There are two kinds of difficulty, as I see it. On the one hand, we have difficulty as a way of saying we require the reader to bring some effort or energy to the poem. Here, the payoff for such effort must be equal or greater to the effort expended. This is the healthy, respectful kind of disregard for one’s reader also known as artistic integrity.

But there is another, more detrimental mode of difficulty where the writer is building walls. Such poems can actually still matter, if the poetic compensation (as in sound, rhythm, and the shimmer of inferred meaning, independent of literal meaning) is enough to carry readers through a sufficiently complex and enjoyable experience independent of the author’s intent. But the practice of enigmatology for its own sake does more harm to the art, frankly, than the sing-song banal. Only good poets get alienated by bad poetry. Everyone gets alienated by insular arrogance. (Just not everyone is brave enough to admit it.)

Claudia Emerson does a bang-up job of putting all the “accessibility versus difficulty” squabbling to rest when she points out that it is really not so much difficulty as complexity that we should strive for in a poem. This is much more than just a semantic distinction. It is a guidepost away from the dark side of difficulty, toward the territory of the real (which we all know is stranger than fiction, especially the interior “real”).

I stumbled upon my senior thesis from my undergraduate days: “The Ineffable In The Sonnet Sequences Of Dante, Petrarch and Sidney.” It occurs to me that in contemporary poetry, we no longer take the liberty of the “audience aside” to bemoan the inadequacy of our words. In a sense, I suppose, the turn toward language poetry does this in its way–focusing so intently on language as to exacerbate its absurd inadequacy. But since the Romantic period, which was rife with anguished outburst (an entire dissertation could be written, if it hasn’t already, on the use of the exclamation “O!”)–we haven’t really held up non-speaking with such loud reverence.

Yet it seems to me that is precisely what we are trying to get at with purple prose. If there is not some fundamental, intangible, indeed ineffable thought, feeling or experience motivating the writing process, how can we claim our poetry to be anything more than a decorative art, a shuffling around of words?

In striving toward this necessarily impossible aim that we might rephrase a principle attributed to Einstein: make the poem as complex as necessary, and no more. Opposite our rendering of complexity, the poem must reach its reader. Yet in striving toward the ineffable, we must make our work both as simple as possible, and as complex as necessary. Opposite our striving for clarity, the poem must remain true to itself.

This push-pull relationship between the idea of the reader and the integrity of the intangible subject is what makes writing even a single poem that matters a remarkably profound pursuit. It is also what makes each attempt so immensely pleasurable, infinitely more so than simply living and thinking in ways unexamined and unexpressed. So let us praise not only difficult poetry, but the beautiful dance between what can not be said and how much we need to say it.

Sarah Kennedy: Two terms, “accessibility” and “difficulty,” crop up in discussions of current poetry so frequently that it sometimes seems that a poet can only attain one of these. What are your thoughts about the issue of accessibility and the potential readerships of contemporary poetry?

Claudia Emerson: One of my first loves in poetry was Robert Frost, and I was inspired early on by his deceptive simplicity. Instead of “accessibility,” we might also aspire for “clarity” and then strive for, instead of “difficulty,” “complexity.” If we care about readers and all (and not just those in the academy), we have to give them a way into the poem. And I think we need to remember that clarity does not preclude depth. If our language is precise, our imagery clear, our metaphors original and well crafted, then we can indeed create poems that will reward a listener on being heard for the first time and also replay the astute close reader. I am willing to work pretty hard at [here I assume she means reading, rather than writing] a poem–but only one that eventually repays my rigorous attention to it.

Poetry can be particularly vulnerable to the kind of experiment that deliberately sacrifices meaning, for one example, to explore language as unstable and untrustworthy; the poetry then proves that–but of course such poetry’s continued existence needs its accompanying criticism (or dissertation or panel presentation)–and I would suggest that the criticism (or the “explanation”) becomes too essential a part of the poetry since without it, certain kinds of poems are bells without tongues.

Thanks to the Poetry Daily newsletter for first pointing out a portion of this excerpt to me.

nce upon a time, there was a Young Intellectual Poet who lived with his friends in a beautiful tower. He loved poems, and read often. One day, he read a Great Poem that imparted to him a deep sense of mystery. Assuming the poem itself must actually be a mystery, he set out to solve the poem. He researched and read, and came up with many theories. His writings on the poem and its meaning were very poetic. People liked what he said, and decided that he understood the poem very well, because they were dazzled by his writing, thinking, and theories.

Heartened, the Young Intellectual Poet began to write poems of his own. Thinking that great poems must necessarily be mysteries to be solved, he began to omit certain parts of his writing and obfuscate others. His poems became cryptograms, rebuses, and riddles. Only he and his friends held the keys to unlock the poems. They also wrote many papers about his poems and other enigmatic poems (for now such was the fashion), again using poetic language and intricate theories.

The people in the village loved the Great Poem that originally inspired the Young Intellectual Poet, because it imparted a sense of mystery to them as well. The new poems coming out of the tower, by contrast, simply confused them. But because it was said that the Young Intellectual Poet was a great artist, they assumed the fault must be with themselves. Gradually, the villagers lost interest in poetry, deciding they were not smart enough for it–except for the few that enjoyed solving riddles. They went off to the tower to study.

Down in the village there also lived a Young Layman Poet. Being a layman, and far from the tower, he had no access to the Young Intellectual Poet’s papers. One day, the Young Layman Poet happened across the Great Poem. It imparted to him a deep sense of mystery. Realizing that he did not understand the poem, but unaware that someone else had already “explained” the poem, the Young Layman Poet set out to understand, “why he did not understand the poem.” He began to uncover many interesting devices, and to explain the effect they had upon him. He unveiled the mechanics of these devices and began to explain for himself the burning question: “Why is this poem so good?”

The Young Layman Poet decided that the many wonderful elements of the poem converged so beautifully and well that the author must not have been consciously employing all of these devices, but rather that the author was inspired. The Young Layman Poet set out to write poems that were equally inspired, focusing on strong imagery, interesting language, and a kind of poetic strangeness he learned from reading great poems. The people of the village enjoyed his poems, because they imparted the same unique and powerful sensibilities to each of them every time. Sometimes the sensibilities were much more complex, even indescribably so, than simply “mystery”–yet the effect of the poem was universal, and meaningful to the villagers.

Also in the village, there lived a Young Simplistic Poet. Seeing the success of the Young Layman Poet, Simplistic spotted his opportunity. He began writing very ordinary poems in prosaic language with obvious meanings. He resorted to overused sentimentality to make his work seem impactful or sincere. Some people in the village liked this, because they did not have to work very hard to understand his poems.

One day, hearing that the villagers had elected the Young Layman Poet to a position of great poetic esteem, the Young Intellectual Poet became angry. He and his friends in the tower (for now they were many) set out to discredit the Young Layman Poet. They compared the Young Layman Poet to the Young Simplistic Poet, arguing that any poetry that appeals to a broad audience can not be meaningful art. The people of the village became confused: should they trust their own sensibilities, that told them the Young Layman Poet’s poems were moving and meaningful to them, or should they trust the many friends of the Young Intellectual Poet, who gave many smart-sounding explanations for why their friend’s poems were superior?

The author of the Great Poem, known as Old Great Poet, happened to be passing through the village one day. He heard about the conflict between the young poets, and noticed the confusion of the villagers. The people of the village begged Old Great Poet to help them finally settle the dispute: which of these poets was the greatest? Great Poet assembled the three young poets, and read them his Great Poem. Then he asked each one of them if they understood the poem.

The Young Simplistic Poet said, “Yes, of course–it is all about feelings.”

The Young Intellectual Poet produced volumes of writing, wherein he explained the complete history of poetry, the place of this poem in history, and built elaborate theories around the symbolic, literal, and abstract meaning of the poem.

Finally, the Young Layman Poet simply turned to Old Great Poet and said, “I do not understand the poem.”

Old Great Poet nodded wisely, smiled, and said, “That is correct. A poem is not meant to be understood. It is meant to be experienced. He among you who knows this simple truth is the greatest poet.”

The villagers cheered, and paraded the Young Layman Poet through town on their shoulders. The Young Intellectual Poet returned, with his friends, to the beautiful tower, where they continued to write and decode cryptic poems. The Young Simplistic Poet went on to make his fortune writing greeting cards. And the villagers lived happily ever after, enjoying poetry for the rest of their days.

Bad is to Accessible as
Good is to ____________.

Thanks to one of my longtime favorite etymology resources (besides the expensive OED, which I still don’t own), here are the antonyms of synonyms and synonyms of antonyms for “accessible” and related words–i.e. some possible opposites of “accessible” to consider:

• incomprehensible
• inexplicable
• unclear
• unintelligible
• dark
• obscure
• enigmatic
• puzzling
• unfathomable
• lost
• missed

Sound like some of the stuff you’ve sat through at dive-y cafe open mics? Sound like some of the stuff you’ve sat through written by perpetual intellectuals with little life experience? Sound like some of the stuff you’ve sat through by the most defended, guarded, insecure members of your writing workshop?

Based on this little bit of research, I have a new theory about why people sometimes write this way. Think of the people that write these poems. What do they want you to think about them–not their work–but them? That they are, in fact, enigmatic, lost, dark. They wear poetry like clothing (a beret, say) and write to be considered a writer. That you don’t understand gives them a sense of power, and that you are afraid to admit it gives them more.

By making art about the artist, rather than the work itself, we can so quickly loose sight of the audience and the most powerful possibility of artistic expression: to communicate. Next time you are about to choose the word “accessible” to dismiss someone’s poetry as simplistic or trite (which are better words, if that’s really what’s going on)–I implore you to consider all the antonyms above. Is that what you want to be encouraging in poetry?

Writing poetry has likewise become evermore accessible. The abundance of open mic readings, the explosion of small presses, self-publication, chapbooks, online journals, and MFA programs tells it. People write poetry, perhaps now more than ever, and naturally want to share their work. I don’t claim to fully understand why, exactly. But I have some thoughts on how we got here and what this means.

Poets who complain they “can’t write prose” irk me no end. I’ll start by just getting this off my chest. Such statements immediately betray the misunderstanding that poetry is about expression rather than precision. Learning to compose words into grammatically correct sentences, sentences into cohesive paragraphs, paragraphs into coherent essays–should absolutely be a prerequisite to sitting down to write a poem. Why would anyone think otherwise?

The beats did for poetry what punk rock did for popular music. Armed with a few power chords, a fast if unoriginal drum beat, and some angst (as well as sometimes peanut butter), anyone with a garage and a few friends could start to play music. Likewise, the intense focus on sensation and alienation (the mind alienated from society, mostly) brought on a kind of poetry that, on the surface, looked easy to write.

So, now poetry is perceived as an accessible art form, for better or worse. Technically speaking, it is. Unlike classical music, by the time most people reach, say, twelve years of age in a developed country, they have been fully equipped with the requisite skill required to create poems: they can write. No need to specialize on an instrument, or build skills through scales for a decade or two before you can really start expressing yourself. Just about everyone has the option by the age of twelve to start writing and calling it poetry.

Furthermore, the de-formalization of poetry has made it ever more accessible. You don’t even have to know what an iamb is anymore. In fact, for the most part, meter and rhyme are passé. This might have a lot to do with the sense of legitimacy some poets must feel in reviving and tackling formal structures like the sestina and villanelle: not everyone can pull it off. Yet these days, just about everyone can pull of something that resembles poetry at least as much as strumming power chords emphatically resembles studied musicianship.

Collin Kelly has been arguing the notion that there is no such thing as bad poetry. Obviously, he’s never sat in on a creative writing course for non-majors, or spent too long in a Hallmark store. There are definitely those attempts at self-expression that fall short of art in our world. Sometimes, it doesn’t even take the passage of time or pronouncement of critics to recognize it. And when great art hits, likewise, it can be known.

All art must be considered in context with its time. Anyone since Jackson Pollock spattering paint on a canvas is just making a paint-spattered canvas; not art. So here we are in modern poetry–as far afield from sonneteers as it gets, with forms like the prose poem stripping away even techniques like the line break from the poet’s palette. In a sense, to some people, it must look like flinging paint.

A lot of what gets published these days, especially in respectable magazines whose main focus is not poetry, actually reminds me of modernist art–a square, say, blue, on a canvas. With a red triangle. That’s all. The kid in the museum looks up at his dad and says, “I could have done that.” And the father smiles down and says, “But you didn’t, son–that’s the point.”

Yet so much of what I see is the same blue square, the same red triangle, the same sense in which people seem to be saying with their work, “I could have done that.” And then, unfortunately, do. Ultimately, innovation only counts for so much. There are principles at the heart of poetry that make a work perennial. But the proliference of work that is churned out from the neck up, and by contrast the proliference, too, of work also slopped out from the heart to the sleeve to the pen–makes poetry seem accessible in the way that anyone can draw a square, or a triangle, or spatter paint.

The best art comes from heart and mind fully engaged. It strives to communicate (not spoon feed) an artistic experience to the reader. It is therefore accessible, yet hard to reproduce. In this way, it furthers the progression of art as a legitimate challenge to future artists, because we do not immediately shrug and say, “I could have done that.” Instead we are left asking, “Where did that come from? How did that work? Why does it affect me this way time and time again? How can I bring my own version forth of something so strong and lasting?”

The mark of great art is neither, “huh?” or “eh.” It is, “wow.” And the experience of “wow” is always accessible–always human.