Admittedly, I have spent the greater part of my years of young adulthood aspiring to achieve “poet” status. I keep a turquoise-scaled journal tucked in my tote bag, I write for the newspaper, and I have never taken an experience at face value. I always desired to be regarded as a poet because it seemed so final. The words uttered by a poet hold an entirely different weight than that of the freelance writer. In the eyes of the world, the grocery list of the freelance writer is a compilation of dietary staples. In the eyes of the world, the grocery list of the poet is an eloquent metaphor for something much graver, much deeper. Naturally, as I yearn to have others perceive my proverbial whims as something much more meaningful than initially intended, I began t0 go down the rabbit hole of poetry. Some spoke to me, others spoke at me. The moment in which I began my relationship with poetry was when I first picked up Crush by Richard Siken.
If one is unaware of Richard Siken, they are assuredly incorrect, because all of Siken’s writings somehow correspond to the quiet contemplations written on the hearts of individuals long-terrified of picking up the pen to write such confessions, such complex simplicities. After reading Siken, it became Robert Frost, Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath. After Robert Frost, Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath, it became me.
One may wonder how beginning to read long-lauded poetry is conducive to a change in personal identity, and one is likely not alone in this confusion. Once one reads it, they cannot unsee it. Life becomes parallel to cinema (and no, this is not a witty way of saying life is a “movie”). Every interaction under the light of poetic introspection becomes art.
In Villanova’s Ethics 2050 course, students are taught about Aristotle and his belief that the contemplative life is the most noble and meaningful of all. This is in contrast to other widely accepted versions of a “happy existence” – seeking money, fame or power. It is the kind of philosophical notion that we scoff at in our youth – the idea that sitting and thinking about life is somehow superior to actively pursuing its grandeurs is laughable to us. However, reading poetry and allowing it to become a catalyst for perception has proven that maybe that Aristotle guy had a point.
A poignant example of poetry becoming life was a revelation I had while reading Siken. I found myself mulling over a past friend I had, to whom I no longer speak. This friend was someone I connected with on a profound level, a poetic level even. I found myself contemplating why I was estranged from them, how an individual who had known so much about me could be so far away from me now for no reason other than mere time and circumstance. As I half-contemplated, half-read, I began to fully read when Siken spoke directly to me. In a letter to an editor who had given his poetry a poor review, Siken wrote, “We dream and dream of being seen as we really are and then finally someone looks at us and sees us truly and we fail to measure up. Anyway: story received, story included. You looked at me long enough to see something mysterioso under all the gruff and bluster. Thanks. Sometimes you get so close to someone you end up on the other side of them.”
“Sometimes you get so close to people y0u end up on the other side of them.”
I looked through the remainders of his collections, finding other lenses to view hyper specific situations through. I looked and I found, in another intense-yet-simple anecdote, Siken remarked, “It should be enough. To make something beautiful should be enough. It isn’t. It should be.”
Poetry precedes life; life succeeds poetry. Reading Siken, or any poet worthwhile, allows one to begin to draw conclusions they never dreamed of before. In the case of a lost connection, Siken hits the nail (and the initial grief of loss) on the head. To have something, anything, for a moment, should be enough. This is just one way in which “becoming a poet” changed my perception. Even if that moment experienced only lasted for a mere chapter, it still is a chapter. It still mattered. That should be enough.
To conclude, I would encourage everyone and anyone to “become a poet.” This doesn’t mean logging into GoodReads or even necessarily purchasing poetic texts, but rather viewing life as if its events are text within a body of poetry. Take the scenic way home, carry a pen in your jeans’ pocket. Start living the Aristotelian, contemplative way (minus the hygienic habits prominent in 300 BC).
