Here’s the
opening sentence:
It’s not so often
anymore that we read a book of poetry and think to ourselves, “This poet means
exactly what they say.”
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I’m still
thinking about that sentence. I’ve been thinking
about it a day or so. I know (kind of)
where Abramson is coming from, but I still can’t grasp it. Is there a feeling, then, that as we read
most books of poetry (new poetry, I’m imagining?) we get the feeling that this
poet doesn’t mean exactly what they say?
I can see that, I suppose, but it’s not really a question that comes to
my mind while reading a book of poetry.
I guess it does in a book where that is a foregrounded question, when it’s
way up front, but I don’t usually think to myself “does this poet mean exactly
what is being said here?”
It’s an interesting perspective, but I don’t share it. That problematizes my reading of the essay,
as I can’t quite ride with the anxiety for authenticity that permeates the rest
of the piece. But I can understand that
if one does have that feeling, that the poetry one is reading doesn’t mean
exactly what it’s saying, then I can see what Abramson is getting at.
Maybe it’s a generational thing, and I’m slipping out of
generational relevance. It happens to us
all.