Some Sense of Wonder

I have always instinctively believed that poetry is the “highest” genre of literature, though I would hesitate to explain why. Giving an explanation feels akin to elaborating how the natural beauty of a mountain is often far more awe-inspiring than the finest, most efficiently urban-planned settlement.

When I read Marjorie Evasco’s It’s Time to Come Home: New & Collected Poems, I felt that I had advanced somewhat in grappling with what it means for poetry to hold such a lofty status in the world of literature. 

The poems in the collection made me think of this. That poetry—if it is good—can bring us to see the inner beauty of things. I emphasize inner as opposed to outer, because while the external world is beautiful (poetic) enough, poetry allows us to hear more about the earth’s beauty by showing us its soul. Notice that I used the word hear, as in listen, because great poems sing, and they do so through sounds and silences. 

The best of Evasco’s poems place readers in a state of happy reception, a peaceful and elevated passivity. Based on my current experiences of the world, a person’s typical mode today is to constantly chase something—an endless charge toward a goal, laboring for it with exhaustion, trying to make sense of this or that word or action, eventually succumbing to headaches. Yet Evasco’s poetry gave me a sense that I could be at rest. (And I hope this isn’t merely because I have no deadlines for it!) Her poems entertain, and I mean the kind of entertainment when your host welcomes you to her house, and you do not have to do anything but receive in the spirit of gratefulness.

When you read her poems, you are invited to be at ease, even when the verse carries shades of anger or sorrow. Poems like “How a Governor Imagines Boholanos as Looters, and How to #Punchthelies” and “Ritual for Leaving” illustrate this perfectly. In the former, you can sense anger (as inferred from the title), yet it never feels excessive. The persona is indignant but not raging blindly--and you get the sense that she has better things to do and think of. In the latter, there is sadness, but it is managed with elegance and grace.

But what I admire most about Evasco’s poetry is her ability to cast wonder upon even the most obscure beings. Take, for instance, her poem “Mudfish,” where the persona observes an animal that lacks the vibrant allure of other sea creatures yet possesses a quiet profundity for those who know how to look, feel, and listen. 

Another poem that easily proves this point on wonder is “Pollen.” Before I explain, please take the time to read the poem below. 

Here, the persona, bedridden due to an illness caused by pollen, manages to behold the vastness of nature, especially the flora and fauna touched by the particle that afflicts her.

A wandering pollen and a bedbound person: this is your image of wonder.

Why is this an image of wonder? That is for you to decide, really. Wonder is much like a punchline; if you miss it, you miss it.

People need a sense of humor to catch what makes them laugh. Just so, we need a sense of wonder to experience what we might call artistic joy. 

Appreciating art through wonder is difficult. It requires that both the poet (or artist) and the listener (or reader) to possess a keen sense of wonder. The poet must infuse the work with her vision of wonder, while the listener engages with it through his wondrous sensibility. If the sense of wonder is lacking in either the poet or listener, the work of art fails, or proper appreciation does not happen.

I would argue that the highest purpose of art—poetry or otherwise—is to appeal to the wonder in our hearts. A poem can inspire people to go to EDSA, spark barrages of postings calling for reform on social media, or offer clever instruction about how to change one’s habits. But a true poem invites us to stand content before the beauty of the world, catching the elusive whispers of its soul. With wonder, poems can bring us home—as elves sail to the Undying Lands—revealing the greatness hidden even in the tiniest of things, whether it’s a slimy mudfish or a wandering pollen. 

That said, Evasco's book knocks on doors behind which lies sleepy wonder.

Go read It’s Time to Come Home.