I don't think it's always good to read lots of poetry.

Amber Tamblyn, herself both actress and poet, once declared: “I don’t think it’s always good to read lots of poetry.” At first, these words may sound strange, even heretical to lovers of verse. How could too much poetry ever be harmful, when it is the very song of the soul? Yet within her warning lies a truth that the ancients knew well: that even the most sacred of waters, if drunk without measure, may drown rather than nourish. Poetry is a flame, and like all flames, it must be approached with reverence, balance, and care.

The meaning of Tamblyn’s words is not to diminish the power of poetry, but to guard against its excess. For poetry is not merely words arranged with beauty—it is condensed feeling, sharpened vision, concentrated spirit. To take in too much at once is to overwhelm the heart, to lose one’s own voice beneath the chorus of others. Just as the warrior cannot train without rest, just as the farmer cannot sow without letting the soil lie fallow, so too must the seeker of verse allow time for silence, for reflection, for digestion of what has been read.

The ancients offer us parallels. In the East, the sages spoke of balance in all things—too much wine leads to folly, too much sleep to sloth, too much gold to corruption. In the West, Aristotle taught the “golden mean”—virtue lies not in excess, nor in deficiency, but in harmony. Tamblyn’s warning echoes these voices: to read endlessly without pause is to consume without truly absorbing. Better a few lines lived deeply, than a thousand swallowed whole without reflection.

Consider history: Emily Dickinson, who wrote some of the most profound poetry of the nineteenth century, lived in near seclusion. She did not flood herself with endless volumes of others’ voices. Instead, she turned inward, letting her own vision of truth and mortality shape her work. Her restraint, her quiet, gave rise to an originality that has outlived centuries. If she had drowned her spirit in the constant reading of others, perhaps her own delicate, piercing voice might never have been heard.

The wisdom here is that poetry demands not only consumption but contemplation. A single poem, like a seed, can contain forests. To rush from poem to poem is to scatter seeds upon rock, never giving them time to take root. But to pause, to sit with one verse, to let it echo in the chambers of the heart—that is to allow poetry to do its true work: to transform. Thus, Tamblyn cautions us against the temptation of quantity, urging us instead toward depth.

The lesson is clear: do not seek to devour every poem as though hoarding treasure. Instead, let the poems you read become living companions. Read slowly, breathe with them, wrestle with them, let them haunt your dreams and shape your days. Too much reading, too quickly, and you will lose the thread of your own voice. But the right balance will allow both the voices of others and the song of your own soul to live in harmony.

Practical action is simple: when you find a poem that stirs you, stop. Do not rush on to the next. it by hand, whisper it aloud, carry it with you. Let its images color your perception of the world. And when its work is done, then move on. In this way, you will not be a collector of words, but a cultivator of wisdom.

Thus, Tamblyn’s paradoxical wisdom becomes clear: “I don’t think it’s always good to read lots of poetry.” For poetry, like fire, can either illuminate or consume. Approach it with reverence, balance, and patience. In this way, the words of the poets will not only pass through your eyes but will enter your spirit, shaping you into one who lives, feels, and speaks with truth.