Poetry as it is, as I love it
By Elizabeth Ottenritter, written November 2024
“If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me,
I know that is poetry.”
– Emily Dickinson
They say poetry is the only form of literary art that is for no one but the poet themself. This undeniable notion is what had drawn me to poetry in late high school. At first, I thought that poetry always had to rhyme, skipping stanzas to accomplish a consistent sound above all else. I would open my notes app and type something candid, and vaguely lyrical. My first poem was written on March 8, 2020, ironically titled “Thanksgiving.” I won’t expose my young self just yet, but the content was centered around my first love, who I never dated. The repetitiveness of this in my mind was surprisingly easy to put into words. Then, I was slowly able to move into free-verse after discovering poetry doesn’t owe a rhyme—it doesn’t owe anything at all.
I didn’t tell anyone about my sudden interest in the genre nor did I show anyone what I had been writing in fear it would go misunderstood. At the time, I had been trudging through a brutal senior year of high school that had been entirely online due to COVID. I often felt lonely, confused, and undeserving, which reflected in the subjects I’d write about as a subconscious form of consolation. In no way does poetry always come from such circumstances. Some of my favorite poems are about very pleasant things. I found comfort in writing my feelings, which allowed me to better understand myself in return.
I was admitted to Loyola University Maryland that spring and chose to major in writing. While the writing major is an uncommon track at most universities, I felt a sudden surge of confidence during my first semester of college. Writing had been the only thing I never minded looking at or putting time into. In December of that year, I saw that our literary art magazine at Loyola, Corridors, was accepting submissions for their spring issue. I nervously submitted two poems, thinking neither would be taken to publication, but I had nothing to lose anyway. That March, I received an email that changed my life, reading Congratulations! and We would like to accept “Dear Sun” and “No Nutrition.” I waited until I got to hold the publication in my hands and saw my printed work. I even read my poem “Dear Sun” at the release party, my shyness slowly dissipating for good. I was finally in the right place.
Three years later, I am still in love with poetry and language. I am enamored with those who have the talent to create, what I like to call “portrait poems” with words that depict how something appears visually. A good example of this would come from poet Jane Hirschfield and her book The October Palace. Hirschfield’s language is transparent as though you were looking at the hidden wonders of the world through clear glass. Her poetry is a homage to what is around her; there is a physicality to everything she writes. I enjoy Hirschfield’s poem “Page” for how particular and hard-hitting the lines are:
It waits for the old
to grow young, fed and unfearful,
for freighters to carry their hold-held oil
back into unfractured ground,
for fires to return
their shoeboxes of photos and risen homes
Poems such as these are easy to be inspired by and difficult to write. I admire U.S. poet laureate Ada Limón for this reason. Her ability to bend structure to her will is compelling, as is her way of redefining what poetry may look like within her forms. Limón’s poems “Calling Things What They Are” and “The Hurting Kind” are especially reflective of this.
Often, the poetry and art that I respond to is more self-centered. I am drawn to confessional, personal anecdotes that aim to say something larger than the work itself. I like poems about specific experiences—but ones that speak to universal experiences simultaneously.
The first poem I ever loved was “Annabel Lee” by Edgar Allan Poe. I remember sitting in my middle school English class, holding back tears over the final line: “In her tomb by the sounding sea.” I didn’t understand why the words had upset me so viscerally. It might have been the building repetition of “Annabel Lee,” the closeness you feel to her through the eyes of Poe, how you never get to know her outside of him, her sudden untimely death and the terrifying notion that love lasts forever. All these concepts, new to me at the time, were the foundation for my interest in writing the human experience. While not everyone has buried a lover in a sepulchre by the sea, most can relate to losing someone they love. A poem has this remarkable ability, one that allows you to see what is already there, as well as the invisible strings that bind us together.
A song has a similar effect. Poetry and music are intertwined for me—much of my poetry has been inspired by music. I am not musically inclined, and I am aware that songwriting has a different intention than poetry, as it is written to accompany music for wide audiences. Even still, many of my favorite recording artists are beautiful writers who are also gifted with the talent for music. For some of my most listened-to songs, I could read the lyrics as a poem itself. Take, for instance, the song “Chelsea” by Phoebe Bridgers.
You are somebody’s baby
Some mother held you near
No, it’s not important
They’re just pretty words, my dear
There is no distraction
That can make me disappear
No, there’s nothin’ that won’t remind you
I will always be right here
When it comes to discovering new and old poetry, I am a big fan of the classic Poetry Foundation website. They post a poem of the day, often coinciding with holidays, historical events, and poets’ anniversaries. Often, I will get distracted on my laptop and find myself lost in a collection of poems on various subjects, like autumn or love. The New Yorker has an excellent fiction and poetry collection as well, which is always changing to highlight a wide range of voices.
As much as poetry is for the writer, it is meant to be shared. I have found both clarity and inspiration while workshopping my own poetry, as well as the poems of others. Art has always been a source of bonding. When something is close to your heart, there is a tendency to hide it within yourself. A poem, piece of prose, or even a song can challenge this notion, as our words live well beyond us. My grandmother passed away this summer, and while we remember her for so many things, she had signs hanging in her house that were so her. One read, “I was so far behind I thought I was first.” We smile when we remember those words and how they have touched us, and that is poetry to me.
Elizabeth Ottenritter (she/her) is a senior at Loyola University Maryland, where she studies writing. She is passionate about reading, crafting poetry, contributing to Loyola’s literary art magazine, Corridors, and traveling worldwide. Upon graduation, Elizabeth hopes to continue her love of learning and language in a graduate program.
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