By Edward Hirsch
"Read a poem to your self in the midst of the evening. activate a unmarried lamp and skim it whereas you're by myself in an differently darkish room or whereas an individual sleeps subsequent to you. Say it over to your self in a spot the place silence reigns and the din of culture-the consistent humming noise that surrounds you-has momentarily stopped. This poem has come from a very good distance to discover you." So starts off this staggering booklet via certainly one of our major poets and critics. In an extraordinary exploration of the style, Hirsch writes approximately what poetry is, why it concerns, and the way we will be able to open up our imaginations in order that its message-which is of important significance in daily life-can succeed in us and make a distinction. For Hirsch, poetry isn't just part of lifestyles, it's existence, and expresses like no different paintings our so much elegant feelings. In a wonderful analyzing of global poetry, together with verse via such poets as Wallace Stevens, Elizabeth Bishop, Pablo Neruda, William Wordsworth, Sylvia Plath, Charles Baudelaire, and plenty of extra, Hirsch discovers the that means in their phrases and concepts and brings their elegant message domestic into our hearts. A masterful paintings by way of a grasp poet, this superb summation of poetry and human nature will converse to all readers who lengthy to put poetry of their lives yet don't know the way to learn it.
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Extra resources for How to Read a Poem (And Fall in Love with Poetry)
Example text
Ice paddles in a water-filled carafe. Someone has brought in pastries on a tray. A pewter-blue light bathes this undersecretary and his staff, who must consider what it means 31 now that reliable informants say the silo and the splintered barn conceal a weapons cache and drums of surplus fuel. Within three days the village well, that laundry drying on the line, the smokehouse, and the school will lie in calculated heaps of bloody rags and planks, while you or I watch college football on TV or bitch that it’s been weeks since we’ve had any decent rain.
But no call ever came, only the minor, iron cries of passing Alabama trains. It was a shallow, touchless night of sleep, troubled by wind outside, white thunder cracks and hammer-hissing rains, but when we woke the world was fresh, cornflower-pale and clear. That’s been nearly a year. Sometimes I can still see it flutter there— a tattered, ghostly, broken web like floss or silver wisps of widow’s hair tickling the morning air as if it were a thing that might be said of sorrow or regret. But standing in that ochre dawn I chose a different thought instead, making a vague remark about the weather’s sudden, gorgeous change and all our gaudy myrtle blooms that swayed and dandled overhead.
Who needs the grudges and the big ideas? The idiot decisions and the hurt? It isn’t youth I want, only the high, luxuriating sense, beneath these excellent and clean procrastinations of the sun, that certain days—this one— may never end. 28 A Late Apology It was all ours, we joked. A shambled, overgrown estate. Hackberry trees, wisteria like rope, the carport and the morning glory–choked old flowerbed. All ours: wild clumps of poison oak, a lank, rust-eaten corrugated shed, shattered and whole clay pots, an overwhelming, ripe chaos of weeds.