March Madness and What Makes a Good Poem

 

So I missed all of March. My own kind of madness. Didn't plan on my Florida vacation landing me in the hospital, but I'm hoping to be back on the blog . . .

Recently I was asked to judge the poetry submissions for high school students from 13 schools who will attend a Lit Fest next Friday.  Writer-judges from multiple genres received submissions, but the poetry category was flooded with submissions--235 to be exact. I read each poem and commented on each poem!  Then I had to narrow down the choices and come up with aCritic's Choice.  Ultimately, the two poems I chose could not have been more different--one was about a "coming out" experience layered in language about time zones and and ghosts of memories (so surprising), and the other is an outward-looking poem about Leopold II of Belgium who exploited the people of the Democratic Republic of the Congo, something I knew nothing about.  (Leopold's deeds related in the poem sound quite 21st century).  One poem uses a narrative style that could be something other than a poem, and the second uses short lines and consistent stanzas and looks more "poem-y."  As I read this hefty pack of poems, I kept asking myself what I was looking for, what would make one poem rise above the others.  In the end (and partly because of the sheer quantity of poems that I read), I went for impact.  What did I remember? What drew me in and made me want to come back for another read.  

I've been told, even by a therapist who works with troubled children and teens, that poetry is a "thing." And something he never gave much thought to in the past. I would guess that 40% or more of the poems were written by girls (ostensibly as it was a blind reading) who wrote about the trials and disappointments of relationships.  The word DEPRESSION came up in more poems than I would have liked to see. Of course, poetry is a vehicle of emotion, but it was distressing to see just how many students reflected feelings that many adults struggle with their entire lives.  There were abused children, neglected children, children of divorce or alcoholics trying to recover already from things that have shaped them in the first dozen years of their lives.  Sad.  Disconcerting. Yes, troubling.  

When I read about and watch and listen to the teens who swarmed D.C. and hear the eloquence and the heart of what they have to say, I have hope.  Emily Dickinson wrote:  "Hope is the thing with feathers / That perches in the soul."  I wonder what else there is if there is not HOPE. These young people post-Parkland, these poets writing from their chests, are the embodiment of HOPE. Their bodies, voices, silence and rage are HOPE. And yet, they have to navigate the same alleyways and secret gardens and plastic-riddled oceans as the rest of us.  

Words on paper can bring whole countries and peoples together.  If they're not to be meaningless, then we best be studying all signs and kinds of feathered hope. Hope for transformation and light.  


Image:  https://www.flickr.com/photos/treehouse1977/2892417805

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