Both writing my own and reading that of others (or making art and digging various arts, in general). So, now more than ever, I will be relying on the arts to replenish my spirit and determination, and to inspire me to continue to do my best to progress toward "a world where love is more possible."
In that spirit, on this day, I wanted to mention some relatively recent small and large books of poetry that I've been meaning to write about but haven't, so here is a short list (alphabetically by title) to start with:
"I think not to mark this/day in the cold winter/although to write it down/as if I had lived it/is more than I should have/to do yet here I am."
"I have become a man who cries at old movies/not when the crippled rancher's son/is killed in the war/but when Jane Powell starts singing/on the hayride"
"Nothing told us it would work out/This way, that nothing/Stays put in the drawer of itself."
"I awaken—/a clam between/cool sheets.//A nude bather/like Cezanne's.//And showering/in the dark/I imagine/my body."
"Heaving garbage down three flights/She recalls reading Hegel/But really wanting to read/Spinoza. That poseur. Oh no,//that was Sartre, one last Calvados/(the bartender had never heard of, alas)//for the boulevard."
RECONNAISANCE by Carl Phillips, a slim collection of poems that often transcend the normal while illuminating it, an impressive volume that any poetry lover would be glad to own, I think. I am.
"Not because there was nothing to say, or we/didn't want to—we just stopped speaking/entirely, but like making a gift of it: Here;/for you."
"I'd like to be a better person/I know that in their eyes I'm fine/that everything has been left in order/but in my own I fail at intervals/I'm not enough there for people/I evanesce or my own desire's paramount"
"A box of tea has disappeared/from my apartment/'Look behind the stove'/ says Lorna. She always/has answers. Not necessarily/to my questions."