A Poet's Dilemma: One Person's Search for Insight into a Poem's Success

Over the last couple years, I've been dipping into prose poetry and simpler forms of poetry, poetry far from those that are taught in the "standard canon" collection. On multiple occasions, I've read poems and thought, "Well, I've read (or, in some unlikely cases even written) something far greater than that." Contrary to common sense, I appreciate these instances because they allow me to return to the poem in order to explore why that particular poem has been published or even reached exceptional acclaim.

Now, there's no doubt in my mind that poetry has a certain knack for grandfathering in poets who have reached a certain level of acceptance by peers, but there are many times when the poem in question, upon return, reveals some layers that were unexpected. One particular poem, "Nothing in That Drawer" by Ron Padgett, has had me pondering the nature of poetic genius for a long time. 

You can view the poem below:

http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20967

I had a love/hate relationship with this poem. It's easy to see why upon first read. The poem is published in a collection of Padgett's poems, and it's also been anthologized in 180 more Extraordinary Poems for Everyday, a book of poems selected by noted plain-prose poet Billy Collins. Don't get me wrong, I absolutely love the "180" anthologies, but I struggled for a long time with how this poem could possibly be so successful. 

My thought process, then, went from extreme dislike to trying to find a way to rationalize the quality of the poem. I'm a deep thinker, I'll admit, but I just couldn't accept that this poets' circle would just include this poem as a joke or, worse, a crass chuckle in the face of the general public. I trust Mr. Collins with my poetic taste far too much to believe this was the case.

My first thought was to go to the line count: 14. After running this through my head, I thought that the poem gives more space for the reader to change intonation from line to line. This also allows the reader to create an individual storyline for the speaker. There are many avenues to take this into one's imagination. Perhaps the speaker is looking for something lost, hoping that something doesn't get found by someone else, or perhaps the speaker is an invader shocked by the bareness of each drawer. In any case, the point is that this poem allows space for the reader to construct their own storyline. This is an achievement for any poet.

Second, this poem holds a universal experience in its lines. The reader senses the frustration of the speaker through repetition and anticipated outcome. There is something to be said for the tone of the poem upon repetition of the same line. The reader is forced to change intonation from line to line in anticipation of getting somewhere. By the end of the poem, however, we are left with coming to our own conclusions. Does the speaker ever find what they were looking for? Were they even looking for something? How important is it, really, that the drawers are empty? These are all questions that came to my mind.

Finally, this poem is simple. It has a narrative, a flow, and a tone all created by piling one line on top of itself multiple times. Had I published this poem, would it have gone anywhere? Probably not, but I guess there's just something a little magical about that as well. 

War |pronounced: ləv| According to Bukowski

A drunk, a compulsive gambler, and a lecher. A prophet, a poet, and a wordsmith. The former sounds like the beginning of a "walk into a bar" joke, while the latter resembles some kind of a cultured saint. Heralded as one of the great poets around the bend of the twentieth century, Charles Bukowski was deemed both of these men. Somewhere in his middle-aged life (though there is solid evidence it wasn't any sort of sudden epiphany), Bukowski decided he was done with the workingman's life and turned to writing. That's not exactly how it happened, but, for all practical purposes, it was.

In the true spirit of Bukowski, he wouldn't want me analyzing his life anyhow. I won't pretend to know him from reading his books, but there are a few things I can tell you about him. Most certainly, his writing can tell you about him. In fact, I'd say that Love is a Dog from Hell is a pretty good starting point as to what Charles Bukowski is all about. Cut out the B.S. and let Bukowski bring you down or up to his level of existence. I guess, like the eternal struggle between good and evil, Heaven and Hell, it's up to you to decide which direction you're headed with this read. Is there, contained within these pages, a good answer to the question "Is love really a dog from Hell?" I guess it depends on where you stand yourself. Bukowski isn't really going to tell you one way or the other in any of the poems contained in this book.

Bukowski liked to imagine himself a fighter, going into the ring with his audience, and that's often how he approached his own relationships, it seems. I fear, at this point, Bukowski might be rolling in his grave based on my crossing the line. The truth is, I really don't know him at all. I can, however, tell you what I get from his poetry and novels.

The subject matter ranges anywhere from the pitfalls of women to classical music, from horse tracks to booze fests, from utter contempt to pure love... sometimes all in a single line. He's certainly not for everybody, but there's a reason he is one of the most imitated poets of the modern era. He'll take you from the toilet seat to the proverbial mountaintop. It's like digging for buried treasure in a peat bog or musty swamp: sometimes you just want to quit, go home, and take a shower, but you know, if you just stick it out through all the dirt and grime, something really good'll come of it.

I don't know that there's too much waiting around for the buried treasure in the case of Bukowski, but if you look between the coarse language, the lover's quarrels, the binge drinking, the objectification of women, and all the other crap that somehow makes Bukowski who he is as a dislikable reject of a human being, you begin to realize that those are also the things that make him one of the most irresistible and inspirational as a person and writer. Sometimes diving down into the muck is where you get the greatest clarity, and Bukowski's muse seems to have been one dirty needle shy of a dying junky, one last trifecta bet away from a flat broke gambler, and one messed up relationship away from suicide. The awe-inspiring part is this: if I were a betting man, I'd say that's the way he liked it. I think he also preferred cats.