4.11.2016

why do your poems give me a headache when I try to understand them?

I read to the entire plebe class,
in two batches. Twice the hall filled
with bodies dressed alike, each toting
a copy of my book. What would my
shrink say, if I had one, about
such a dream, if it were a dream?

Question and answer time.
"Sir," a cadet yelled from the balcony,
and gave his name and rank, and then,
closing his parentheses, yelled
"Sir" again. "Why do your poems give
me a headache when I try

to understand them?" he asked. "Do
you want that?" I have a gift for
gentle jokes to defuse tension,
but this was not the time to use it.
"I try to write as well as I can
what it feels like to be human,"

I started, picking my way care-
fully, for he and I were, after
all, pained by the same dumb longings.
"I try to say what I don't know
how to say, but of course I can't
get much of it down at all."

By now I was sweating bullets.
"I don't want my poems to be hard,
unless the truth is, if there is
a truth." Silence hung in the hall
like a heavy fabric. My own
head ached. "Sir," he yelled. "Thank you. Sir."


[William Matthews {1942-1997}, 'A Poetry Reading at West Point', from Poems That Make Grown Men Cry: 100 Men on the Words that Move Them {Anthony Holden and Ben Holden, eds.}]

2 comments:

  1. Love, LOVE this, too. I belly-laughed at the awesome line you pulled out and wondered why it isn't the title?!... would be if it were mine. This poem makes me laugh, and cry, and laugh...

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    Replies
    1. I haven't read any more of William Matthews' stuff, so I'm not sure about his typical tone. I do love this one, which has such a visceral, lump-in-throat sweetness. I'm glad that it caught you, too!

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