It is all in the voice—or maybe in its emphasis. Every great poem has its own POV, though the wrong voice will diminish it. After all, good sound is measured by its meaning, and sometimes, a woman’s voice feels best for reciting “masculine” poetry. In Dana Gioia’s grim reading of Wallace Stevens’s “The Emperor of Ice-Cream,” there is nothing left to probe. He is severe where the language is playful, entombing his analysis with guesswork every time he misses a tone. Another reading, from the archconservative Hillsdale College, is uncomfortable to watch, with a trite, melancholy piano that further damages interpretation. By contrast, the poem’s best recital is from a high school student almost twenty years ago. She is energetic, picks up on double (and overt!) meanings, and communicates this knowledge on stage. Her performance works because it does not engage the academic debate—it only speaks the words as written, which appear bigger, broader, and more festive than in the mouths of academics: […]