How to Read (and Even Enjoy) Poetry

Introduction

Poems aren’t riddles, so, today, let’s quit trying to figure them out and just focus on reading them.

I have a distinct memory of sitting in a high school classroom with a great big textbook on the desk. The room was dim, as it usually was, illuminated only by the overhead projector that cast the shadows of my teacher’s handwriting on the front wall.

On that particular day, all of us were looking at the scant scattering of words that William Carlos Williams had put together and called the “Red Wheelbarrow”:

so much depends

upon

a red wheel

barrow

glazed with rain

water

beside the white

chickens.

Our task was to read the poem and tell our teacher what the poem meant. And I had no idea. None of us did. Today, I can remember the poem and I can remember having no idea where to start. I cannot, however, remember what the answer was. I still don’t know what this poem means.

But, in the years since that day in high school, I’ve come to love this poem—it’s one of my favorites. And I think that’s because I’ve learned how to read poetry—actually read it—without the pressure of “figuring it out.”

So I want to share what I’ve learned about reading poetry with you today, and I want to do it for a couple of reasons. First, people get scared of poetry because they’ve had bad experiences with it in school. But, also, I think those bad experiences reading poetry have put people off of writing poetry, and that’s just too bad because writing poetry is a blast.

With that in mind, let’s talk about what makes poetry different from other kinds of writing so that we’ll know how to read it—and maybe even enjoy it…!

What Do Poems Do?

Poetry may be difficult at first because it’s pretty different from other kinds of writing that we probably run into more commonly. But, if we can understand what the basic goal of poetry is, we’ll have a much better time reading it. And I think it’s helpful to start by understanding what poetry isn’t:

A poem is not a riddle. Riddle are puzzles—they hide their meaning behind puns, metaphors, or other devices. And, while poets may use similar devices, poets want to make their poems clearer—not harder to understand. Riddles need to be figured out, but poems don’t.

A poem is also not a story. Short stories and novels rely on plot, on sequences of events and the ways that characters respond to events and change from beginning to end. Poets aren’t so worried about world-building or character arcs. Stories have plots, but poems don’t need them.

A poem is not an essay. Essays are all about turning over ideas and dramatizing thoughts processes on the page. They reflect, consider, reconsider, and expound. Poets are often reflective, but, while essayists do a lot of their thinking out loud, poets leave it in earlier drafts. Essays are cerebral in a way that poems aren’t.

And, of course, we’re painting with the broadest strokes—but that can be helpful early on. So, if a poem isn’t a riddle, story, or essay, what is it? What do poems do if they don’t confound, narrate, or explain?

Well, I think poems primarily do two main things:

First, they capture experiences and reflect on individual moments. A good poem invites you into the poet’s shoes to relive an experience for just a moment.

And, second, they play with language in a way that other kinds of writing don’t. A good poem is alive to the sounds, rhythms, and shapes of language—and it uses all of those resources to evoke meaningful experiences.

At its most basic, I like to think of poetry kind of like how I think about a photograph. Imagine, for example, that you spend the whole day in the summer with your friends. You explore a city, visit an amusement park, try new food, and finish the day by taking a picture together in the yellow glow of a street lamp—and, of course, one of your friends was blinking right when the picture was taken.

Now, when you go back and look at that picture a few months later, are you going to stare at it and try to figure it out? If you showed it to someone who wasn’t there that day, would you say, “Hey, look at this picture I took with my friends—now, tell me what it means or I’ll think you aren’t smart”?

Of course not—when you look at a photograph you took with your friends, there’s nothing to figure out, no hidden meaning, no correct answer. There’s only a memory of an experience, captured in a single moment.

And that’s what poetry does—but, while photographs are only visual, poetry can capture any aspect of an experience, recreating it through language and presenting it to a reader.

A poem is a snapshot, an experience served up in a single moment. So don’t give yourself heartburn trying to uncover some deep hidden meaning—just experience it and take it all in.

Why I love the Red Wheelbarrow

So let’s go back to that infamous red wheelbarrow. When I was in school trying to figure out what the poem meant, I was miserable, angry, and totally dumbfounded. Now, though, I love this poem—not because of what it means but because of what it is and the experience it lets me have.

That is, when I read that so much depends upon a red wheelbarrow glazed with rainwater beside the white chickens, I imagine myself sitting on the porch of a well-worn farmhouse.

It’s a misty, gray day, the kind where the grass seems extra green and the rain doesn’t so much fall as stick to things, glaze them, if you will.

The chickens are pecking and clucking about in the mud, and I’m just taking it all in. The wheelbarrow is useful and important, but it’s not doing anything right now, and neither am I.

It’s a quiet moment, a moment of rest, a moment of contemplation—and it lasts for as long as I read and consider the poem.

Williams doesn’t try to explain the moment, doesn’t try to connect it to some grander narrative. He just presents it and lets us sit with the quiet drizzle and the busy chickens while we watch the wheelbarrow glisten in the cloud-softened light.

If all you get out of a poem like this one is a few seconds of peaceful escape on a farmhouse porch, then I think you’re getting all you need. A poem like this isn’t meant to be a tough nut that you have to crush and break apart to figure out—it’s an expression of beauty that someone noticed in an otherwise mundane setting.

And that’s why poetry is so exciting.

[How to Read a Poem]

Okay, so hopefully you can see why reading poetry is a lot more fun than solving poetry. Now, let’s finish up by talking about how to approach a poem—if we’re just going to take it all in and experience it for what it is, what does that actually look like?

Well, here’s another poem by William Carlos Williams

DAWN

Ecstatic bird songs pound

the hollow vastness of the sky

with metallic clinkings—

beating color up into it

at a far edge,—beating it, beating it

with rising, triumphant ardor,—

stirring it into warmth,

quickening in it a spreading change,—

bursting wildly against it as

dividing the horizon, a heavy sun

lifts himself—is lifted—

bit by bit above the edge

of things,—runs free at last

out into the open—! lumbering

glorified in full release upward—⁠

songs cease.

First things first, pay attention to the title. Poets don’t spend much time explaining things, so titles are usually the best place to find contextual information that will help you to understand the experience the poet wants to share with you. Here, we’re meant to experience something that happens at dawn.

Well, great, what do we have at dawn? Don’t worry about what any of it means, just focus on appreciating what’s there. If this were a photograph, what would you be seeing?

Bird songs—lots of them—and Williams describes them hammering away at the dark sky.

As they hammer away, we see color start to appear in the sky, gradually getting warmer and warmer as the songs get more and more energetic.

Finally, Williams says that the sun lifts himself, but then corrects himself and says that the sun is lifted into the sky, free and glorious.

And then, the songs stop.

Of course, we want to pay attention to the language he uses too—we get great, energetic lines like “beating it, beating it with rising, triumphant ardor” and “bursting wildly against it as dividing the horizon, a heavy sun lifts himself” and “lumbering glorified in full release upward.” Savor the way the words sound, the way they feel to say. Give yourself permission to get carried away in the flow.

Now, Williams could have just written a single line that said, “Wouldn’t it be crazy if the birds’ singing is actually what causes the sun to rise?” and been done with it.

Some people might even wonder why he doesn’t just say that if that’s what he means to say. Why all the extra stuff?

Well, as you and I both know now, a poem is not meant to communicate a message—it’s meant to communicate an experience. Williams doesn’t want to tell you what he thought that morning—he wants to show you what he experienced and get you to experience it too. He wants you to hear the birds, to see the sunrise, and to contemplate the possibility that the birdsong is what lifts the sun up each morning.

And none of that would happen if he just wrote out a quick sentence telling you what he thought. You would get the message, but you’d miss out on the experience.

And the experience, my friends, is what poetry is all about.

Conclusion

It’s really too bad that we usually have our first encounters with poetry in literature classes because that’s not what poetry was written for. Poetry is meant to capture moments and share experiences—not to be puzzled over with grades on the line.

I think it’s important to realize that creative reading is just as much a thing as creative writing. Literature professors and English teachers are creative readers, trained in producing interpretations and critiques of poetry that may or may not have anything to do with what the original authors intended. They also tend to be very good at making what they do sound very important and very serious.

But poetry isn’t generally written for them—in its essence, poetry is meant for regular people, and it’s meant to be understood and appreciated by anyone. Just in the same way that you don’t need special training in order to appreciate a photograph of your friends.

There is no secret meaning behind that photograph, nor is there a single correct interpretation of it. It’s just a picture that lets you relive an experience, and poetry works the same way.

So I hope that all this has helped you to see how approachable and enjoyable poetry can be when you decide to read and experience it rather than solve it like some kind of puzzle.

I also hope that, if you’ve ever wanted to write poetry, this has helped you to see that you don’t need to create riddles—just capture your experiences and do your best to help readers experience them too.

Of course and as always, there’s so much more we could say about poetry—and I’m sure we will. For now, though, I think this is a great place to start. Let me know what you’re thinking, ask questions if you have them—and then go give poetry a chance (maybe even check out the poems I’ve linked to in the description).

I think I might just do the same. So, until next time, take care.