I am a casual reader of poetry. I read the poems I want to read, and take from them what I can. The poems I love have a precision and clarity that I can find in no other art form. I don't know many casual readers of poetry. I have several friends and colleagues who are dedicated readers of poetry; friends who are poets; friends who are poets and dedicated readers of poetry. While I may examine the cracks and seams of a well-crafted poem, as I might look at the brush strokes of a painting up close, they can see through those cracks and seams and tell me how the poem was made. I admire their knowledge and focus and insight, but do not envy them.
The sports world is always chasing after the "casual fan," that fickle person who has little interest in a particular sport or team until something magic--Tiger Woods in his prime, for example--happens and even non-fans become obsessed. Poetry has a hard time attracting casual fans, though I don't think that's because poetry hasn't found its Tiger Woods yet. Sometimes I wonder if poetry even wants casual fans. You'd have to ask poetry that question. 
Every April, National Poetry Month appears to have modest success with casual readers of poems, though cynics inevitably ask whether the poetic attention span of the reading public is longer than 30 days. But I'd like to think there is considerable potential for attracting more casual poetry readers, people who might not be in shape to hike poetry's sometimes forbidding summits, but would find pleasure strolling through a collection now and then.
In thinking this week about my life as a casual poetry reader, I suddenly wondered how the last few books of poetry had managed to enter my house. I don't buy poetry to make some kind of statement, and I don't buy poetry in April only, so this seems like an appropriate question to ask:
Where do my poetry books come from?
I think it must
Stay open all night
In beautiful cellars
The Collected Poems of Thomas Merton (New Directions) is a book I coveted for a long time, but resisted buying for myself. Late last year, my wife bought it for me as a gift and ever since I've been opening the 1,000-page book at random and reading whatever I find there. Like this:Currently I'm reading Seamus Heaney's Human Chain (FSG), which I purchased for my wife last month. Wandering around a bookstore, I saw it on display and recalled her saying that she'd like to read it. The book just followed me home. Now she's read Human Chain and it's my turn, part of a ceremony that is, as you know so well, one of the many wonders of having a good book in your house--the gift for someone else becomes a gift to you as well. A sampling of Heaney:
A great one has put faith in "meaning"
That runs through space like a word
Screaming and protesting, another in
"Poet's imaginings
And memories of love":
Mine for now I put
In steady-handedness maintained
In books against its vanishing.
The most recent collection to enter this house is a copy of Wendell Berry's Leavings (Counterpoint) that was sent to me. I've thumbed through it, and will read more closely soon. Even during that initial peek, however, I found treasure. This often happens. Thumbing through a poetry collection is like strolling through a museum, knowing there will be a work of art that compels you to pay attention. Berry stopped me here:
Be a whisper that says "There!"
where the stream speaks to itself
of the deep rock of the hill
it has carved its way down to
in flowing over them, "There!"
What I don't know about poetry could fill a book, a library. What I do know, however, is that there is a place for the casual reader of poetry in this world. There!--Robert Gray (column archives available at Fresh Eyes Now)