5 Reasons Poetry Matters, Now More Than Ever

5 Reasons Poetry Matters

“Poetry arrived
in search of me.”

This is how Pablo Neruda describes his intimate and mysterious relationship to the craft. His experience echoes many others—poets and writers who have difficulty explaining why exactly they write, only that they cannot not write. One day they went about their lives, when suddenly they were struck, compelled, or inspired to put pen to paper.

My experience was similar. As an assignment for my sophomore year, second period English class, we were asked to flip through the pages of a dusty copy of the Norton Anthology of Poetry and read the first poem our eyes landed on. That night, I went home and scrawled a poem into one of my notebooks. I didn’t know what it meant (and hardly had an inkling it would lead to a literary cookbook), and often wondered why writing, in particular, was the thing I had to do.

Poets are not strangers to doubt, fear, and the types of questions that link themselves and their work to a greater purpose. We struggle to find our place, see our inherent value, and embrace our unique set of experiences and stories that need to find a home on the page.

To this end, here are a few reminders of why poetry is useful, meaningful, and necessary to the world, now more than ever.

5 Reasons Poetry Matters via Eat This Poem

1. Poetry sparks meaningful conversations

When given a national platform—like the occasions when Robert Frost, Maya Angelou, and Elizabeth Alexander read poems at presidential inaugurations—poetry becomes an accessible medium conveying universal ideas and sentiments. It gives us something to talk about and a path to guide our conversations, particularly during a historic transition of power. But poetry doesn’t just make a statement in politics. You can find verse lining buses in Seattle, in Michigan’s national parks, and it’s even been used as a tool to help empower prison inmates.


2. Poetry makes us feel something

When I set out to choose poems to include in the Eat This Poem cookbook, I was looking for one thing: an emotional current. I wanted to feel something when I read the poem. I wanted to be moved, inspired, and connect to the story on the page. Like all art, poetry is subjective, and what might resonate emotionally with me may not resonate emotionally with you. But the point is, the best poems make our hearts beat a bit faster, or make our hearts swell just a bit when we arrive at the last line. Poetry has the power to do that—ignite our emotional lives and stir our souls, even if just for a moment.


3. Poetry gives us words when there are no words

Wherever there is chaos—internal chaos in our minds our bodies, or an occasion bigger than any one person can bear—poets become translators of emotion. The aftermath of 9/11 produced poetic responses now collected in anthologies. Poems also circulated during the 2016 presidential election, like “18 Compassionate Poems to Help You Weather Uncertain Times” from Huffington Post or Vox’s “Feeling terrible right now? Maybe some poetry will help.”

Poems tend to surface during life’s most important milestones and transitions, too, like weddings, births, and funerals. When we’re overcome with emotion, poems provide a sturdy foundation from which to express what’s swirling in our heart.

Don Share explains is beautifully: “You get this feeling that people can call on the poets when they need to, and that’s a great moment for poets—when they have an audience because we need to know how to go about reaching the next day of our lives.”


4. Poetry makes the mundane meaningful

“Someone who pays attention to the world” is how Susan Sontag once described writers, and it’s truly one of the most important aspects of the craft. Poets, in particular, tend to have a knack for this, identifying the fleeting flickers of our inner life we often brush past or ignore, delicately rendering the natural world, and putting words to emotions we have difficulty expressing.

"A lot of people might think that poetry is very abstract, or that it has to do with having your head in the clouds, but poets, actually, walk on the earth. They’re grounded, feet-first, pointing forward. They’re moving around and paying attention at every moment." This is Don Share again, explaining a common misunderstanding that poets might not be relatable, or that their minds flutter off to other, interior worlds. But poets and writers are here, today, experiencing life in all its richness and heartbreak. Then they tell about it.


5. Poetry satisfies our hungers

There’s a poem by Kathleen Lynch called “Appetite,” where she explains how we come into the world “hungry for milk and flesh,” how we are always looking for satisfaction, even when we are full. It’s a poem I eagerly included in the Eat This Poem cookbook because it speaks to a universal, somewhat mysterious and illusive need inside each of us—that is, having our hungers satisfied, both physically and emotionally.

Do we ask for the food lineage we inherit? No, I don’t believe we do. We are born into families who teach us to love the food in our blood from past generations. And yet, when we grow up and leave home, those cravings remain.

While we wait for meals to cook, poetry can help fill the gap with nourishing words, coating our hearts like soup on a spoon, or our grandmother’s tomato sauce. Whatever it is you need, there is always a poem to carry you.

What are some of reasons you love poetry? Let me know in the comments!

*Some of these links are affiliate links, which means I receive a very small payment at no extra cost to you.

A Big Writing Mistake—Or, the Most Overused Word in My Manuscript

A few days after Thanksgiving, I received a note from my editor that the book was going to print very soon. Next week! That meant in early December, Eat This Poem was off to the press. I wrote back, exactly: “Eeek! (And also, pretty exciting!)”

Getting to this point was roughly a seven month process that included several rounds of revisions—from my editor, me, and a team of copyeditors trained to find inconsistencies like “Can we say yellow onion instead of brown onion?” or “Pepper is listed in the ingredients, but not in the directions.” There was also a line that said “bring out the earthy beer flavor,” which should have read “earthy beet flavor.” Thank heavens for them.

Way before this happened, though, I noticed a big writing mistake.

As I sipped my tea and read each chapter, words began rising up from the page. Familiar words. I decided to run a search in my Word doc, and discovered one particular word was used throughout the manuscript exactly 20 times!

Nudge

Once I realized the oversight, I went back and found a new way to say whatever it was I was trying to say. I left a few nudges, of course. I do love the word, after all, but decided three or four mentions was far better than several dozen.

That’s what happens when you read and re-read—you notice things you never noticed before.

Thanks to the wonders of technology, this kind of writing mistake is a relatively easy one to fix. A quick use of the search feature let me know exactly how many times the word appeared, and from there, it was just a matter of working through all the mentions and deciding which to keep and which to change.

Want more lessons from my book-writing journey? Catch up on past posts!

"Immigrant Picnic" by Gregory Djanikian + Warm Potato Salad With Yogurt Vinaigrette

Potato Salad with Yogurt Vinaigrette and Lots of Herbs (via Eat This Poem) #ImmigrantFoodStories

For the past several months, I've had a ritual at work. After arriving to my desk and pulling my computer from its sleeve, I snatch a tin of tea from my drawer. Lately it's been a robust black tea, but since I've recently finished every last drop, I've brought a green tea called Ventura Highway, with notes of meyer lemon and fresh grass. I walk the 50 steps or so to the kitchen and pour hot water into my pot, and while the tea steeps, I read the New York Times.

I scan the morning headlines, then make my way to the food section (naturally) and the style section, and sometimes I switch to the global edition to see what's happening in far away places. It's a nice way to begin the day. But these past couple of weeks—well, ever since January—the moment before hitting return after typing in nytimes.com into my browser makes me feel a bit anxious. What happened while I was sleeping, I wonder? What today, will shake me to my core? 

If you know me, you might know I'm a fairly non-confrontational person. I don't like shouting matches, and I try to listen before I speak. I know there's always more to a story. And since that day in January, I've watched friends and strangers grapple with the news. How to cope. How to move forward and do all those normal things in life we need to do when chaos feels palpable. 

For doers and givers, it can be hard to know what to do. Our voices are a drop in the bucket. Our actions might be small. We might still not know what, exactly, is the best course of action, or how we even feel about everything. We might have family members who share different beliefs and political leanings. 

On Inauguration Day, we drove up the coast to Santa Barbara. The trip had been planned for months, long before the election, but as we passed cars on the highway, I looked into the faces of everyone, wondering whose side they were on. Were they horrified, relieved, content, apathetic? Did they vote? Are they hurting? Are they scared? Are they wondering what everyone is so upset about? I couldn't tell, only guess, and assume I might not be the only one coming to terms with the events that morning.

While we were up in wine country the next day, racing our toddler around the vineyards and sneaking in a few bites of cheese, I watched on social media as my fellow Americans marched in cities across the country. Andrew and I caught a bit of the news that night in the cozy living room of our rented cottage, eating leftover Italian food from the night before, stunned, really. It just didn't seem real yet. It still doesn't. 

Potato Salad with Yogurt Vinaigrette and Lots of Herbs (via Eat This Poem) #ImmigrantFoodStories

So, in an effort to come together around something we can all agree on (like our basic need to eat), and share stories of immigrants and those who have come before us, we food bloggers had an idea. It started with my friend Kimberley of The Year in Food, who launched an initiative called #ImmigrantFoodStories. Food bloggers around the country are using this hashtag to tell stories on their blogs and in their social media feeds, and we hope it fills you up this week (both literally and figuratively). 

In Eat This Poem fashion, I offer a poem. I ran across it years ago, actually, and sort of stored it away in the back of my mind. I guess now is the right time to share it.


Immigrant Picnic

by Gregory Djanikian

It's the Fourth of July, the flags
are painting the town,
the plastic forks and knives
are laid out like a parade.

And I'm grilling, I've got my apron,
I've got potato salad, macaroni, relish,
I've got a hat shaped   
like the state of Pennsylvania.

I ask my father what's his pleasure
and he says, "Hot dog, medium rare,"
and then, "Hamburger, sure,   
what's the big difference,"   
as if he's really asking.

I put on hamburgers and hot dogs,   
slice up the sour pickles and Bermudas,
uncap the condiments. The paper napkins   
are fluttering away like lost messages.

"You're running around," my mother says,   
"like a chicken with its head loose."

"Ma," I say, "you mean cut off,
loose and cut off   being as far apart   
as, say, son and daughter."

She gives me a quizzical look as though   
I've been caught in some impropriety.
"I love you and your sister just the same," she says,
"Sure," my grandmother pipes in,
"you're both our children, so why worry?"

That's not the point I begin telling them,
and I'm comparing words to fish now,   
like the ones in the sea at Port Said,   
or like birds among the date palms by the Nile,
unrepentantly elusive, wild.   

"Sonia," my father says to my mother,
"what the hell is he talking about?"
"He's on a ball," my mother says.                                               

"That's roll!" I say, throwing up my hands,
"as in hot dog, hamburger, dinner roll...."

"And what about roll out the barrels?" my mother asks,
and my father claps his hands, "Why sure," he says,
"let's have some fun," and launches   
into a polka, twirling my mother   
around and around like the happiest top,   

and my uncle is shaking his head, saying
"You could grow nuts listening to us,"   

and I'm thinking of pistachios in the Sinai
burgeoning without end,   
pecans in the South, the jumbled
flavor of them suddenly in my mouth,
wordless, confusing,
crowding out everything else.

Source: Poetry (Poetry Foundation, 1999)

Potato Salad with Yogurt Vinaigrette and Lots of Herbs (via Eat This Poem) #ImmigrantFoodStories

In the early 20th century (quite early, in fact), my great-great grandfather sailed on a ship from Sicily and settled in upstate New York. Even though by the time my generation came along my family was fully assimilated and settled in California, my grandfather still spoke in Italian and we ate meatballs at every family gathering, and he told stories about the time he went to Sicily and met with family who still lived there (who, he said, caught fish and grew grapes), and they treated him like a king. 

I don't know if the vineyards are still there, but I like to think so. I went to Italy the year I graduated from college, and it felt like a homecoming of sorts. I didn't speak the language or know how to navigate the streets (we once got lost in Florence), but I just had a sense I belonged there. Part of me, anyway. 

So many Americans are from somewhere else. A member of our family, likely at great personal risk but also holding onto the promise of a better life, made the life-changing decision to board a ship and make a great journey. 

There is conflict in this poem. The speaker embraces his new home, corrects his family members when they misuse American phrases. It's comical and sweet, but then there is the last stanza. Perhaps a gust of wind blew by and had the slightest scent of pistachio. A memory this strong usually doesn't take much to shake us, and suddenly, through food, a small green nut "burgeoning without end" we are transported to another place that is also called home.

Potato Salad with Yogurt Vinaigrette and Lots of Herbs (via Eat This Poem) #ImmigrantFoodStories

Warm Potato Salad with Yogurt Vinaigrette and Lots of Herbs

American potato salads have a long history of being laden with mayonnaise-based dressings, so heavy you have to pick through the bowl to find bits of potato hiding underneath. I've lightened things up with a creamy yogurt vinaigrette whose tartness comes from apple cider vinegar and mustard (softened with just a touch of honey), and a trio of herbs.

2 pounds red potatoes, scrubbed and halved or quartered, depending on size
1 tablespoon salt

1 shallot, minced
1 garlic clove, grated
2 teaspoons grainy Dijon mustard
1/4 cup apple cider vinegar
1/4 cup plain yogurt (not Greek)
1/4 cup olive oil
1/4 teaspoon salt, plus more to taste
Freshly cracked pepper
Squirt of honey (optional)

1 cup chopped mixed herbs (parsley, dill, and chives)

Place potatoes in a large stock pot and cover by at least 2 inches of water. Bring to a boil and add the salt. Cook for 12 to 15 minutes, or until potatoes are tender when pierced with a fork; drain, then pour back into the pot. 

While the potatoes cook, make the vinaigrette. Add shallot and garlic to a bowl, along with mustard, apple cider vinegar, yogurt, olive oil, salt, and a few grinds of freshly cracked pepper. Whisk to combine, then taste it. If you prefer a tart dressing, it might be perfect for you. To mellow the flavor a bit, add a squirt of honey and whisk again, until it tastes just right.

Pour the vinaigrette over the potatoes and gently toss to combine. Finally, add the herbs and another pinch of salt and toss before serving.

NOTE: If you'd prefer to serve this cold, here's what I'd suggest. Add half of the dressing immediately so the potatoes soak it up, then chill. Just before serving, add the remaining half of the dressing, plus all the herbs. This will keep the herbs a vibrant green (otherwise, they'll darken a bit in the fridge.)


More Immigrant Food Stories