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.
Continue reading “Poetry as Play: Kay Ryan’s <em>Elephant Rocks</em>” »
