“Just read one poem / one poem is enough” – ‘There’s More’ by Peter Olds
There is a poem in my wallet. It is folded four times over and furry at the edges. I read it whenever I need it – in queues, buses and bach bedrooms. It is calming and comforting, filled with flashing images of a green life spent by the sea.
I think poems can be sought for everything – humour, mysticism, tears – and, while they’re suited to any meal time or moment, the best time to read a poem is Now.
And what is Now? Now is right now, this ever-present moment, but it’s interrupted by the consumption-led, distraction-based lifestyle we’ve adopted in the West, a culture fascinated by hyper-productivity and the hustle – promoting biohacking and habit stacking.
A fast-paced world in which I list these terms knowing presently, someone is coining a new phrase to describe the qualities of our modern reality hinged on overwhelm.
We battle diminished attention spans and fight to get off our phones. We use mindfulness, meditation and nature walks to cope with this stressful mess, but there is another wholesome and potent force oft-overlooked: the poem.
I like poems because they don’t tell me what to do or think. They’re sleep-hygiene friendly, and look nice on a page. They make me feel like I’m in someone else’s mind – an abstract, feeling place. I like how, with poetry, it’s ok to feel like you Don’t Quite Get It. I often finish a page feeling pleasantly confused but somehow clarified, like walking through an unexpected waterfall. The experience of reading is enough.
Actually, I enjoy the ambiguity of a poem, the enigma – how they suggest rather than inform. Here’s one by Richard Brautigan. It’s called ‘Flowers for a Crow’ and it’s two lines long: “You have your friends. / I have mine.” I never know exactly what to think with this one. Sometimes it’s quirky, the strange title warming a corner of my brain that loves animals with human traits. Sometimes I read it like the ending of things, and it’s a bit sad. Other times, I find it joyful: you have your friends! I have mine! All will be fine!
You can find poems easily by ambling into the library. Or, if you live in a remote rural area without a licence or bus access (I’ve been there), browse the Poetry Foundation website and buy a Kobo. You can even use Instagram.
If you make it to the library, you’ll encounter exciting, brightly-coloured books full of 21st-century verve, using internet slag and Kanye references to reflect modernity. Others will be hard-backed and packed with small, dark words – these are whimsical and romantic, but you risk straining your eyes. My very favourite poetry books crack a bit when you open them, and sometimes food or bugs fall out. They’re well-loved and there’s space on the page for the eyes to relax. I imagine past issuers reading at breakfast tables with milky coffee and marmite toast, or under pōhutukawa trees, drinking something yum.
Once you’ve found a poem you love, you can and should share it. It’s easy – take a photo, send it off. Or read it aloud while dining, but pick your moment.
I once mistakenly recited a poem (I’d been asked to do so) unsuited to the occasion. I’d remembered it by heart, ‘The Last Poem To Be Written’ by James Laughlin, which starts, “when, when and whenever death closes our eyes, still shall I behold – ” I was stopped right away. Too dark for a get-to-know-you lunch with a new boss. My mind skipped to another next poem I knew by heart, Philips Larkin’s ‘This Be The Verse’. Merrily, I launched into it, “they fuck you up your mum and dad – ,” again, quickly hushed.
My strange attempt at making a good impression around the dining table seems to be an outlier. I’ve found in our individualised and sometimes-isolated world, the openness of poetry is usually connective. Poems leave a field of space behind them, like the last lines of ‘After the sun’ by Kiri Piahana-Wong: “The / ocean curls around / its secrets.” I admire this spaciousness – it takes courage to not over-explain a story or impose a narrative, to leave just enough gaps for the experience to become universal.
Poems help us recover the joyful potential of words used for pleasure alone. Read a strikingly descriptive passage like this: “a final breath the sweet / sharp smell of citrus / and a red hibiscus / bright blood to the eye” (the end of Alexandra Frasers’ poem, ‘Grey Lynn Prayer’) and feel inspired to put poetic flourish on your daily-recount when out for drinks with friends.
Whether at work, in bed or on the beach, experiencing a poem is to fight off overwhelm and overstimulation, and re-enter the ever-present moment. Poems and the concentration they ask for help us get close to the Now of the gurus, a place of relaxation and stillness – a pondering place, where messages are hinted at and dinner conversation is more lively.
