The reason to read a poem is to locate oneself.

                  By poem, I mean a lyric poem. We no longer use poetry mnemonically, didactically, or to wile the firelit hours. Nor does poetry make for persuasive theater in our prosaic age. Netflix and the printing press obviated various of poetry’s traditional uses. But for three or four centuries now, self-discovery has been all the rage. We’re enthralled by who we are and why, and why I’m I and you’re you. How else discover oneself except by utterance? And poetry is the supreme medium for self-expression. Its words and music both reveal and hide. Music and the visual arts convey moods but inarticulately, making discussion difficult. A lyric poem is diagnostic, a snapshot of the soul.

                  If our fascination with self is so keen, why aren’t poems better read? Poems these days are the least-read form of literature. Quick, name a widely known contemporary poet. See what I mean?

                  Several trends help explain poetry’s present obscurity:

·      The competition for attention is fierce and raucous. Half the world, it seems, is flagging us down, beseeching, enticing. My inbox makes an old-time souk feel quiet by comparison. Poetry whispers. In the din it’s hard to hear.

·      Poetry is arduous. A poem that’s more than a jingle requires concentration and thought. Much poetry in English from the late nineteenth century on was difficult to decode. Ours is an impatient age that opts for intellectual ease. “No pain, no gain” applies to mental as well as physical workouts.

·      Poetry is less discussable than other writing. Fiction, non-fiction, journalism, self-help, even cookbooks can gin up a chat, but with poems, as with the visual arts or music, discourse is limited to adjectives and exclamations. One reason we read is to gab about it. (I am gabbing here.) At the mention of poetry, eyes glaze.

·      Poetry is published in books, and who wants to read a book of poems? A story or account one can relax into, but poems are instantaneous, depictions of moments which consume a moment. I read poems a lot but not for long: more than six at a sitting make my brain ache. Partially read volumes of poems gaze reproachfully from my shelves. Poems, like cartoons, used to be sprinkled through literary magazines, to relieve their walls of type. But whither these days the literary magazine? Withered! Even The New Yorker, once proud and plump, feels a ghost of its former self.

·      The failure rate for poems disheartens. Other forms of literature can be OK and still please. A poem either hits or misses – and the vast majority miss. Even the greatest poets left plenty of duds. Even Shakespeare, on occasion, misses his mark. Prospecting for a memorable poem is like panning for gold: happening on a gleaming nugget is an exhausting thrill.

·      Poetry reeks of the schoolroom, which is where most folks last encountered it. The most adult form of literature, poetry’s the devil to teach, so few do it well. Many educated folks recoil from even the word “poem.” Not my cup of tea!

                 The Internet may prove poetry’s pal. The Internet favors quick takes over long reads. To my surprised delight, readers of these missives enjoy reading poems together – in and out – one poem – a few thoughts – ten minutes tops. A limitless archive of poems is available gratis online – a browser’s paradise. From its audience of billions, algorithms can recruit like-minded souls who relish reading together. The Internet’s flighty focus prods poets to compose more companionably. Our curiosity about human nature intensifies: the more we observe ourselves, the weirder we seem.