I don’t know many people who like poetry, though I do know a good number of people who read. Poetry remains rarefied and uninviting—or is the better word unappealing?—which is why I suspect National Poetry Month consistently passes uncelebrated and unacknowledged in the lives of most Americans. Poetry is the country music to those who might otherwise fancy themselves readers of everything, the form of writing almost all otherwise enthusiastic readers (of fiction and history and short stories and essays…) are excused for eschewing.
That isn’t to say people hate poetry. On the contrary, those who don’t read it often look upon the genre with benevolence, maybe even fond indulgence. When someone finds out I went to grad school to study poetry, they are almost inevitably charmed, if only with my precocious embrace of un-employability. What a cute, quaint, harmless pastime, their smiles imply, like I actually got a Masters in Floral Management.
Though it’s arguably the most persistent, adaptable, iconoclastic form of art, poetry has more unpleasant stereotypes to buck than any other. It’s been a few years since I was in grade school, but I remember the poetry taught then as written almost exclusively by long-dead British men and a handful of more recently dead white American men. Oh, and Emily Dickinson.
Those poets rhymed and used strict meter, which sounded silly and childish to me, and they concerned themselves with being clever, somber, or impenetrable on topics such as fleas, fences, and birds. Even if they were sometimes fun—“The Raven” is fun!—they didn’t move me. They didn’t feel vital or connected to life, and so I learned that poems were either trifles you could forget as soon as you left class, or boring, old codes you were saddled with cracking to pass a class.
http://www.newrepublic.com/article/...try-month-and-you-havent-read-single-poem-yet