I think about the mornings it saved me. I am washing my face at an unreasonably early hour when it drifts into my mind. It’s a line from a poem I’d almost forgotten about — “Reading Plato” by Rick Barot. I’m swirling around feelings of gratitude, and reminders to value what I have, and then suddenly I’m diving into a poem.
Re-reading Rick Barot’s poem now, I focus on the images, the places I can no longer access. It’s like an electric shock to imagine looking “at the hearts penknifed on the windows / of the bus, or at the initials scratched // into the plastic partition” or to overhear a stranger talk about “bread his father / would make, so hard you broke teeth on it.” I think about the quick transitions in the poem, from bus to cabbie to cabbie’s New Delhi memories to Socrates, how the poem itself is one long run-on sentence. The poem evokes so many questions — what exactly saved the speaker? Was it reading Plato, as the title seems to suggest? And why did the speaker need saving?
I consider each word and line a clue in this new mystery — “the city itself a heart,” the engraved hearts and initials he sees, “the lover’s wings spreading.” The speaker describes “the eventual / lightening, the blood on the feathers drying / as you begin to sense the use for them.” Notice that these are not the speaker’s wings — he does not say “as I begin to sense the use for them.” He says you.
My mind starts to work harder and put everything into context. All the mentions of heartbreak, the feeling of loneliness that seems to emanate within the poem — is the speaker seeking closure after a break-up? Is he coming to terms with the fact that his former lover has moved on? Are these “lover’s wings” a symbol of growth? Is he struggling to find solace, or has he already found it?
A reader could make many arguments about the meaning of “Reading Plato.” A break-up is never mentioned — I can only infer that. Before you get to a poem’s meaning, you have to read the poem — something that I know many people would bristle at. Poetry is as controversial as politics. People harbor strong opinions about poetry; as a lover of language and a writer of poetry, I am a staunch advocate of it. Whether or not you’ve ever read a poem and thought, “Wow,” I think poetry can do things for you. I think it can help. I think you can like poetry too.
You can take a poem at face value, letting the words flow and cascade over you. It’s okay for them to mean something to you and only you. That is the secret power of poetry. A poem can be a shield, a mirror, a blanket. We can gather strength from it, see ourselves in it, wrap ourselves up in it. It doesn’t matter if we only uncover one interpretation of it. Sometimes that’s all we need.
There’s no question, though, that getting to the heart of a poem usually requires digging a little deeper. (As someone who has read little Plato, I may be missing something crucial in Barot’s poem.) There are some poems I may never have cracked without the guidance of an English professor or extra research. Poems can be parables. They can also be puzzles.
If you’ve kept an open mind thus far, I recommend sitting down in a quiet room, choosing a poem and trying to piece things together. Use a dictionary. Look at how the words interact with each other. Wonder why the poet broke the lines just so. Think about the patterns, the tone, the images, the sounds. Consider the feel of the words in your mouth as you read the poem aloud. Ask, what is literally happening in the poem? Then ask, what is happening beneath the surface?
You don’t need to know the lingo to get more out of poetry. It helps, but it’s not essential. Analyzing can broaden your understanding of a poem, and the ultimate goal of reading should be to enjoy yourself. But also remember that not every poem will resonate with you. It’s okay not to like a writer, even if your partner or your next-door neighbor or The New Yorker sings their praises. It’s okay not to get it. It’s okay to move on. There are plenty of poets in the sea.
I find comfort in re-reading poems I once studied in school, like “Reading Plato.” I also appreciate finding new ones I’ve never read before so I can pick them apart and see what they have to offer. Ada Limón is a new favorite. Sharon Olds’ masterful language of the body makes me uncomfortable, and I’ve always loved that — how she can evoke a physical reaction through diction. And in times like these, armchair travel can be the answer to wanderlust. Experience wilderness through Mary Oliver’s eyes. Hear a city breathe, quake and vibrate through the words of Langston Hughes. Go down a rabbit hole of extremities with Allen Ginsberg. I think about the mornings it saved me. Sometimes the “it” is poetry.