Coming into writing late in life with no background makes it difficult for me to appreciate different poetic expressions. Surrealistic poetry is especially daunting. Friends suggest visualizing the imagery, but my mind can’t react quickly enough and I sink under the deluge of words. Ask the surrealists and they’ll say their poems are whatever you want them to be. I walk away feeling a little silly. Questioning artists for meaning of their work is like asking about the ingredients and nutrition facts in a cookie. It doesn’t help me in appreciating the nuance of the product.
For one thing, the mind—that stubborn, controlling, egotistical blob—does not want to let go of preconditioned bias. But recently I found a way to trick it. Instead of listening to the words, I listen to the rhythm and sound of the poem. The music in these poetry is the catalyst that allows me to immerse in them with awe and wonder. I am held afloat by their juxtaposition. I ride their waves until they bring me ashore. It’s all in the performance, and they often leave me breathless.
