Devouring Delicious Poetry --

Because I have felt that I needed to do something to kick start my writing again, and because my first option of finding a good writing group close to home has failed, I have done what has served me well in the past – I have found a good book. I am currently reading Ordinary Genuis by Kim Addonizio. And so far, I have been impressed. Rather than a “here’s what poetry is” sort of book, I have found it more of the “these work for me” sort. She connects with poetry that I am fond of such as Wilfred Owen’s “Dulce Et Decorum Est” (fantastic poem for sound, imagery and general word choice).

And the second thing I have been doing is reading a LOT of poetry. I am digging out my old textbooks from which I taught – the trusty Norton Anthologies, the books of poetry that I have collected over the years and anything that looks remotely interesting from the public library (although I think that I must have burst a blood vessel in one librarian’s forehead when I asked where the poetry section was – not sure anyone had ever asked him that before).

But really, I have been, as Mark Strand so aptly put it, “eating poetry.” Luckily, poetry is calorie-free (which agrees with my Weight Watcher’s plan).

It is working; I am writing more comfortably every day, and even more than once a day – stealing moments in the backyard to write American Sentences while my kids play with the neighbours, snatching moments to scribble down my thoughts about my friend’s brother’s death, thieving time while the beans braize for supper.

Soon and very soon, I hope to have more to put up here of my own, but the perfectionist in me is not yet willing to share them...

So, for those of you who are unfamiliar with Mark Strand, here’s one of my personal favourites.

Eating Poetryby Mark Strand

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.

The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.

The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.
Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.

She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.

I am a new man.
I snarl at her and bark.
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.