Reading Poetry Without Feeling Lost

Clara Wren

Alright, lantern-lighters, welcome back—Clara here, and if you’re new, pull up a chair. Poetry can, let’s be honest, feel like being handed a puzzle with half the pieces missing. But today, we’re gonna change that, right Vincent?

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Absolutely. I think half the battle with poetry is realizing you don’t have to solve it, just notice what it offers. So, we’re giving you three lenses. First—Image. Simply, what do you see? When you read a poem, is there a picture in your head? It could be one good noun or verb, nothing fancier than that.

Clara Wren

Yeah, like, I used to get all worked up about “interpreting” poetry—especially in school, where every line felt like a riddle you’d be quizzed on. If someone had just said 'pick what you can picture,' I would've been so much less anxious. I think I still remember blanking out during assembly when we were handed something about crocuses—was it Wordsworth? Or someone else? Honestly, doesn’t matter. The point is, image: find that thing you see or feel in your hand, not what you’re supposed to decode.

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Exactly. Next up is Breath—the second lens. Forget about grammar for a minute. Instead, just notice where you pause. Poetry moves by breath as much as by punctuation. Where your lungs want to stop, pay attention. Lines break to guide more than to fence you in. Sometimes the pause you take means as much as the words themselves.

Clara Wren

And last, Echo. This one’s my favorite: What comes back again? Is it an image, maybe an object or even just a repeating phrase or sound? Echo isn’t explanation, it’s resonance—it’s what lingers or loops in your head after the stanza ends. Sometimes, that’s the heart of a poem right there.

D. Vincent Delorenzo

And if all this feels a bit much, I have a dead simple tip. Just put a discreet pencil dot under any line that lands or feels true for you. That’s it. No essays, no big margin notes. Just a little marker—so when you come back, you see your own trail through the poem.

Clara Wren

Love that—tiny invitations instead of roadblocks. Honestly, if I’d had the ‘dot’ trick back in primary school, poetry probably would’ve felt like less of an ambush and more of a campfire. Alright, let’s see how it works in practice.

Clara Wren

Let’s jump into a guided reading. I’ll read “Flagstones at Midnight” from She Was the Fire. All you need to do as a listener is let the words roll by, and see what catches for you. No pressure, no spoilers—just noticing what lands.

Clara Wren

I counted the stones between the gate and the street, the way a child counts stars for luck. Every number made the night feel smaller, every breath put a little more air back in the world. A stray dog watched me from the alley, ears tilted like questions I could not answer. Somewhere a radio whispered an old song, thin as a thread pulled through the dark. I did not cry in the open, only in the mouth, salt held like a secret. When I reached the end of the path, I turned and counted back again.

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Alright, let’s walk through the noticing process—just those three lenses. So, for Image—I’m with the stray dog, ears tilted like questions. That’s vivid. Breath—I feel the need to pause after “Every number made the night feel smaller,” before the next line. My chest wants to rest there. And Echo—there’s the act of counting, forward and back, which feels like leaving and returning. It loops. That’s the echo, for me at least.

Clara Wren

And, see, just like that, it feels like the poem’s returned something. I mean—it’s not so much a riddle now. Even if you miss everything else, those three things are enough to make it land. I reckon most folks underestimate how much they’re already noticing without realizing.

D. Vincent Delorenzo

That’s it. You don’t need to show up ready with a thesis or summary. If you can find one thing you pictured, one place you paused, and one echo that stuck or circled back, you’ve read the poem. Start there. The rest can grow slowly.

Clara Wren

Alright, so let’s zoom out—let’s say you’ve got a whole poetry collection, not just one poem. What’s your go-to practice for not getting lost, Vincent?

D. Vincent Delorenzo

I keep it simple. Start anywhere—open the book, read three poems out loud, see what sticks. I’ll put a little heart or a dot next to one line that lands in each. After I’ve done that with maybe five, seven poems, I start looking for the trail. Are there objects that pop up again and again? Like in She Was the Fire, you’ll see matches, kettles, a certain kind of bedding. That’s your thread.

Clara Wren

But what about when a book’s broken into sections—those little gaps between poems, or titles like ‘First Fire’ and ‘Last Water’?

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Yeah, most collections, especially the good ones, will play with what I call ‘doors’ and ‘windows’. A door at the end of a section closes a scene off. A window leaves things a bit open—like you can see out past the poem. A strong collection will give you both, swinging back and forth. That back-and-forth is part of the experience.

Clara Wren

And once you’re through, that’s where pairings and prompts come in, right?

D. Vincent Delorenzo

That’s right. Try a quiet, domestic poet—someone whose kitchen table practically hosts the argument. Then pick an elemental type—poets whose weather or seasons do the heavy lifting. And maybe look for a hybrid or lyric essayist—where the poems almost feel like a sequence of small, vivid rooms. Each one opens a slightly different door or window.

Clara Wren