Words have an intoxicating quality. Talented artists can wrap a simile into a curlicue, twining metaphor like garlands. I’ve recounted my love of spoken word here before. These days its hard to find—the only venue I can find in Indy is a sketchy little shack on East 38th Street. I value my life more than my soul food.
Fortunately I can get my poetry the old-fashioned way.
Poetry and I had a love/hate relationship at first. I begrudgingly memorized several poems for 4-H day readings, sticking with Shel Silverstein, Vachal Lindsay, T.S. Elliot. My oddness showed early. Anne Shirley, the original redheaded orphan opened my eyes, however, introducing me to The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes.
When I really fell for poetry, it disguised itself as song. Fascinated by the dial on a tiny purple radio perched on the school room windowsill, I managed to tune in HPPR’s High Plains Morning. For the first time I found out that NPR could play something other than Car Talk and Classical music. As I did my schoolwork, I’d listen and write down snippets of lyrics. That’s how I found Vienna Teng.
I have four of her songs, and every time I listen, they carry my spirits away.
I found an unlikely ally in the quest for un-stodgy poetry in Garrison Keillor. His Minnesota drone disturbs my mother, but I found myself tuning in to the Writer’s Almanac regularly. Good Poems and Good Poems for Hard Times contain some of my favorite verses:
The Poet’s Occasional Alternative by Grace Paley
Rita Dove’s Parsley ought to be in the mix as well, but its not. I owe my love for her work to a dear friend and teacher, who walked me through the ways of literary analysis.
By now, it should be clear that I have a liberal view of the term “poetry.” If it’s not, my next two recommendations will seal the deal.
Michael Perry (who you can’t stop me from gushing about) cut his teeth as an essayist. His memoirs have outshown his early work, but I love it all. In person, he’s a storyteller, first and foremost. When it comes to putting his words on paper, he notices all the details we let slip into the background, creating art from noise.
A more recent addition to the authors whose craft I admire is William Gibson. I’ve read Pattern Recognition and I’m currently savoring Spook Country. The first line of virtually every chapter captures your attention with the slightest of details, pulling you deeper into the dazzling, disorienting tale he tells.
