That old New Oxford Book of English Verse

. . .  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 20^th 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!