I’m curious. When was the last time you read a poem:
a) aloud
b) at all?
If your answer to the first question was “Umm…” and the second was “Does a Leunig cartoon count?” then I invite you give it a try. You may surprise yourself and you just might delight someone else.
I have a clear and cherished memory of an evening many years ago when my gorgeous friend sat me down and read T.S. Eliot’s The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock aloud. I can still recall the vigour in her voice as she began:
“Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table…”
Although she probably doesn’t realise it, I consider that act of reading to be one of the greatest gifts she’s ever given me.
Not only did she initiate a deeper relationship between me and T.S.E. which continues to this day, but by speaking the words of this poem to me, by giving them voice, she raised them from the page and brought them to life in a way that has itself brought unexpected gifts.
Since that night, I have often read poetry aloud. Mostly I read it to myself and to whichever ghosts happen to float in the quiet corners of my room. I do this because poems sound better aloud. I do it to experience the richness of language through sight, speech and sound. I do it because when I read aloud, I always find more, learn more, wonder more. And I do it for another reason too.
I may not be able to prove it, but here’s what I believe.
When you recite the lines of a poem, you tune in to the rhythm of language, its twists, its tangles, its unpredicted skips. You become aware of the way certain words rub or squeak against each other, while others nuzzle the mind into finding new allusions. It’s an experience that engages you, body and mind, spirit and grit. Just like writing itself.
Poems are enclosed explosions, condensing language while increasing meaning. In their density and complexity, they are alive with potential and rich in inspiration.
You just have to listen for it.
Find a poem. Find a friend. Read the poem to the friend, aloud and with as much gusto as you can muster.
Or find a different kind of poem. Find a quiet place. Read the poem aloud, just to yourself. Listen as you speak the words you need to hear.
Listen for the gifts poetry can bestow. And share your experience below.
A beautifully put idea 🙂 Reading your own work aloud – poetry or not – makes such a difference because you can then hear the inconsistencies, the lack of flow, “the way certain words rub or squeak against each other”. And a poem I like is Wordsworth’s ‘COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE WYE DURING A TOUR. JULY 13, 1798’…reading it aloud allows the meaning to filter through. Thank you for this 🙂
Thanks for your comment, Julie. And many thanks for mentioning Wordsworth’s wonderful poem. It’s been years since I last read it and it was a delight to do so again. As with all good literature, it had even more meaning for me this time around.
“While with an eye made quiet by the power
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things.”
Thank you.
I agree; reading aloud any piece of writing highlights flaws that one’s brain seems to skip over when reading silently. The beauty of reading poetry though is that the importance of every word is heightened in a poem (“enclosed explosions” indeed!), which the rhythm only amplifies. And one of my favourites has and always will be, Ted Hughes’ ‘Bride and groom lie hidden for three days’ – be careful who you read it to though!
Wow. I hadn’t read ‘Bride and groom lie hidden for three days’ before. Thank you for introducing me to it. And thanks for the warning too! Definitely a good one to read to the right person in the right moment…
Poetry was my first love …all other writing came after.
Any favourites you care to share?
Hello amazing you! Great to be inspired by your insightful and articulate thoughts on the wonderful world of writing. Keep it up…mxx
Thanks for your encouragement!
A beautiful reminder of the power and elegance of poetry spoken beyond the mind. My current reading is to my grandchild, from Tove Jansson “oh what is life? ’tis nothing but a dream,
A vast and enigmatic flowing stream.”
I have fond memories from my childhood of Sniff, Snufkin and the rest of Tove Jansson’s Moomin crew, and fond memories too of having stories and poems read aloud to me. How wonderful that your grandchild has the opportunity to experience these delights. Thanks for your comments.