Inability to read poetry
September 4th
Clouds are usually honest, they tell us by their shape and color and movement, or by their quantity or lack of them what is coming. Weather-wise, that is. Nature doesn’t play around and always lets us know what can we expect from her. For some reason, most people don’t know how to read those signs and are frequently surprised — “who could have predicted this or that? who could have foreseen what is happening?”. Well, some people did see it coming and as I found out — a lot of the best prophets are poets.
I never consciously set myself and prepare for reading poetry. That happens quite naturally and always in the same way. It starts with a fragment of a poem in a book, or somewhere online. That leads me to the whole poem, which in turn leads me to a deeper exploration of the given poet's oeuvre. That then goes further to reading whole books or collections or compendiums of a particular poet or a poetical movement or of poems written in a particular geographical location at the given time. I devour those lines and verses and stanzas until one day I am sated. Sated with the beauty of words and rhythms and rhymes and thoughts and emotions and feelings. Usually, I am also at this point full and fed up with burning jealousy — at the creativity and gentleness, and language control of poets. And then I stop reading poetry, sometimes for years.
This time, my poetry binge started the same way. My reading was concentrated on poets and poems from the 1920s and 30s. It was limited only to the United States and Europe, but before I could expand it, I had to stop. Those 21 years — this time between the two world wars — were an unusual time. Those who were active and creatively conscious could still remember the horror of the First World War, the war that was supposed to end all wars… They experienced the pandemic of Spanish flu afterward, then the deep recession and rise of nationalistic sentiments and rituals around the world. Then they observed how the majority of people ignored the ominous signs and let themselves be swept by the bodily indulgences of the roaring 20s. Then came the economical crash, with the poverty and hopelessness that went with it. And then came the worldwide militarization and furtive attempts at appeasement. And then in September 1939, everything went to hell again.
And they wrote about it. Sometimes in simple and direct words. Sometimes in veiled metaphors. But the sentiment of despair and prediction of horrors and warnings not to repeat the same mistakes were there. No one listened because who listens to poets? What do they know?
They knew, and I don’t think I can even call it predictions. Is it really a prediction when you know what is coming and feel the terror of inability of doing anything about it? That is why I stopped reading poetry now. The parallels between that time and our current era are there. And again, no one — especially those in charge politically and economically — wants to see it or hear about it. I had to stop myself from reading words that were already describing the coming horror. They knew, but were powerless to do anything about it. And no one listened. I don’t claim any special powers of prescience for myself, but I know what is coming. And reading poetry from the inter-war era only exacerbated my pain and despair. I couldn't face the impotence of just the words of those who know but had no power to change it.
