Is it me, or is it the poem

In the weeks of this unit, I have heard an ever constant refrain. The repetitiveness of complaining is almost poetic in and of itself; it is with near to no-miss accuracy that I can make my daily prediction of when someone in class says, "I have no idea what I'm supposed to understand here. Why is poetry so impossible?" 

Even today during our class conversation, Mrs. Liamini exclaimed at how suddenly introverted our class became- the timing uncoincidentally aligning with when we would have to share thoughts on what meanings we thought the poem beheld.

We hold fear of misinterpreting the conclusions the speaker wants us to search for and find. We gripe about how, comparative to prose, poetry is just so subjective. And thus, attempts at deconstructing what is in front of us remain futile. But why is that? Can we really attribute our struggle to it just being mediocre poetry? Or rather - perhaps a more controversial take - could the problem be ourselves?

one of my favorite pods!

Just the other day, I listened to this awesome yet slightly (acutely) horrific podcast by Ezra Klein, who discusses with Maryanne Wolf the importance of "deep reading" amidst our living in the Information Age. It made sense to me: having been born into an era of endless scrolling of short-form content designed to capture and distract, capture and distract- the most of us are left with nothing but charred attention spans. There just may be such thing as too much information. To navigate it all, we must have strong literacy. I deleted TikTok off of my phone (I'm joining you Cate) less by feelings of inspiration and more out of alarm after listening to that full conversation.

I imagine all the little facts in my mind's storage leaving my mind to be just like this excerpt from "Forgetfulness" by Billy Collins: 

The name of the author is the first to go

followed obediently by the title, the plot,

the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel

which suddenly becomes one you have never read, never even heard of,

I know I started this blog exposing all of our reactions to this recent unit, but regardless... I've been thinking more, especially in relation to poetry, about our generation's rewired ability to process the true abundance of information that surrounds us, floods us, drowns us. It's an easy way out, to resort to skimming. To succumb to only absorbing the surface of what we see. To give in to our inferiority complex, and give up... But deeply processing things, including poetry, doesn't have to be as belletristic or pretentious as we perceive it to be. In fact, our attention may possibly be the thing we need to hold onto with the most protective intention. 

That's all for this blogpost- I've got to go read my sbc paperback now

Crush!

My idea, and ideals, of Valentine's Day began wholesome and indulgent; it was an annual tradition in elementary school to spend the night beforehand scribbling my name on the To: line of paper valentines cards from a store bought 25-pack, so that the next day I could give the same Disney princess candy gram to my first-grade bully and my crush. (Although if I'm to be majorly vulnerable, I think it's safe for me now to admit that I most definitely saved Belle, my favorite, for my at-the-time classroom crush, and gave my not-so-crushes Pocahontas or something, sorry). 

Over the past decade of growing up, however, my reaction and relationship to Valentine's Day and its themes have ebbed and flowed. For a while it was too embarrassing to even admit I was even friends with someone of the opposite gender; then, the ever looming question of what if we're just friends? could we be just friends? could it ever be just that simple? What a When Harry Met Sally tragedy.

I know, how dramatic. Partly, maybe most prominently, it is because we are all still too young and stupid and immature. We might even think we're too good to show love- or maybe we think we're incapable of it. I think many of us may be in our Siddhartha era- dismissing love in its many forms, considering it inessential and turning a blind eye even as it weaves and intertwines all the parts of our lives.  

Around this time last year, Richard Siken's Crush, a collection of poems, was my hyperfixation; I chose him as my mentor poet easily yet cautiously - if you are at all into the themes of the month of February / as sentimental of a person as I am, you might enjoy. Here's an excerpt from Scheherazade, the first poem in his collection: 

Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.

These, our bodies, possessed by light.

Tell me we'll never get used to it.

Maybe it's not that serious. Maybe it's not even about us- the modern phenomenon of Valentine's Day, once you think about it for a little too long as I am right now, is lots bizarre. There's also always that argument about its consumerist and capitalistic nature... but I guess this is where I reveal my sentimentalism. Despite everything, I think it's still worth it to celebrate all the love around you. What's the harm? Hating Valentine's Day only hurts yourself- it's so fun!!! and silly and sweet!!! and special!!!!!

An aside: why do we celebrate Valentine's Day as a marked holiday? like, why do we honor mothers on Mothers Day? And women on Women's Day? To challenge it, why don't we just set a random (but still intentional) calendar notification in mid-April, or in late October, or early June- to remind you to tell everyone in your life how important they are to you, this day and every day • ₊°✧︡ ˗ ˏ ˋ ♡ ˎˊ ˗