If you are like me, you’ve learned a thing or two in life. And if you’re like me, not a whole lot more.
The thing I know is poetry. I believe I have arrived at this knowledge honestly. I consume poetry books, and books about poetry books, like my wife consumes Russell Stover chocolates while watching Jeopardy. She doesn’t consume Russell Stover chocolates. She is very health-conscious. Furthermore, the image is sexist. But remember, a good metaphor should never rely on the truth.
Don’t quote me.
My wife does, however, watch Jeopardy. She bonds with certain contestants. Usually the underdog. And she’s good at the game in her own right.
But no one’s better than me. At least on the topic of books. “Get in here!” she cries. “It’s your category!”
I wander in. The great never hurry. And sure enough, one of the categories is Poets They Said. Or Poets and Places. Or some such thing. In no time I have my first question. Or answer, Jeopardy being backward, for reasons neither stated nor understood.
“And the answer is: The dead speak in this anthology by Edgar Lee Masters.”
I know this one. I’m more than a poetry expert. I wrote the book. Or a book. A book of poems to be precise, and found a publisher, which defies all odds, if you know anything about such things.
I open my mouth. The seconds tick by. Right before the ‘beep-beep!’ a contestant hits his clicker. He is an engineer with a public works department. “Spoon River Anthology”.
Correct!
I feel my wife’s eyes on me. “I knew that one,” I tell her.
“Of course you did, honey.”
And I really did. Everyone does. High school students know. Or used to, since Spoon River Anthology was, at least in my day, a classroom staple. Easy to read, modest and compelling, it remains a classic. Of course I know this title.
But I simply couldn’t come up with it.
I’m telling you, I’m not dumb. If given the chance, I can tell you why Robert Lowell’s Life Studies is not as radical a departure from his oeuvre as commonly assumed. And cite the critics, by memory. I just can’t do it spontaneously. I gotta think first.
The rest of the category played out, and I knew them all. And missed them all. There simply wasn’t enough time.
I’m not playing Jeopardy anymore. And I’m not answering anyone’s literary questions, if you have any. Yes I am. Just give me some time.
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com