Oh poetry. Yes, I think I do read a fair amount of it. Though not enough. Never enough.
Except I’m really not good ar remembering any of it. My consumption is fast and anonymous, grabbed quickly on the internet, at the bookstore, an opening of the pages, a poem read here and there, barely looking at who wrote it.
I guess I gulp it down, but I’ve yet to learn how to savour it properly. Meaning I have several favourite that I can barely remember. Like I let the words and rhythms sit in me, but ignore their origins. It doesn’t make sense really, given how much I love it.
Books of poetry I actually own: a Mary Oliver collection, the complete Sylvia Plath, some Jacques Prévert, an Edna St. Vincent Millay, some scribbled Dylan Thomas, Victor Hugo, Robert Frost, Anne Sexton and Margaret Atwood here and there. Some Yeats and some Keats. Other too, that I can’t remember.
I don’t know I don’t know. I consume poetry in wrong ways and spit out my own all mangled. It doesn’t make sense. I should keep better track of the ones that move me. Should make my own personal collection.