I just got back from a lovely visit with Margo and Dr. D in Lexington, VA, mostly spent talking and eating and walking dogs. Yesterday, Margo gave me a book of her poetry. I always feel a little ambivalent when people I love share their creative work with me. I’m excited to see what they’ve produced, yet I’m terrified I’ll hate it and have to effuse fake appreciation for it.
I should say at this point, also, that I don’t enjoy poetry. Excluding the fine works of Shel Silverstein, I find poetry inaccessible. Moreover, I know you’re supposed to read poetry like you taste wine: read a little bit, swish it around for awhile, and see what you notice.
Well, I couldn’t do that with Margo’s book. I woke up at 2am, picked it up, and at 3, I was still chugging through the thing. I loved it. It was narrative and lyrical, thought-provoking without being cryptic, sad yet hopeful. Made me want to write poetry.