Well, the great thing for me about poetry is that in good poems
Well, the great thing for me about poetry is that in good poems the dislocation of words, that is to say, the distance between what they say they're saying and what they are actually saying is at its greatest.
Hear the words of Harry Mathews, who unveils a profound truth about the nature of poetry: “Well, the great thing for me about poetry is that in good poems the dislocation of words, that is to say, the distance between what they say they're saying and what they are actually saying is at its greatest.” In this statement, Mathews reveals a subtle yet powerful quality of poetry: its ability to dislocate the meaning of words, to stretch them beyond their everyday use, so that they convey something deeper, more complex, and often more mysterious. A poem is not simply a vehicle for clear, straightforward communication—it is an arena where language can twist, turn, and defy expectation, revealing truths not immediately apparent.
The ancients themselves revered this power of language. Consider the myths of the gods, who spoke in riddles and parables, revealing truths not through direct statements but through stories layered with symbols. Poetry, from its earliest roots, was always about more than just telling—poetry was about suggesting, about pulling the reader or listener into a deeper world where meaning could shift, where what was said could be as important as what was left unsaid. Even the words of Homer, in their directness, carry a weight of unspoken meaning—every hero’s speech, every god’s command, echoes with a truth that lies beneath the surface.
One may also think of the oracle of Delphi, where the most important revelations came not as clear instructions, but as enigmatic statements that required interpretation. The ancient world knew that wisdom often came not from straightforward words, but from words that forced the mind to stretch, to reach for something beyond the obvious. Mathews speaks to this same dynamic: poetry holds within it not just what is directly communicated, but what lies between the lines—the tension, the dislocation, that invites deeper reflection and discovery.
Consider T.S. Eliot, who mastered this dislocation in his poetry. In The Waste Land, his lines often seem fragmented, even contradictory, yet they offer a profound vision of modern existence. The words he chooses, such as “April is the cruellest month”, seem to defy common understanding. The dislocation of the words—the distance between the surface meaning and the deeper message—becomes the poem's strength. It forces the reader to confront not just the literal world but the internal, fragmented world of the self. Here, poetry becomes a mirror of the mind, where clarity is often sacrificed for the power of emotional truth.
Mathews, in his appreciation for this dislocation, is not merely pointing out an aesthetic choice, but the very nature of poetry. Good poems do not simply tell a story; they distort the language to reveal something greater than what is immediately understood. They challenge the reader, urging them to think, to feel, and to experience the world in new ways. This dislocation, this tension between what is said and what is meant, mirrors the complexity of human existence itself. We do not always understand our own feelings, our own lives, in simple terms. Poetry captures this complexity by refusing to give us easy answers.
The lesson here is clear: poetry is not about simple communication, but about the exploration of deeper, often hidden meanings. When you read, do not seek only the surface; look for the dislocation of words, the gap between what is said and what is truly being conveyed. When you write, do not fear ambiguity, but embrace it. Allow your words to dislocate, to shift, to create space for deeper understanding. Do not write only to express what is obvious, but to invite your reader into a world of complexity, of contradictions, of hidden truths.
Practical actions follow. As a reader, practice engaging with poetry not as a puzzle to be solved, but as an experience to be felt. Do not rush to find the meaning; instead, sit with the dislocation, let the words take you somewhere unexpected. When you write, allow your language to stretch beyond simple clarity. Use poetry as a tool not only for communication, but for transformation—allow it to shift, to surprise, to challenge. Through this process, you will create work that invites reflection, not just on the poem itself, but on the deeper currents of life.
Thus, Mathews calls us to embrace the dislocation in poetry—to understand that the tension between what words say and what they mean is the very essence of what makes poetry powerful. Poetry is not only about clarity; it is about mystery, complexity, and the invitation to see the world through new eyes. Let us then write and read with open hearts, ready to encounter the dislocation that poetry offers, and in doing so, uncover the deeper truths of our own existence.
TDBui Thi Thuy Duong
This comment makes me rethink how I read poetry. If the best poems thrive on dislocation, maybe understanding them isn’t about decoding meaning but feeling the space between meanings. It’s almost like music—what matters isn’t the notes but the silence between them. I wonder, then, how much of poetry’s power lies in what remains unsaid, in that mysterious distance where interpretation begins.
VLNguyen Vu Linh
What strikes me here is the implicit trust in language’s instability. Most writers try to make their words align with their intentions, yet this perspective celebrates the opposite. Do you think embracing dislocation allows for deeper emotional honesty? It’s paradoxical—by letting go of control, maybe poets get closer to something raw and authentic that straightforward language could never reach.
XDNguyen Xuan Dan
As a reader, I’m intrigued by this description of poetry as a place where words misbehave. It suggests that meaning is not fixed but fluid, always shifting beneath the surface. But I wonder—can too much distance between 'saying' and 'meaning' alienate readers? Is there a point where dislocation turns into confusion, where the magic of poetry collapses under its own complexity?
HNHuong Nguyen
This statement feels both challenging and liberating. If poetry depends on words meaning more—or less—than they claim, then maybe it’s not about clarity at all but about tension. I’m curious, though: does that make poetry inherently deceptive, or does it simply reflect how language fails to contain emotion? I’d love to hear how readers reconcile the beauty of distortion with the search for meaning.
MHTa Minh Hang
I find this idea fascinating—the notion that poetry thrives in the gap between what words appear to mean and what they truly express. It makes me wonder if this 'dislocation' is what gives poetry its emotional charge. Do you think this ambiguity is essential to art in general, or is it something that poetry uniquely amplifies? Maybe it’s the uncertainty itself that draws us closer to a poem’s hidden truth.