A teacher of mine in grad school asked us once to read Gertrude Stein, and I didn't. It's poetry at its most dense and incoherent and obscure and obtuse, and poetry, specifically mine, already has a problem sometimes with that so it might as well be avoided.
When my teacher, whom already I suspected of not liking me, went around the room asking if we'd read it, I had no choice but to tell her honestly that I hadn't, just skimmed. She picked on me about it a bit, but said if I really wanted to understand some certain aspect of poetry that I no longer remember, I should sometime. She said it was super hard--like learning another language--but worth it. And so, dutifully, I saved the handout and so, tonight I read--actually read--Gertrude Stein.
I still don't really like Gertrude Stein, and I still don't get it, but there's this bit:
Will you be pleased to have more
Which in a way is not even a question
Because after all they like it very much.
It is very often very strange
How hands smell of woods
And hair smells of tobacco
And leaves smell of tea and flowers
Also very strange that we are satisfied
Which may not be really more than generous
Or more than careful or more than most.
This always reminds me of will they win
And so it's raining and a November night with everything under Scorpio and I'm sitting here reading those obtuse, obscure lines and my head is full of hate and ice and nonsense.
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