enjoy; when I closed the end board of the book I found my self quite pleased and fully inspired. I encourage you all to pick it up and have fun, but don’t always expect to “get it” the very first time.
[1] Ryan, Kay. Elephant Rocks. New York, NY: Grove Press, 1995, 18.
[2] Ibid, 73.
There is something oddly alluring about the efficiency of the second poem. It is so difficult to establish such depth of meaning in such simple metaphor, and with such an economy of words. Too often, it seems, the poet forgets that, though words are his playground, their abundance should not be viewed as such. Rather, each should be treated as though it were a scarcity – a rarity of the highest order. It is from this paucity that the poet draws out the essential and lets the extraneous fall to the wayside.
TrackBack URI