Who'da thunk?

There is a book of poetry on my nightstand.  I checked it out of the library today.  (Side note: I love the library.  As I was standing there today, putting a hold on the next Great Gatsby that comes back -----re-reading, as Baz Luhrman's remake has renewed my interest in the story ----I could suddenly recall with perfect clarity the view from my 7 or 8 year-old self's height at the desk as the lady stamped the due date on each card in the back of my temporary books, the smell of the plastic-covered treasures, and the sight of the endless shelves of books, books, books.  Oh, how I wanted to be a librarian when I grew up!!)

This book of poetry is a wonder. 

I believed for years that I hated poetry.  I would say to others, if the subject arose, that I despised poetry but enjoyed poems.  I never was one for a floofy, lengthy, I'm-not-pretty-or-cute-and-I-have-no-hint-of-a-traditional-cadence-but-if-you-dig-deeply-you'll-find-many-hidden-meanings kind of poem.  I like Shel Silverstein.  There's a style I can get behind. 

Then Heather took a class in high school for which she brought home a book full of poetry and analyses of said poetry, and as I sat on her bed with her one night, I picked it up and thumbed through it.  I wanted to know what kind of stuff they were teaching my daughter.  I stumbled across what has become my favorite poem.  And it ain't Shel Silverstein, baby. 

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas

 

I cry every time I read it.  It's so beautiful to me.

 

I realized then that I don't hate POETRY.  I just haven't exposed myself to enough variety to find much that I liked. 

 

So I've become more open to new poetic experiences.  I heard just a small part of a poem by Jane Kenyon and fell in love with it.  After finding the poem and reading it once, years ago, I determined to find more poetry by this woman.  Finally, today, I found a book of all Jane Kenyon's work and brought it home.  The first thing I did was find that particular poem (Let Evening Come) and read it again for only my second time ever.  Beautiful.  It made me feel peaceful.  I am now reading the book straight through, as if it were a novel, and it's lovely.  Simply lovely. 

 

There is a book of poetry on my nightstand!!  Who'da thunk?