First responders plunge into scenarios that need to be made sense of quickly. I call myself a first responder to poetry, and not a critic, but the poetry I read is published, so at least one other reader more qualified than I am has responded to it. I cling to the trope of first responder, nevertheless, because it excuses my ill-thought-out comments. A reader of novels can knock out 50 pages at a sitting, where a single poem can take all day if you let it. Treated as an emergency, perhaps an hour.

Is it fair to cite pieces of poems? Poetry magazine does so routinely on its back cover, so yes. Context aside, many poems have phrases or images which draw the reader to them. Why not notice those moving parts outright? Consider these excerpts from Poetry, January-February 2025.

I feared her blotchy wrath // that sometimes showed itself / and others / slept like something // without a hippocampus.
(“Mother’s Mother,” Khari Dawson)

They will never know / this zubaan of ours, / so let me put it this way: / in every version of this story, / I will wipe your spilt cereal milk / off the floor before any grown-up / can scream.
(“Appi’s Lullaby,” Sarah Aziz. Note: I think “zubaan” here is Urdu for “tongue,” meaning “language.”)

The first time / I tell someone I’ve thought about / ending it // is right after the first time / someone tells me they’ve thought about / ending it // and here we are suddenly feeling hopeful.
(“Dispatch from the Edge of the Universe,” Lesley Younge)

do // hold your untethered thoughts / unspoken and unheard.
(“boy laughs at my period-stained skirt,” Dianna Vega)

and the stars came out, and I watched, just beyond the path, / closing one eye and then the other, volleying that ancient light / between hemispheres.
(“Where the Sky Is,” Anya Johnson)

But later, alone in my room, / true love bloomed like Narcissus flowers once / on the pool of blue carpet, lips parting / in practiced prayer, petal soft and striving / stamen against the cool mirror
(“First,” Kate Hubbard)

After dinner, I wash the dishes, / look out the window. / I say / to the world: Captivate me.
(“Ennui When Watching the Ocean,” Yetta Rose Stein)

Somewhat related: I’ve heard that Emily Dickinson never used the word “lyric” in reference to the verses she wrote (some eighteen-hundred of them). She called them her “thoughts.” 

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