For some reason, (read: the election), I've been on a poetry fast for about a year now. Knowing April is National Poetry Month, I had to read some poetry, but I felt unable to crack a book of poems just like that after a whole year away. A whole year without touching my heart in the places poetry touches it. It's like when you've been sitting on your foot. You've got to shake your foot out first before you try to run.
So I grabbed The Poetry Lesson by Andrei Codrescu, a Romanian born poet who writes more beautifully in English than 99.99% of native-born speakers. The Poetry Lesson is ostensibly about an older poet teaching an introduction to poetry class to some young, naive things, but it's really a windy, fun ride. A sort of syllabus of the poet's own experience of being a poet in a world that doesn't just put aside poetry for a year but sometimes seems to have put it aside entirely.
"Intro to Poetry Writing is always like this: a long labor, a breech birth, or, obversely, mining in the dark. You take healthy young Americans used to sunshine (aided sometimes by Xanax and Adderall), you blindfold them and lead them by the hand into a labyrinth made from bones. Then you tell them their assignment: 'Find the Grail. You have a New York minute to get it.'"
So I settled into my pink, foamy bath made from an adorable cupcake bath bomb by Sky Organics. A person needs a warm, cozy place to delve into the terrifying depths of the soul. The book is only 117 pages, but by the time I'd finished it, so was my list of poets I wanted to read or re-read.
My favorite conceit from the book is that we can each pick a poet, dead or alive, as our ghost companion-- or G-C as Andrei calls them. For the sake of simplicity, he assigns a poet to each student based on the letter of their last name. My list cum Andrei's vision would look something like this: Emily Dickinson, Rita Dove, John Dryden, Bob Dylan, Camille Dungy, Paul Laurence Dunbar, Guillaume du Salluste du Bartas, Annette von Drust Hölshoff, H.D., or, maybe best of all, Jane Draycott-- because she's 1. living, 2. a woman, and 3. British.
(I'm an anglophile, because I'm half-French, and we're perverse that way. (The English famously loathe-- "Your mother smells of huckleberry!"-- but also love the French and vice versa.) Also now, thanks to my husband's last name, I'm Irish, so the English have become even more forbidden fruit to me.) Or maybe I will simply choose Andrei... at least for this bath. I feel like he would get a kick out of his book being put to such pink, frothy uses by a languid woman immersed in a tub.
Do you have a writer who's like a soul mate or an imaginary friend or who seems like they could be a friend? I used to feel that way about so many writers when I was younger, including, of course, J.K. Rowling, the whole world's imaginary, magical writing pal. I especially feel that way about her now, because she's even more amazing on epigrammatic Twitter than she might even be in novel form. Do you follow her?
Also, P.S. I linked a bunch of green beauty treats I like to indulge in on Saturdays or Sundays when I treat myself to a (quarter-full) bath. P.P.S. This K. Bunni Cosmetics mask that I adore is only $10 and works so well! You can use my code "greenbeauty" to get an additional 10% off.
A Slow Fashion Diary