Becoming a Poetry Person by Tori Bachman

I have a confession: I’m not really a poetry person.

Or at least I haven’t been for the first 40-some years of my life. Poetry intimidated me. The time I spent studying it in high school and college felt stodgy, stifled, snobbish. I couldn’t relate to much of what I’d read, so I stopped trying to “get it.”

Just over a year ago, however, with anxiety levels increasing and attention span decreasing, my colleague—who really IS a poetry person—casually mentioned (right after I explained why I’d switched from coffee to chamomile tea), “You know, I have a feeling you’d like Mary Oliver.” Poetry newb here responded, “Hmm, she sounds nice. Could you introduce us sometime?” My dear colleague didn’t laugh. Instead, she laid on my desk two collections of the most beautiful writing I’ve ever encountered. And she was right: I do like Mary Oliver. A lot.

Now I am becoming a poetry person. I have spent hours in the library stacks and piles of money in used bookstores. I ask people, “Who’s your favorite poet?” and I make lists in my journal. I signed up for the Poem of the Day, and my cousin sends me poems in the mail. I devour them like ice cream on a summer day, I savor them like smooth, dark chocolate…and my body has started to actually crave poems like it craves chamomile tea.

I’m not sure I have discovered as much about poetry in these few months as I have discovered about myself – but that’s the point of poetry, isn’t it?

Here’s what I’ve learned (so far):

First, reading poems slows me down and forces me to pay attention. I see the world differently, notice the way raindrops plink against the mailbox and shimmer from bare tree branches. Poetry expands my vocabulary and descriptions of everyday things; instead of curly hair, for instance, my head is covered in voluptuous ringlets. I think in similes, too; my son’s hand in mine is like an anchor, for example.

Second, there’s always time for poetry. Poems are short, for the most part, so even on days consumed by a mile-long to-do list, I can read a poem and quiet my mind. Twelve minutes until the pasta water boils? Perfect time to read a poem or two by Ada Limón. Sitting in the orthodontist’s waiting for the kid’s braces to be adjusted? Pretty much anything by Billy Collins comes in handy. How about that the half-hour spent waiting for an oil change? I whole-heartedly recommend Ross Gay’s Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude. (And, one of the most amazing things about living here in the future is we have access to hundreds of poems at all times right on our smartphones. Even better, if you’re like me and don’t really know yet what poetry you like so you don’t trust yourself to hunt for poems, look here, here, and here first.)

Finally, I notice that my writing changes when I’m in a “poetry place.” I don’t write poetry, mind you, but when I read poetry, the prose I write becomes tighter, leaner, edgier. Poetry focuses my mind on that all-important one-inch picture frame, and it forces me to read the spaces, the words unwritten, the nuances. Good prose does, too.

I’m becoming a poetry person, and you can, too, because here’s the best thing I’ve discovered: Poets write for all of us. There is something for every taste and every interest, something you will read that squeezes your heart or makes you sigh or sing or laugh. It’s not intimidating anymore because most of all, poetry is like wine — it’s okay to like what you like.


Tori Bachman is a literacy editor based in Portland, Maine – which means she’s also a writer, knitter, and jewelry maker in the winter and a hiker, beachcomber, and kayaker in the summer. You can find her on Twitter at @ToriBachman and read some of her random musings at tallgirlsadventures.blogspot.com.