No poem is easily grasped; so why should any reader expect fast

The poet John Barton, with his steady and uncompromising wisdom, declared: “No poem is easily grasped; so why should any reader expect fast results?” In this statement lies a rebuke against impatience, a call to humility, and a reminder of the sacred labor of understanding. For a poem is not a stone that yields at once to the hand, nor a fruit that can be devoured without peeling. It is like a mountain path, twisting, steep, sometimes veiled in mist. To expect to master it swiftly is folly; to walk it slowly with reverence is the way of wisdom.

The ancients knew this truth well. Did not the Greek philosophers spend decades meditating on single riddles of being and time? Did not the mystics of every tradition chant the same verse again and again until it lived in their blood? They understood that the meaning of poetry—or of any profound word—does not arrive like a merchant’s coin, exchanged quickly and forgotten, but like water drawn slowly from a deep well. Each sip is cool, refreshing, but to reach it requires patience and toil. Barton’s warning, therefore, is not against poetry, but against our own restless haste.

History gives us examples of those who embraced this slow path. Think of the Japanese monks who copied haiku and tanka by hand, not for quick reading but for contemplation. One might spend an entire day with a three-line poem, allowing its brevity to unfold into infinity. Or consider the scholar Ezra Pound, who wrestled with ancient Chinese characters for years, chasing the nuances of tone and symbol to bring forth new light in his translations. Such labor was not wasted—it was devotion, for he knew that a poem cannot be seized like a prize, but must be courted like a beloved.

And there are lessons in human struggle as well. Abraham Lincoln, before he became the voice of a fractured nation, carried a tattered book of Shakespeare’s plays and poems. He read them slowly, returning again and again, not grasping all at once but allowing their cadences to shape his tongue and soul. In time, it was this patient dwelling with words that gave his speeches their immortal rhythm. Had he demanded “fast results,” his voice might never have carried the gravity of Gettysburg or the hope of his final addresses.

The heroic lesson of Barton’s saying is that endurance and humility are required of every seeker of beauty. To wrestle with a poem is like Jacob wrestling the angel: one emerges limping, but blessed. Quick readers, who hunger for instant gratification, depart with empty hands; but those who return, who sit with the words until dawn breaks upon them, will find their reward. For every line of poetry is a doorway, and no doorway is crossed without first pausing, bowing, and stepping with care.

So, what wisdom can we pass on? Be patient. When you read a poem, do not rush. Read it once aloud, let the rhythm strike your chest. Read it again in silence, listening to the spaces between the words. Leave it for a day, then return. Let it accompany you as you walk, as you wash, as you rest. You will discover that the poem itself is not a message delivered once and done, but a companion that grows with you across the seasons.

Practical actions follow from this teaching. Take one poem and live with it for a week. Write it out by hand. Memorize a line. Speak it to the trees or to the sea. Resist the hunger for instant meaning, and let the mystery work upon you. In doing so, you will not only understand poetry—you will understand life, which is itself a poem not easily grasped.

Thus John Barton’s counsel becomes a guide for all ages: do not demand swiftness from that which was born in depth. For depth never yields its treasures to haste. Walk slowly, read slowly, live slowly, and you will find that the results, though not fast, are eternal.