I mentioned Keith Waterhouse's 1979 collection of newspaper columns Rhubarb Rhubarb in a previous post. It contains an article on the role of aunts at Christmas, in which he writes: "Some aunts sing. They sing: "Come Into the Garden, Maud". Some aunts recite. They recite "The Lady of Shalott" (by the author of "Come Ito The Garden Maud".)

Here's an excerpt from another book I'm reading, A Memoir by Terry De Valera: "It was while she was in Edenderry that mother took up serious reading. She read Dickens, Scott, George Eliot, and a great deal of poetry, particularly Byron, Keats, Shelley, and Longfellow. She had of course a great love for, and knowledge of, Shakespeare's works, and her love of poetry was apparent throughout her entire life. She said: "I have always had a delight in poetry. When I saw the rain drops on the leaves in the morning, Byron's lines came into my mind:

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves

Dewy with nature's tear-drops as they pass."

Many years later, I remember Father often asked her to find some apt quotation, and seldom, if ever, did she fail to find or provide one, often from memory alone."

How different, how very different, from the home life of our own dear twenty-first century!

Everybody has their hobby-horse, and this is mine. (Well, it's one of them, at least.) Perhaps a hobby-horse is not the best vantage-point from which to see clearly. But I'm convinced that the decline in poetry-reading has had profound effects on society. We hear constantly (and I mean constantly) about the addictive, "dopamine-seeking" behaviour which is inherent to social media and smartphones and all the rest, and the way it's reshaping our brains. It's such a cliché, in fact, I'm ashamed even to mention it, except...

Except that it seems to me that this is really just a continuation of something that was already happening even before computers or smartphones came along. Even before television came along! It seems to me that most fiction involves the constant arousal and satisfaction of curiosity. Who knocked on the door? Who is that mysterious figure in the mist? How did Sherlock Holmes know what Dr. Watson was thinking about at that precise moment?

You might say: that's not fair, not all fiction is like that. Literary fiction is not like that.

But all fiction and almost all prose is more like that than poetry. There is no suspense in a sonnet.

And even when there is a story, even when it's the most popular poetry imaginable-- a folk ballad about a murder, say-- the essence of the work is not suspense and gratifying curiosity. Because you could do that much better in prose.

I think the essential difference is that poetry is inherently contemplative and prose-- along with most other artforms and entertainments-- is inherently analytical. (I realize I have said this before.)

They don't have to be in competition. Of course you can enjoy both-- you should enjoy both. But the inescapable truth is that, although people used to read combine fiction reading with poetry reading, they no longer do so. People today seem more willing to read even the most difficult and longest fiction (or books, films, music) etc. than to read even the most accessible poetry.

And I'm aware of this reluctance myself. I never feel like reading poetry. The reward always comes later. Either during the reading itself-- like the glow that you get during exercise-- or much later, when the lines and rhythms and phrases have entered into your mind and become a part of you.

As media become more devoted to instant gratification, we're all going to have to make a more conscious effort not to enter a vegetative state. Maybe it's a good time to make that little bit of extra effort and read some poetry, especially some long poetry.

Irishpapist

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