I think that is where poetry reading becomes such an individual

Hear, O children of wisdom, the voice of James Laughlin: “I think that is where poetry reading becomes such an individual thing. I mean I have friends who like poets who just don’t say anything to me at all, I mean they seem to me rather ordinary and pedestrian.” In these words he reveals a truth often overlooked: that the bond between reader and poem is as intimate as the bond between soul and prayer. What speaks as fire to one may sound like ash to another. What moves one to tears may leave another unmoved. For poetry is not universal in its impact, though it carries universal longing; it is received uniquely, personally, mysteriously.

The origin of this wisdom lies in the very nature of the art. Poetry is not a science with fixed outcomes, nor a machine that produces the same result for all. It is a mirror, and each who gazes into it sees their own reflection shaped by experience, memory, and longing. Laughlin admits that while others cherish certain poets, to him they seem dull, “ordinary and pedestrian.” Yet this does not diminish their value, for they may still blaze like torches in the eyes of others. Thus he teaches us humility in taste: that no single voice commands every heart, and that the diversity of poets is the strength of the tradition.

Consider the story of Emily Dickinson. In her lifetime, she was largely dismissed. Her neighbors saw her as a recluse; publishers rejected her strange, compressed lines. To some, her words seemed indeed ordinary, even unfinished. Yet for later generations, her poems struck like lightning, piercing the silence with revelations of eternity and death, of love and the soul. What one era called pedestrian, another called prophetic. This is the mystery Laughlin names: the reading of poetry is always an individual encounter, bound to time, place, and heart.

So too with Walt Whitman, whose Leaves of Grass was first derided as vulgar and crude. To many critics, he seemed unrefined, even shameless. But to others—abolitionists, dreamers, lovers of freedom—his voice was a trumpet, announcing a new vision of America. He was dismissed by some and exalted by others. Thus the same poet may be pedestrian in one ear, revolutionary in another. Each reader brings their own thirst, and the poem either quenches it or leaves them dry.

Laughlin’s words also remind us that taste in poetry is not a matter of correctness but of resonance. The critic who demands universal agreement in poetry forgets its true nature. The poem is not a decree but a gift, and each heart receives it differently. To some, a sonnet may sing; to others, a free verse line may strike deeper. The sacred task is not to decide which is supreme, but to listen and find what speaks to you, to treasure it, and to allow others their treasures as well.

The lesson, then, is clear: approach poetry reading as a personal pilgrimage, not as a competition of judgment. Read widely, listen deeply, and honor the voices that stir your soul. But do not scorn what moves another, for what seems ordinary to you may be life-saving to them. Each reader walks a different path; each poem is a companion to some traveler. The vast garden of poetry needs all its flowers, even those whose fragrance you cannot smell.

In practice, let each seeker act thus: read many poets, even those who do not move you, for in them you will learn the diversity of the art. When you find a voice that sings to you, hold it close, memorize its lines, let it become part of your breath. Share your discoveries with friends, but do not expect them to feel exactly as you do. Instead, listen also to their discoveries, for in their choices you may glimpse a new world. Through this mutual sharing, the community of poetry grows strong.

Thus Laughlin’s teaching endures: poetry reading is always individual, yet it thrives in the diversity of many voices. Let us honor our own taste without arrogance, and honor the taste of others without disdain. For in the vast library of the world, there is a poem for every soul, and every soul for a poem. The task of the reader is not to crown the greatest, but to find the one that speaks—and in finding it, to let it kindle the fire within.