WHAT I LIKE IN A POEM

by David B. Axelrod

The test I most often apply to poems is whether I can believe them. There are poems written because someone said "I am a poet." There are poems written because someone needed to write a poem. I go with the latter. A poem that is written for poetry's sake at best can appeal to poets. It's like trading baseball cards. An objective observer is likely to question "How could you spend hundreds of dollars for that little piece of cardboard?" Only people really into something can appreciate its fine points. Most folks, however, are no more likely to appreciate the value of a piece of cardboard imprinted with baseball data than they are to like poetry written for poetry’s sake.

            A poem written because it needs to be said, however, has a more universal appeal. It is a starting place for credibility and with that, empathy. Unless I believe the poem, how can I think it is real or good? I'm not trading baseball cards here; I'm communicating. One path has sought to conjoin with another. There is a confluence of energy. The language merges, from one consciousness to another. That is why all the formalism, exercised with even the greatest precision, as often still feels like just a "drill." It may show mastery of form, dexterity and even great invention of language, but ultimately, it is only that, form.

            Without “content,” a poem is just an exercise, a drill, words marching in step. Art is not just artifice, though as often that's all we are offered. When a poem says, "Here is how I have survived," when it offers a life being lived, then there is a chance for excellence. The only chance we have beyond our own survival is that transfer of some energy, some life-force from ourselves to another. It happens so embarrassingly clearly in birth. It happens so sweetly and simply in the caress of a loving hand. It can happen sometimes in a poem.

            The gift of language, the freshness of vision, the whole history of everything previously written and read can come together in a few lines so that one existence energizes another. The effect is quite remarkable—the anti-bullet. All the bad intentions, the toxins, the wounds that have been inflicted are addressed in those few seconds as the poem is read and the good is transferred. How remarkable we humans are that we can do this with mere words. All the fandango of technology aside, just a few odd letters, sounds strung together and one life has helped another along. For those who might now be saying "Too mystical. Too diffuse," what would you rather I say makes a good poem? Shall we now pick up our plumes and just rhyme? Very well then...