That Poem Is My Poem

When we read another’s words or look at another’s creative work we bring all our own feelings, thoughts and experiences into what we read or see.  This phenomena no doubt created the humorous quip:  “I know you think that you understand what you thought I said, but I am not all that sure that you understand that I seldom say what I think and even less often do I mean what I say.”  

G. K. Chesterton in his biography of Robert Browning tells of an admirer asking Browning for the meaning of one of his darker poems and receiving this reply, “When that poem was written, two people knew what it meant—God and Robert Browning.  And now God only knows what it means.”

Does writing, poetry, and other art forms communicate the “thought” of the writer, poet or artist?  When you read my written words do you really understand what I am trying to say or do you read into it what you think I am trying to say? Nowhere is this more evident than when someone tries to interpret poetry.  I just read Robert Frost’s poem, “Acquainted With the Night.” Did I understand what Frost was trying to say through it?  I doubt it.  It instead became not Frost’s poem but mine—it spoke to what I am feeling, thinking and experiencing today. If I should read the poem tomorrow it may not speak to me at all.  If it does speak, the message may be totally different from the one of today.

I have been one acquainted with the night.

I have walked out in rain - and back in rain.

I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.

I have passed by the watchman on his beat

And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet

When far away an interrupted cry

Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye; 

And further still at an unearthly height,

One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.

I have been one acquainted with the night.

A critic, reading this same poem wrote the following:  “The night is death.  Frost embraces death, coping with the truth of his mortality, instead of those in the city who rebel against night’s darkness by replicating the day with artificial city lights.  The luminary clock is the universe that enacts the progression of time and the changes it induces.  The watchman is the spirit watching over Frost’s soul as it passes down the saddest city lane.”  Wow! I wonder if we read the same poem. I’m sure Frost (wherever he may be) is wondering, too.  I don’t know about God.

Does the peony speak?  When we read it petals, can
we know its thoughts?  No, the peony becomes our
peony--our feelings, thoughts and experiences.