In my zeal to participate in the technological revolution of which we are inseparably a part, I feel like I've lost connection to many of "the humanities." Art—that thing most precious and increasingly more difficult to find—has taken the role of the background; something that exists, but that doesn't draw our attention after the first notice. I feel trapped in "gathering mode," where I'm constantly seeking what is new, and never revisiting what I know is powerful to me.
This became very clear to me over the past two months, because I was forced to regularly revisit fifty poems that I had to judge for a contest. The anxiety I had in selecting the winners was awful; the work involved in reading and analyzing the poetry was arduous. Mostly, the exercise was revelatory for me about my relationship with poetry and how technology has, at least in my case, pushed me away from this art form. It's a loss that we all may be feeling without knowing it.
Contemporaries
I was so nervous about judging these poems that I revisited my old AP Literature book from high school to remind myself how to read and understand poetry, and also how to do literary analysis on it. From that, I determined there had to be a system for me to give every poem a fair chance. This wasn't going to be about which poems I personally like the best (though it's impossible to get around personal bias), rather I wanted to make sure that the right poems received recognition.
My method of judging was this:
- Read every poem once, then leave them for a few days.
- Read every poem out loud, then leave them for a few days.
- Do a literary analysis on every poem, then leave them for a few days.
- Choose the finalists (all of the poems that had a shot), then leave them for a few days.
- Choose the top 3 winners and the top 3 honorable mentions.
- Agonize over the decision.
The poems weren't that great when I first started reading. It was a little boring. Then I started to get through poems about the death of life-long partners, the horrible experience of dementia, and the death of parents. I almost cried at finishing one, but I pushed down that terrible feeling because I didn't want to empathize or think about how much I saw myself in the poem.
There were poems that felt like memories: set in places that I knew or that were similar to my upbringing. There were poems that made me chuckle; poems that made me angry; poems that were confusing at first, then profound later; poems that were uncomfortable.
It was striking to me how much I could relate to somewhat niche topics and experiences. This particular poetry contest is for my state and therefore I found myself among familiar territory both literally and culturally. Everything from fly-tying (for fishing) to celebrating a special kind of tree that is prevalent and famous in my state to the religious landscape (including both the majority views and the minority struggles). This familiarity wasn't always nice, but it got me thinking about how different it feels to read poetry from contemporaries—and especially those in the vicinity—compared to how most of us tend to be introduced to poetry.
From my personal observations, it seems like poetry is not something most people read consistently. It certainly doesn't get the spotlight for the arts among my peers and what I can tell from younger generations. Poetry seems to be for children's books or English majors or school assignments. It also seems to me that poetry is only "cool" when it's in the form of song lyrics (nothing wrong with that as you'll see later, but it's still limiting). For whatever reason, the general public has left poetry for academics and awkward love stories. Maybe it's because we associated poetry in school with older poetry from the early twentieth century at the latest, which meant that the language was harder to understand, and the topics might be more difficult to relate to.
Being able to break the barrier and read these contemporary poems was surprisingly refreshing—after I got over the initial boredom. Re-reading the poems (and knowing that I had to read each one at least three times) was exactly the trick I needed to shake off my modern habits of only seeking novelty and find the artistry within the work that it takes to engage with poetry.
It's Not About Ideas
I happened to start watching a YouTube channel about "close reading" and particularly about poetry by ex-Harvard professor Adam Walker a few months prior to being offered the chance to judge this poetry contest. One thing he mentioned briefly in a video took me by surprise. He noted that when it comes to poetry, it's not about the idea, it's about the language.
Wow. That's such a bold statement to me.
In my Silicon Valley saturated business brain, everything is about the idea. Developers, designers, marketers all live their professional lives coming up with or evaluating ideas. The message that is out there is that if you just have the right idea, you're practically halfway done with the journey to success. One of the most common messages in AI marketing is that now you can have AI do the execution on your amazing idea. Don't mind the ever-increasing pile of failed apps and start-ups along the way, your idea of "Uber for <insert service here>" could make you a millionaire!
Poetry laughs at the worship of ideas, because Walker is right: it's not about having an idea, it's about expression. It's pretty much as opposite to the technology sector's values as you can get. And that's why poetry is so interesting, so bold. That's also why AI-generated rhymes aren't poetry: because it's too focused on the idea (it's also not expression for the AI or for the prompter, but we can worry about the art argument in another article).
When I started to get to know my set of poems, not as some kind of product to be evaluated or as a mere entertainment activity, the poetry started to speak to me. I would be listening to someone or doing something around the house and I would be reminded of one of the poems. Seeing birds or flowers outside might trigger my recall of a line that I had read. A phrase or a figure of speech would connect back to one of the pieces. It was like I was extending the conversation of the pieces—even the less great ones—into my life; mulling them over subconsciously, finding ways that the imagery was spot-on, or noticing sensory experiences.
Poetry demands revisiting it. Going back with different eyes after some time is extremely helpful, not just for judging a poetry contest, but for the experience of the art. So many forms of art feel like building a relationship with a person. Sure, you can treat someone as an NPC—a background character—by only ever acknowledging their existence, maybe talking about the weather. Or you could take an interest in them, who they are, and what they have to say. Art can be listened to, approached over and over, and can even listen to you. I think the slowness that art and poetry demand is what can help us detoxify our phone-based attention draining habits and reignite the passion for the world and humanity that we used to have more abundantly.
The cool thing about this is that poetry is actually more accessible than it seems. There are poetry contests all over the world that post their poems publicly online. There are printed books at your local library. And, even more accessible, is in your favorite songs. You've probably looked up the lyrics to a song before—but have you ever revisited it? What if you made it a practice to separate the melody and the words every-so-often to just sit with the language and expression? I've been obsessed with the Sinners movie soundtrack, so if you want some phenomenal, emotional, gut-wrenching, beautiful lyrics to examine, you can’t go wrong with that album! (If you haven’t watched the movie: “Séance,” “Sinners (by Rod Wave),” and “Can’t Win for Losin’” are some top picks from the soundtrack for lyrics.)
Cyborg
We've talked a lot about practices to slow down as a way to counteract the fast-paced digital environment we inhabit, and I think poetry is an effective, though unpopular, way to re-center. I wish I could share some of the poems I read, because they really have become a part of me in a way over these last few months. I find them surprising me with a visit in my mind or inspiring thoughts about my childhood culture or comforting me in the anxious thoughts of future pain.
I suppose it's only fair for me to be vulnerable now, and let you take the role of poetry judge. Here's a poem that I wrote back in 2021, when I was in deep pain facing rejection from my people after having gotten married to my wife the year prior.
Hymn of the Hated
Was it not Thee whom I have loved?
Worthy of love I wished I could be,
Never quite sure that you wanted me.
Told I belong, but nowhere to stand
All that I have, I gave it to Thee
Where is the love Thou promised to me?
Hymn of the hated,
fallen the knee.
How could I ever
hope it could be?
Hymn of the hated,
saved by a grace
greater than we
were willing to face.
Taken by doubts, I gave all of me
Hoping for promises never to be.
Found on an island, swallowed by sea
Master of oceans, of sands, and life,
Find it in Thee to save me this strife.
Take me home and make me Thine,
Or else find me gone from Thy sight.
Help me or save me, or remove my fight
Banish or love me, just show me a light.
—Jess Brown, 11/28/21