Reading Poetry

I asked my reading friends on fb whether they read poetry. It was interesting that almost a completely different set of people jumped on this question. Do prose and poetry readers talk to each other? Hmm. A question for another day.

My fb friends have eclectic taste in poetry. I think that is pretty common. Poetry seems to be an eclectic thing. See my month of poetry if you doubt that. Or don’t if you are a poetry lover. I’m pretty sure it is all bad poetry. You see I don’t read poetry regularly, which is probably why I write bad poetry. Or why I can’t tell good from bad poetry. I’ve not had sufficient exposure to the mysteries of the pome. (Intentional misspelling by the way. Meant to be funny. If I have to explain it in more than three sentences, that means it probably isn’t funny.)

Poetry I remember reading — Robert Service “The Cremation of Sam McGee,” ridiculous clerihews about King George the Third (George the third/ought never to have occurred./One can only wonder/at such an enormous blunder.), A.A. Milne Now We Are SixI think my copy of Milne disintegrated. It was a paperback. Someone (my brother? me?) coloured in some of the line illustrations.

Wait! Stop press! I found it on my shelf. Whew. Yeah, someone used a crayon in all the pictures in “King John’s Christmas.” Now that I’ve got my copy in hand I can give you the first poem, which was my favourite, and explains why I’ve still got the book on my shelf.

Solitude

I have a house where I go

When there’s too many people,

I have a house where I go

Where no one can be;

I have a house where I go,

Where nobody every says “No”

Where no one says anything — so

There is no one but me.

This is the illustration that goes with it:

shepard1

 

So yeah. Milne is my favourite at the moment. I shall try to read more other poetry. I’ve got some sitting on my shelf. I’ll report back.

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