Jumping In

Having spent the weekend listening to writers at the Calabash Festival, I’ve been thinking about the different ways I approach the reading of poetry and prose.

To me, there is nothing better than sitting down—even better lying down on my futon in my study--with a nice fat novel, confident that I have the time and the freedom to walk through the words at a leisurely pace, to swim my way backwards and forwards in the flow of the narrative until I reach the end. It’s an exercise, an experience that is relaxing and stimulating for me at the same time.

Not so with reading poetry. I always approach a poem with a certain degree of anxiety. Like diving into the deep end of the pool, or anticipating the shock of cold water when I jump into the lake in Maine. Stimulating yes, relaxing maybe not. I hold my breath, maybe even close my eyes and plunge right in. There’s the shock of entry and then the satisfaction of knowing I did it and, even better, that I like being here in the deep end, in the cold but refreshing water.