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I love poetry. Yes I am that kind of weirdo. English was my favourite subject at school, I would look forward to finding out which Shakespearean play we would be studying, which novels, which poets.
I would spend ages thumbing through an old poetry anthology my sister had found in a second hand store and had given to me when she realised I would read it every time I visited her. I loved discovering poems and poets for the first time, bookmarking my favourites – with an actual real bookmark, or piece of paper – writing down quotes, taking down names of poets I wished to delve into further.
I was overjoyed to find a second-hand copy of Selected Poems of T.S Eliot at a market stall on the Gold Coast, it may seem an odd holiday souvenir to some but to me it was perfect.
And back in the day before you could just jump online to source a book you wanted, my mum went to the trouble of ordering Sylvia Plath’s Ariel from a local bookstore as a Christmas present for me.
I loved the feeling of discovering a new poem, or rather a poem new to me. I also love the thought that these same words had touched many others before me, people like me, people completely different to me.
I love that poems are open to interpretation, that like with anything in life we bring our experiences, our pain, our emotions, our hearts to the page, and that depending on where we are
these words, these deliciously well-woven words
can sometimes reach us.
Sometimes with a nudge, or a nodding of your head and your heart. Sometimes with a sucker-punch that knock the wind out of you.
I share with you one of my (many, many) favourites, this discovery coming to me not in a book, but in fact the first time I heard it was in the film “Hannah and her Sisters”. I don’t really remember anything much about the movie itself, except this poem.
somewhere i have never travelled - e.e.cummings somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond any experience, your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skilfully, misteriously) her first rose or if your wish be to close me, i and my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending; nothing we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility: whose texture compels me with the colour of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing (i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens; only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody, not even the rain, has such small handsDo you have any favourite poems or poets? If you do please share them with me, it’s been a while since I have made any ‘discoveries.’