Level Up Your Poetry Reading | Understanding Difficult Poems

Introduction

Poetry isn’t a secret code–but sometimes it can feel like it. So what then?

Chances are if you’ve seen any video on the channel, you’ve seen the one about how to read poetry. It’s a response to a lot of the misconceptions that I’ve seen in a lot of beginning poetry students–including myself when I was starting out. 

It also accounts for about 10% of the channel’s total views, so it must address some things that a lot of other people have felt too. And I’ve had a lot of fun seeing your responses and talking about poetry with you. 

That said, it really was meant as a step-one introduction to poetry, and I’ve noticed that some of you may be looking for step two. So I thought now would be as good a time as any to build on what we put together in that first video on reading poetry. 

Because it’s true that reading poetry is not about finding the “one true meaning”—but that doesn’t mean that poetry isn’t meaningful. And it’s true that reading poetry isn’t about figuring out a riddle—but that doesn’t mean that it can’t sometimes be mysterious. 

The fundamental good news, though, is that poets write to communicate to readers. Unless they’re high on their own egos and way too enamored of their own erudition, poets actually want readers to understand and appreciate the experience that they package into their poems. It just wouldn’t make sense to publish something that you didn’t want people to understand. 

No, poetry is about sharing experiences and connecting with other people. And if you go into poetry with that mindset you’ll have a better, more productive, and more meaningful time. 

But what happens when you can’t even figure out what kind of experience you’re supposed to be having? What do you do when even a basic understanding of what’s going on is hard to come by? 

Well, in the words of one of my former teachers, a good poem will teach you how to read it. You just need to slow down and see what it has to say. So, in this video, I want to tell you about my first major encounter with a difficult poem and show you what you can do when the reading experience isn’t as simple as sitting down beside a wheelbarrow on a rainy day. 

Ground Rules

Before we get too far, I think it’s worth taking some time to reaffirm what it is we’re actually doing when we’re reading poetry–and what we’re not doing. When the going gets tough, it can be easy to forget the basic principles, so let’s make sure we’re starting off on the right foot. 

First things first, it’s important to remember that we’re not reading a poem in order to decipher some secret, hidden meaning. A poem is not a riddle, so our goal is not to end up with a single statement that explains what the poem “means.” Otherwise, poems would have the answers printed upside down at the bottom of the page. 

Instead, if we look back at the concept of poetic meaning that was proposed by friend of the show Kenneth Burke, we see that he describes poetic meaning as a heaping up of details and experiences. So the meaning of a poem comes from the complexity of the experience as it is—not in some abstracted, reductive “answer.“

When we miss the fact that poets are communicating experiences rather than propositions, we get the idea that they’re just saying things in overly complicated ways–why not just say what they mean in a simple sentence?

For a few reasons. The first of which is that a simple sentence is more likely to communicate an idea rather than an experience. So poets write about the senses, talking about the things that can be seen, heard, touched, tasted, or smelled. That requires more attention to detail and more complexity than a simple, concept-focused sentence.

But it goes further than that: poets also prize precise, exact language. Rather than choose common words that get close enough to what they mean, poets look for words that communicate precise meaning, even if it means choosing a less common word. 

As one of my first poetry teachers put it, “No, the carpet is not blue–it’s azure!”

And, in addition to that, poets prioritize novelty and freshness. They don’t want to talk about the same old things in the same old way. They want us to experience something in a new, meaningful way–so that often requires drawing our attention to things that are overlooked or talking about them in unusual ways. 

By disrupting our expectations and expressing themselves in novel and inventive ways, poets can create more surprising and meaningful experiences. 

So it’s true that we’ll run into difficult language and thoughts when we read a poem from time to time. But it’s important to remember that the difficulty isn’t there to keep us in the dark–it’s there because the poet is trying to create a particular kind of experience for us.

Reading poetry is different from reading the kinds of things that we’re used to reading. For the most part, we read texts that are primarily interested in communicating concepts in plain, functional prose. When we go into poetry expecting that, we set ourselves up for sad time. When we go in expecting an experience, we’re better equipped to handle what the poem has to offer. 

And, because that’s not how we’re generally used to reading things, shifting into poetry mode takes practice. It’s way easier for me now than it was when I started out. And, if you’re already good at it, that’s not a sign that you’re a smarter or better person–just that you’ve had more practice. 

And practice is just what we’re after, so let’s get to it.

The poem

When I was in college, I took one of those British Literature survey courses—because it was a prerequisite for something that I ended up not doing…but anyway, I sat through most of that class just kind of passing the time. Until we hit the poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins. 

And I sat down with my anthology and looked at his poem, titled “As Kingfishers Catch Fire,” and I read it. And I read it. And I read it again and understood exactly none of it. For the most part, I understood each of the individual words, but I was totally stumped. Forget figuring out what I was supposed to tell my professor it “meant” the next day–what was it even saying?

As Kingfishers Catch Fire

As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;

As tumbled over rim in roundy wells

Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell's

Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;

Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:

Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;

Selves — goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,

Crying Whát I dó is me: for that I came.

I say móre: the just man justices;

Keeps grace: thát keeps all his goings graces;

Acts in God's eye what in God's eye he is —

Chríst — for Christ plays in ten thousand places,

Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his

To the Father through the features of men's faces.

Clear as a blackout curtain, my friend. What do we do with this? Well, let’s remember that a good poem will teach us how to read it. Everything we need to find our way into the experience of the poem is here–we just need to adapt to Hopkins’ unique way of using the language. 

So where do we start? I’d normally recommend starting with the title: in most cases, titles provide important contextual information that will help you to find your way into a poem. 

Now, in this case, the title is just a repeat of the first few words, so it doesn’t really help us. We might as well just start at the beginning–and what do we have in that first line? 

Well, our first job is to begin looking for patterns or anything that can give us a clue about the structure of the poem. Rather than get bogged down in tiny details or individual words, let’s just get a sense of what this poem is trying to do overall.

And we get a big hint by the fact that the poem is divided into two stanzas. That’s telling us that there’s likely something that holds the ideas in each stanza together and keeps them somewhat separate from what’s in the other. Naturally, it makes sense to begin with the first stanza. Let’s sett what it’s all about.

So, what do we start with? A comparison. As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame; 

that is, in the same way that kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame. Let’s not get

too hung up on what that actually means–let’s just focus on understanding the

structure here. 

We get two creatures doing similar but distinct things. And, again, not worrying too much about individual words or ideas, what comes next? Well, a continuation  of this list of things in the world doing what they do:

As tumbled over rim in roundy wells

Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell's

Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;

So the first few lines of the poem are all doing the same thing—they’re listing animals and objects and reporting some observations about what they do—so, even if we don’t exactly know what it means for a tucked string to tell, we can observe that the poem gives us a moment to experience a handful of things in their natural environment.

And that’s great, but so what? In this next line we get a shift—Hopkins isn’t talking about specific things anymore. He moves to talk in more general terms by saying, “Each mortal thing does one thing and the same." So, despite initial appearances that dragonflies and kingfishers and tumbled stones all do different things, Hopkins asserts that they’re actually all doing the same thing.

We’ve moved, then, from a list of observations to a more generalized principle that Hopkins has worked out based on the patterns he observes and shares with us.

And look—this line ends with a colon! And, if you know anything about colons, you know that what comes after a colon is logically related to what comes before. So what is it that each mortal thing does? The colon tells us that the answer is coming next.

What is it that every mortal is doing when it’s catching fire or ringing or finding tongue to fling out broad its name? It’s dealing out that being indoors each one dwells.

That can be tough to understand—and it’s going to get a little tougher, but Hopkins is going to teach us how to read this thing.

The next line says "Selves—goes itself; myself it speaks and spells, crying what I do is me: for that I came." I stared at these lines for a good long while, feeling as lost as I’ve ever felt.

I’ll confess that I got a little hung up on a little word—selves. What in the whole wide world was that noun doing there, a plural noun that shares a sentence with singular itself? Again, a good poem will teach you how to read it, and it finally clicked when I remembered how dashes work.

One of the roles they fill is to signal that something is being renamed or rephrased. In effect, it’s saying that selves means the same thing as goes itself. So selves isn’t a plural noun—it’s a singular verb. And we get the same notion rephrased a few other times.

We can take a step back then and recognize that, just as the first few lines were listing various observations from life, these next few lines are all working on a more generalized principle based on those observations. That every mortal thing deals out (like dealing out cards) the being that dwells inside of each one.

So without spending too much time on any individual words or confusing phrases, we can already say that we have a pretty good understanding of what this poem is doing in the first stanza. We get to experience kingfishers catching fire and strings being tucked and dragonflies drawing flame because they’re all examples of the principle that every mortal thing is in the business of expressing its inner nature.

Pluck a string and it will play a note. Swing a bell, and it will ring out far and wide. Everything, in Hopkins’ view, does this same thing—through its way of moving through the world, it lets is inner nature out. Toss a stone into a well, and it will ring like no other stone.

That’s where the first stanza leaves us, so it’s time to turn our attention to the second one, where Hopkins announces that he has more to say about this phenomenon.

In fact, that’s exactly how he says it:

I say more: the just man justices

This looks like another delightful bit of nonsense—but remember, this poem has already taught us that we’re allowed to use nouns as verbs. So what are just men doing? They’re justicing—in the same way that all mortal things are selving. 

And we get this list of things, again held together by semicolons, telling us what just men do:

They justice

They keep grace (which keeps their goings graces)

They Act in God’s eye what in God’s eye they are–

And what are they? The dashes tell us that what they are is Christ, again, because dashes can do that job. 

But then the poem pivots and explains why just men do these things: For Christ plays in ten thousand places, lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his to the Father through the features of men’s faces. 

And we conclude with what must be the ultimate expression of the pattern Hopkins has uncovered. The being that dwells inside of just men is Christ, so they deal Him out in their way of being—but that, in turn, is Christ’s way of going Himself—what He does is play to the Father through the features of men’s faces—for that He came. 

So let’s take stock—what do we have here? We have a list of observations taken in nature that lead us to Hopkins’ understanding that everything expresses its true nature through its own way of being in the world. 

Then he goes on to explain what that means for just men—that they express the grace that is in them, which is, in turn an expression of Christ’s nature and identity. 

For the Jesuit Priest Hopkins, all these natural and human phenomena are echoes of the divine that point his attention back to the divine. And, even though the language might be difficult at first glance, we can slow down and be thoughtful about how sentences and ideas are structured. 

So, when we’re looking for a basic understanding of what the poem is saying, it can be helpful to step back and look for structure before we get stuck on individual words. Notice how this poem seems to have a section of observations that lead to a principle that then gets applied to a new case. There’s a logic to the organization that we miss if we’re unwilling to move past what it really means for a kingfisher to catch fire. 

And that structure becomes more visible when we look for patterns. How do we know that the first half of the stanza fits under the label observations in nature—because that’s what they all are. Even if we don’t know exactly what it means to tuck a string, we can still recognize that it’s part of a larger list of things doing things. 

And the same thing works on a sentence or phrasal level. Selves is a word that Hopkins made up—it’s not going to mean anything to anyone but him—and he knows it, so he gives us a dash and a rephrasing that makes it obvious that we’re dealing with a verb. If a poem is going to teach you how to read it, you need to take a step back and look at what it’s actually doing.

Once the poem teaches us that words that aren’t normally verbs will be used as verbs, we can handle “the just man justices” much more easily. It’s a pattern the poem has already established. 

So, again, we start by looking for patterns and other signs that help us to understand how the poem and its images are put together. We get a good sense of the structure and of how the poem works—and then we can go back in and use that larger context to make sense of individual words or images. 

And, by doing that, we can work our way to a basic understanding of what this poet is trying to say. 

But, of course, that’s only half the job–the fun is just beginning.

The experience

I want to be careful in saying that we have begun to understand what the poem says—but I want to keep that separate from what the poem means. We can read carefully and understand that Hopkins is making an argument that all of creation is an echo of the divine—but so what? Who cares?

If we stopped here, we would be able to summarize what Hopkins is saying, and we’d have no reason to ever come back to this poem. Cool, he said this once. Been there done that. 

But, of course, we’re not reading to summarize, we’re reading to experience. So, now that we have this basic understanding of what the poem says, let’s go back and try to live in the experience that the poem offers us. 

I’m going to read it again. But, this time, instead of getting worked up about what it’s saying—since we already know that—focus on what you experience. Pay attention to the images. Listen to the sounds and rhythms of the language. Reflect on what it means for you to experience what Hopkins has to say in this way. 

He could have written a theological treatise—but he wrote a lyrical poem. Why? I’m not asking what this poem means—I’m asking what makes this experience meaningful for you.

As Kingfishers Catch Fire

As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;

As tumbled over rim in roundy wells

Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell's

Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;

Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:

Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;

Selves — goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,

Crying Whát I dó is me: for that I came.

I say móre: the just man justices;

Keeps grace: thát keeps all his goings graces;

Acts in God's eye what in God's eye he is —

Chríst — for Christ plays in ten thousand places,

Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his

To the Father through the features of men's faces.

This is the poem that put me on the path to poetry school. Before this, I had no idea that poets could use language in such inventive, playful, and beautiful ways. 

You know how you might get a song stuck in your head? Even now, I find myself saying “as tumbled over rim in roundy wells” over and over from time to time. The cascade of vowels and consonants is just beyond delightful. 

And “each hung bell’s bow swung”—a big old pile of stressed syllables builds up so much tension that “finds” snaps into an unstressed syllable. Man, oh man. 

And that’s to say nothing of the simple beauty of kingfishers appearing to catch fire or of swinging bells chiming from their towers. 

Of course, the religious significance isn’t lost one me, but, even from a secular standpoint, it’s just beautiful—as one of my teachers put it, “Hopkins' sonnets are the most gorgeous in the language.” And that intricate linguistic beauty of the piece is meaningful enough to me that I keep coming back to the poem again and again. 

This poem is meaningful because it puts me in contact with someone who is attuned to the world, who is full of faith, and who seems to be totally smitten with the English language. I’m delighted to spend time with someone who is willing to observe and write like this—that’s an experience I want to have and keep having. 

And it’s an experience I wouldn’t have if Hopkins had written that theological treatise and only put me in contact with his abstract ideas. Instead, he puts me in contact with nature, with the world, with his sense of the divine, and with him—with another human being who sees the world in a unique and stirring way.

And we’ve been going on for long enough—so I won’t even get started on Hopkins’ other poems. But, let me tell you, even though they present similar initial challenges, there’s just nothing else like them. 

But, now that you know how to deal with a difficult poem, you’re in pretty good shape to go check ‘em out on your own. 

Conclusion

The challenge of reading poetry is the challenge of learning to read through experience rather than just reading for conceptual knowledge. Sometimes, in their effort to make experiences as rich and wild as life actually is, poets have to resort to inventive ways of speaking that might stand between a basic understanding of the piece and a fuller appreciation of the experience.

Some poems are more accessible than others, but every poem will teach you how to read it. Because it is a form of communication, poetry is meant to be understood, and a good poem will give you the tools you need to make sense of it. 

So don’t hesitate to slow down as you focus on making sense of the poem as a whole rather than on deciphering each individual word. See, once people get past the first mistake of being afraid of poetry, they make the next biggest mistake of thinking they have to understand each word before moving on. 

So look for patterns and read for structure. Get a sense for what the poem is saying as a whole first. Then you can go back and spend more time with the rich complexities of the details.

Because, after all, a good scientist will probably want to make sure they’re in the right forest before they start taking core samples from individual trees. 

And, above all, remember that you’re reading to share a meaningful experience with another human being. This isn’t about finding some way to twist and interpret an afternoon in the English countryside into some demonstration of how smart you are. 

Returning to our friend Kenneth Burke, poetic meaning doesn’t reside in a single correct answer or in anything that could really be termed true or false because the poetic ideal will “derive its vision from the maximum heaping up of all these emotional factors, playing them off against one another, inviting them to reinforce and contradict one another, and seeking to make this active participation itself a major ingredient of the vision.”

So go enjoy those poems—even the difficult ones—by living in the complex experiences that they offer. You’re not trying to figure out what they mean, but, instead, you’re looking for what makes them meaningful by participating through poetry in a human experience of the world. 

And, while you do, I’ll look forward to seeing you again soon.