. . . has got its
spell on me.
In January I set out to read through this 945-page,
884-item anthology of English verse (1250–1950). A manageable 3-pages per day
would give me ample time, accounting for vacations that I would not travel with
a large hardcover volume, busy days when I couldn’t sit down to read at
leisure, and days when I just plain forgot to pick it up. There was the
occasional panic—that the days had passed and I wouldn’t hit my marks. But when
I came back to it and read a little, and did the math on completing it this
year, I always magically still needed only 3 pages per day to finish.
I think my math skills are not all they might be.
In any case, just before Christmas I finished the
anthology. Much of the last hundred years’ poetry was tough slogging. But a lot
of it was timely: the poets of World War I, coming up in my reading on this
centenary year of The Great War, for example. I was reminded of earlier flings
with poetry and poets, and now especially wish to revisit T. S. Eliot.
There must be a comparable anthology of American verse—though
not, of course, dating back to 1250—so I’ll look that up and keep it on hand. I
don’t think I’ll undertake another year of reading through a collection. But I’d
like to think poetry will occupy a more significant role in my reading and
reflection than it has for many a year.
Wendell Barry beckons, as does Dante in that John Ciardi
translation that came out around the same time I picked up the NOBEV. The
poetry and drama of Antiquity forced its way into my year of reading poetry
(fascinating to me that classical references continue well into the 20th
century); and well look, there on my shelf is an anthology of the same, so I
don’t have to go to my grave
ignorant. Or ignorantly
. . . as the ars
moriendi poetry has taught me.
In a year of writing, editing, and teaching, words have
provided a great adventure. Poetry keeps the wonder in the adventure.
Excelsior!
