On discovering marginalia
Sat, Sep. 18th, 2010 09:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
scarlettinaI spend a lot of time with prose writers. A lot. So much that I forget sometimes that the way I really started writing was that I wrote poetry. Reams of it. So many poems that in high school I had a party to celebrate having reached a certain numerical landmark. I took the University of Washington's certificate in poetry program years ago. I've had several poems published (one in Asimov's, which I'm still proud of and which is still a favorite of mine). But I haven't read or written poetry in a very long time.
Autumn seems to be when I purge my library. One of the reasons I know it's an annual autumn purge is that I will usually take my books to the University Bookstore to trade in for credit so that I can spend a little less money come holiday time. It always seems like a fair trade: more space for me, lovely gifts for friends.
So today, while scanning the shelves looking for books to purge, my eye fell on the bookshelf where I keep poetry. I pulled out my copy of Otherwise by Jane Kenyon, a book I haven't looked at in years. Some books, I just grab off the shelf and throw into the tote bag. Poetry always gets a second look. I can't remember the last time I cracked this one open, so I did.
What did I find? I found annotations. I made notes in pencil throughout the first 12 pages of the book, noting turns of phrase I liked and didn't like, or stanzas that could have stood by themselves, or why one poem in particular didn't work for me. I don't remember doing this. I have to assume it was an exercise I imposed on myself during my UW certificate period, searching for poets whose work was the kind I aspired to. Oliver was one; Billy Collins, Harry Humes were others. Not rhymers, these people. Not strict adherents to form, either. But they are all people who listen to the sounds of words, who observe carefully and can paint pictures in a handful of carefully chosen, onomatopoeiacally (!) tasty words that arrest the reader. (That there was kinesthesia--the mixing of sense experience, in this case, tasty sounds--a poetic technique. See? I remember.)
So here was this thing I had done that I don't remember doing, that I hardly ever do--writing in books in the margins. It took me aback and I was actually kind of fascinated, because it feels like a whole different me must have done it. But I remember a time in my life when I made a point to read poetry before I went to sleep because it felt a little like prayer. And I remember a time in my life when, for one brief period, I had the self-discipline to work on something that was meaningful to me. I miss writing poetry. And someone who passed through my life rather carelessly a couple of years ago kind of ruined poetry for me for a while.
I wonder if I can reclaim it. There's going to be other purging this autumn, of more than just books. Perhaps that will make room for writing and reading poetry again. We'll see.
Autumn seems to be when I purge my library. One of the reasons I know it's an annual autumn purge is that I will usually take my books to the University Bookstore to trade in for credit so that I can spend a little less money come holiday time. It always seems like a fair trade: more space for me, lovely gifts for friends.
So today, while scanning the shelves looking for books to purge, my eye fell on the bookshelf where I keep poetry. I pulled out my copy of Otherwise by Jane Kenyon, a book I haven't looked at in years. Some books, I just grab off the shelf and throw into the tote bag. Poetry always gets a second look. I can't remember the last time I cracked this one open, so I did.
What did I find? I found annotations. I made notes in pencil throughout the first 12 pages of the book, noting turns of phrase I liked and didn't like, or stanzas that could have stood by themselves, or why one poem in particular didn't work for me. I don't remember doing this. I have to assume it was an exercise I imposed on myself during my UW certificate period, searching for poets whose work was the kind I aspired to. Oliver was one; Billy Collins, Harry Humes were others. Not rhymers, these people. Not strict adherents to form, either. But they are all people who listen to the sounds of words, who observe carefully and can paint pictures in a handful of carefully chosen, onomatopoeiacally (!) tasty words that arrest the reader. (That there was kinesthesia--the mixing of sense experience, in this case, tasty sounds--a poetic technique. See? I remember.)
So here was this thing I had done that I don't remember doing, that I hardly ever do--writing in books in the margins. It took me aback and I was actually kind of fascinated, because it feels like a whole different me must have done it. But I remember a time in my life when I made a point to read poetry before I went to sleep because it felt a little like prayer. And I remember a time in my life when, for one brief period, I had the self-discipline to work on something that was meaningful to me. I miss writing poetry. And someone who passed through my life rather carelessly a couple of years ago kind of ruined poetry for me for a while.
I wonder if I can reclaim it. There's going to be other purging this autumn, of more than just books. Perhaps that will make room for writing and reading poetry again. We'll see.