Do I like poetry now?

Four books of poems to read for National Poetry Month

For years I avoided poetry for fear of not understanding it. Oftentimes I don’t understand it, but I can still appreciate a beautiful combination of words; I can still celebrate someone putting their heart on the page publicly.

Even so, poetry has not been something I’ve gravitated toward. But when a book of poetry arrived in the mail from Putnam (thank you!), I decided I would spend some time reading poetry during National Poetry Month.

I went to my bookshelf and found three other books of poems I had not yet read, and though I was already in the middle of two other books, I set them aside and committed to poetry for a day.

I am so glad I did.

I read these four books in less than 12 hours. It was a departure from my typical reading, but a valuable experiment and one I plan to do again next April.

I’ve never written about poetry before and I feel unfit to pass judgement. What I can do though is say how these four books made me feel.

And they made me feel — even after I finished them. One left me enraged. One found me quietly sobbing in my bed. One I read aloud to my daughter as she fell asleep. One confused me but left me curious.

I know the importance of reading outside of your favorite genres, but somehow it took committing to these four books of poetry to understand how truly impactful it can be to read something you typically wouldn’t.

These books changed the way I think about everything.

You can be the Last Leaf • Selected Poems | Written by Maya Abu Al-Hayyat, translated by Fady Joudah

Those who win by killing fewer children
are losers.

[From the poem, Revolution]

These poems set fire to a murderous rage within me about the state of the world. Palestinian poet Maya Abu Al-Hayyat writes of war and art and coercing children to sleep amidst shelling in the streets. I’ve never read anything like these poems before. How can a mother protect her children when she hardly knows how to protect herself? Where can she find safety, and for that matter, in whom?

But the work isn’t saccharine; her candor is cutting and the reader is impaled by the truths of Palestinians’ realities.

From I Don’t Believe in Greats:

And blame, I don’t believe in it.
When incidents baffle me
and enemies blur into friends
I keep on filing my nails.
I’ve never blamed my nails
for nails that tear the flesh on my back.

My god. The murderous rage is back. The tightening in my throat, too. This, right here, is why we produce art. And what an exceptional piece of art it is.

The final lines of Return are equally gutting:

You don’t know how bitter
it is to search
a map for a memory
and find a cadaver.

The imagery is graphic, but it’s deployed by a living, feeling woman who, inexplicably, can find moments of humor. Sometimes even beauty.

If you read one of these books of poetry, read You Can Be the Last Leaf. You will never be the same.

Beautiful Chaos: On Motherhood, Finding Yourself, and Overwhelming Love | Jessica Urlichs

This book comes out on April 29 (thank you Putnam for sending me a copy) and I think all mothers should read it.

I mentioned above that sometimes I don’t understand poetry and that’s kept me from consuming it (quite like my avoidance of classic literature). This is not the case for Beautiful Chaos.

You might know the poet Jessica Urlichs from Instagram. She’s one of those artists whose work is so resonant that readers (moms, namely) can’t help but pass it along. In Beautiful Chaos, Urlichs runs toward the postpartum days that many prefer to turn away from. The lack of sleep, the loneliness, the trying to get the child to breastfeed — she’s unafraid to prod at that trauma.

Many of her poems are rhyming, which I expected because I was familiar with her work, but also, after reading Abu Al-Hayyat’s work, threw me off. Were the words forced? Did she say the message she needed to with the words she chose? Still, the poems hit me, and in fact found me swallowed by tears, real tears.

Some of the poems are written to other mothers in the vein of I see you and I am also up at 3 AM wondering what the hell I’m doing.

Your hands seem different, they may not be as manicured, but
they’re warm and comforting. They’re stronger, as they hold the
world, and the touch of those fingertips are someone’s world.

[From Mama, You’re Beautiful]

Others are written to the mother from the perspective of a newborn:

When you feel like the weight of it all is heavy
in your heart, please know I’ve never felt lighter.
Can I lay here with you a little longer?
I won’t always need you like this.

[From All I See is You]

Others are to her husband, notes that she still loves him, she still yearns to fall into his arms, but she doesn’t know how to right now:

we talk when it’s dark and all is done
once the trials from the day
are razor sharp on my tongue

[From Rubbish Day]

Then there are the poems written to her children. When my daughter was having trouble falling asleep, I read her a few of these poems. The following night she asked me to read them to her again. I could see the poems made even my seven-year-old feel something.

I think all moms should read this book not because it’s the most beautiful poetry I’ve ever read, but because — and this is why Urlichs became as big as she is — mothers can find themselves in her words. They can find validation while also be reminded to get on the floor with their children because soon the floors will be tidy and colorless and all they will want is to be eye-level with their babies again.

Day of the Child • A Poem | Arra Lynn Ross

These poems are a stark contrast to those by Jess Urlichs, but they made me feel similarly. Day of the Child is a series of connected poems about parenthood. They are tender, somehow making made-up kid words read poetically.

Over the course of 99 poems, we watch a child — and the separation between mother and child — grow.

While Urlichs writes of silvery stripes (stretch marks) and swollen breasts, Ross cuts from pregnancy straight to the ring of fire, or the crowning of a child’s head during birth:

20 |

that, weeks later, split my skin, a sheath, off
but first, the Fire asked to see the crowning,
I said no (blind my eyes)
but mirror-pressed, your blurry crumpled head
dark-hair touched, wet mound, talked-through thrust
till shit slid, and I, blood-rust — tore — till dust
as empty, then — Plenty:
your dark eyes sharks, and skin oh skin! as soft as loss.

Other poems are reflections; the pain and beauty of memories.

57 |

If I could, again: us, on the back deck, in sun,
early October & yellow walnut leaves
lift, sift down; our muscles
warm from sawing saplings, we sit and sip
your cranberry mix; through glass, watch pink shadows
on bared arms, cheek, on knees and dirt-smudged clothes
as the river, below, breaks into many suns, the sun.

There is social commentary throughout, a mother assuaging her child’s fears when she needs encouragement herself. In that way, there are similarities between these poems and those of Abu Al-Hayyat. Though one could never compare their experiences, as a reader, I could feel both of the poets’ fear.

a Year & other poems | Jos Charles

I am going to be very honest and say that for most of this book, I didn’t understand what was going on. While reading I felt devastation, catastrophe, and loss, but I wasn’t sure exactly what loss I was reading about.

But I was still able to appreciate it because it was new to me. I knew going into reading these books that I was about to experience something different and I was able to set aside my cynicism and try to feel her words.

As the title indicates, the book is comprised of a Year and other poems. a Year is written month by month. Here is a section from the month of May:

A book
is a margin I go
to put holly to the lip. A proximity
to what one is not
to bury yourself
to
what morrow allows. Not sorry
Everything against it

Do you see what I mean? I think I get what she’s saying, but also I have no idea. Put holly to the lip — of what? And why do I not mind that I’m confused? I’ve never heard those words used in that way before. I like it, the way they confound me. Maybe that’s the point?

From December:

In the street
they are starting fires It warms even us

What was crossed out is not the same
as what was never written down

I tried to replicate that formatting from the book. Why the space between “fires” and “It" and no punctuation? No punctuation doesn’t bother me (have you heard me yell about Open Throat?) but why not start the next sentence on a new line?

I finished a Year & other poems with more questions than answers. Did I like it? I’m not sure, but I like the way it’s making me ask questions. My confusion is low-stakes and really doesn’t affect anything, whereas if I was reading a novel, it would affect everything.

Do I know what the book is about? Not entirely, but I do know how it made me feel, and isn’t that why we create? To make ourselves feel, to make others feel?

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Tell me: Are you a poetry reader? Do you have any recommendations for me? What are you reading?

What I’m reading: Careless People: A Cautionary Tale of Power, Greed, and Lost Idealism by Sarah Wynn-Williams and It’s a Love Story by Annabel Monoghan

If you found any value in today’s essay, please forward it to the readers in your life!

Love,

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