An ode to confusion: why poetry isn’t for me

I took a special education class in the spring and I reluctantly hafta admit that I learned something from it. I am in no way more adept in confronting or talking to handicap people–but I did learn to realize not everyone is created equally. Learning disabilities don’t mean you’re a vegetable. There are some people out there–sharp as a tack–that simply can’t learn something. I know. It seems obvious. But this is a concept that I missed somewhere in life.

I know a lot of people say they can’t do math. I never understood it because math is so simple. Even though I majored in English, mathematics is the easiest concept for me to grasp because everything is so logical. I can visualize problems and numbers and figure out the answer because I am very comfortable with step-by-step processes.

Until recently, I believed there wasn’t anything I couldn’t do in school. Math is easy. Writing is simply BS-ing. And why in the world would anyone hate to read? I never thought I couldn’t do anything because academically there was little I couldn’t do (except for spelling–but I’ll admit most of that deficiency is due to laziness on my part). The only thing in school that left me feeling completely clueless was poetry. Don’t get me wrong–I’m not a super genius (as my report card would greatly confirm). I had trouble reading Shakespeare and ancient British literature–but mainly ’cause I thought it was crap and I didn’t want to put the effort into it (the theme of laziness reoccurs frequently in my academic career). But poetry–oh sweet poetry–how thou befuddles me!

There’s something about poetry I could never grasp (as in, all of it). I could read lines and stanzas and have no clue what was said or what the author meant. My favorite poet is Shel Silverstein. Anything outside a catchy rhyme and full of nonsensical humour is completely wasted on me. I could read a poem a dozen times and still have no clue what was going on–I might as well been reading German because I took in none of it.

Now you’re probably asking yourself, “How does one get a degree in English without ever learning poetry?” To which, I answer with, “I found a loophole.” I took a poetry class at Crap State and it was useless to me. The only reason I passed was because I knew how to play the game. Our textbook was a collection of poems written by our teacher. I simply praised every poem I read as if it was the greatest addition to the literary world since the printing press. “The author here shows remarkable intelligence and compassion for the world around him.” “This is the deepest, most meaningful poem I’ve ever read.” And so on. The teacher ate it up. After a while I felt like I was going a little over the top and he could see through me (especially regarding the poem he wrote about losing his gay virginity), but somehow I made it through the semester–and vowed never to take a poetry class again.

Some of my creative writing courses required me to write poetry. I would composed fun works about things like moldy cheese and Larry H. Parker. My classmates got a kick out of my poems because they were absurdly fun–but my poetry could never be confused with deep. One class required classroom discussion and analysis for every written poem. Every poem led to a 30-minute discussion and analysis. When it came to my poem, the teacher said “it is what it is” and moved on to the next student.

I’m taking another lit class this summer and the teacher snuck in a couple weeks of poetry analysis. At first I started to go nuts trying to digest the pointless ramblings of Robert Frost and Emily Dickinson. I would reach each poem multiple times and have no idea what I was supposed to think. Is this deep? Is it a metaphor? Why is that word misspelled? Instead of losing my mind and wanting to burn down every coffeehouse in America, I decided to no longer freak out and accept the truth–I simply can’t do poetry.

Some people just can’t do math. Other people can’t write a good story. I cannot do poetry. It doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with me. I’m not stupid (or at least not stupid because I don’t understand Walt Whitman). I have some sorta mental block or learning disability that prevents me from grasping poems. Not everyone can understand everything. My mother believes computers run on pixy dust. The Wife doesn’t know how to calculate a tip. I can’t understand a poem.

Now that I embraced my flaw, I believe it’s going to make poetry easy for me. I won’t get frustrated or angry because I don’t understand something. I will accept I don’t understand it and find another way to get by. I’ll consult with teachers, use Google, or do something else to get by. But I don’t hafta understand poetry or learn what’s going on…and that’s okay.