The basic principle, I think, is that a poem is about what its reader
can tell it's about. (The corollary, which would come as a surprise
to some amateurish poets with whom I've been acquainted, is that a
poem isn't about what the person who wrote it thinks it's about, but
that's another diatribe.)
The complication comes in with the "can." If a reader can't tell
what's it's about on the first reading but can on the third, is the
poem accessible? What if it takes until the eighteenth reading? How
are you going to know it's worth it?
I myself find the answer to the last question in a sort of instinct.
I've always felt that I could tell after the first line and a half of
a poem whether it's going to be worth reading and rereading. This has
nothing to do with whether the first line and a half, or the poem as a
whole, is immediately comprehensible. If that first line and a half
rings the gong, then eventually the poem will turn out to be worth
studying. My evidence for the validity of this approach is subjective
but good enough for me: it's never been wrong. That is, the
line-and-a-half test has never led me to keep reading a poem which I
didn't eventually decide as worth while. Whether there have been
poems that failed the test which I might eventually have found worth
reading anyway, is something I have no way of knowing.
> The most valuable poems have many levels of meaning and give you
> more (more "access") every time you read them. (As with other
> art forms; I think this is especially the case with music and film)
>
Yes, that's a good conception of access. The greatest poems seem to
have inexhaustible access. At least, I haven't worn them out yet.
|