. . . So much coffee and so many cigarettes

Gone down the drain, gone up in smoke,

Just for the sake of getting something right

Once in a while . . .

from “Lion & Honeycomb” in The Collected Poems of Howard Nemerov (U. of Chicago Press 1977)

Although no generalization is ever 100 percent correct, over decades of meeting “successful” (i.e., published) poets, introducing them, talking with them, drinking with them, one characteristic seems universal.

And no, it’s not martinis. They’re all readers! Most of them read poetry, but they also read a lot in general. They read news because they’re citizens. They read poetry because they love it, but also to see what’s been done in the past, so they don’t reinvent the wheel; and contemporary poetry so they know who’s getting published, who’s winning Pulitzers. W. H. Auden said poets should read magazines like Popular Mechanics and Home Gardening. A few young poets don’t want to read too much poetry, fearing they might get overly influenced by the ones they admire. Some read more fiction than poetry; it helps them keep their poetical feet on the ground, strengthening a feel for narrative. I love detective stories. In Neuchâtel, I answered the phone, “Meinke ici” (“Meinke here”), mimicking Georges Simenon’s efficient detective who always said “Maigret ici.” But poets are heavy readers. They’re all interested in language.

Which, while we’re drowning in fake news, makes them a minority. In America, poetry isn’t important to most people (quick, who’s America’s Poet Laureate?). In bookstores, poems get tucked on dusty shelves between Essays and Foreign Languages. A young girl might lurk there, thumbing through a slim collection by Emily Dickinson. I tell my students they need to read more. They often don’t care for this advice: They want inspiration, not perspiration..

The truth is, because so much reading, writing and rewriting is involved, poetry is enormously time-consuming, but no one will ever believe that. Don’t try to change anyone’s mind; it won’t help.I usually say to scoffers something like, “Well, my biggest problem is what to do with the other 23 hours.” Let them eat their hearts out.

We need poetry, as individuals and as a nation. Even Americans, who are suspicious of it (too elite, too French!) recognize that for important events — death, birth, love, tragedy — prose just doesn’t cut it. We need special language to talk about special moments. (Speaking of which, today, Dec. 14, is Jeanne’s and my 60th anniversary) Prose can’t handle dates like that!

Poetry, ideally, can make the world better, encouraging empathy, thoughtfulness, connection — “O my luve’s like a red red rose,” “I should have been a pair of ragged claws.” It insists that below the surface our lives have meaning (“There is a value underneath / the gold and silver of our teeth.”) The idealistic young want their poetry to change the world, believing with Shelley that “poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world,” not fully recognizing the weight of “unacknowledged.” My heart goes out to them as I nod, and say, “Go for it.”