Yesterday I bought two new books of poetry. That and hanging out at bars are two of my guilty pleasures – especially when I have few other distractions. I say guilty because I could use the money for other things. I say guilty because I could use the time for other things.
Not too long ago (less than three years), I went to a used bookstore looking to buy more poetry written by women. I think I had been reading a few poems by Jane Kenyon and had just finished reading a book by Mary Oliver. I had looked at my shelves of poetry and realized almost all of my “favorite” poets were men. White men of a certain age. Stephen Dunn, Tony Hoagland, Billy Collins, Robert Hass. This felt deficient – like a serious gap in my reading. I felt the same thing about poets of color and different countries of origin. I don’t read nearly enough of them. Quite often, I don’t know where to start.
If I remember correctly, I left the store empty-handed. A little time had passed, maybe a month – maybe more, and I ordered Kenyon’s Collected Poems. Now, a few years later, what began with intent has become a bit of a habit. It seems that most of the new books of poetry that I buy are written by women. Most of the new books of poetry that I enjoy are written by women: Ada Limon, Mary Oliver, Kim Addonizio, Maya C. Popa, Diane Seuss. I haven’t read any of them closely enough in proximity to their male counterparts on my bookshelf to ascertain how they’re different – though I suspect they are. In some respects, I’m almost afraid to go back to some of my old favorites. What if I don’t like them anymore or as much?
I’ve also given myself permission to dog-ear pages and draw lines and hash marks next to lines and sentences that I like (in pen). I always kept my books dog-ear and notation free. I still pause before I make a mark. It’s not natural yet. I think I’m going to start a routine where once a year or once a quarter, I’ll go back and re-read the dog-eared pages. I’ll call it dog-ear day and it’ll feel like visiting with old friends. I’m not sure my life is structured enough to do this with fidelity – by which I mean to say, I can’t imagine that I can guarantee I’ll have the time on a specific day of the year or month to carry it out (every New Year’s Day, every Bloom’s Day, every first Friday with a new moon, etc.). For now, I’ll just promise myself to go back and read the dog-eared pages.
It’s Sunday. The rising sun is clear and bright. It’s outlined the gathering clouds in silver and gold. I’m supposed to go to a bar with a friend later – live music. I’m tempted to cancel. I should look at apartments and look for jobs and maybe go purge some books from the boxes in the basement. I should edit and submit some poems and get groceries and go for a run. I also have two new books of poetry waiting to be loved and creased and eventually revisited. So many options and the day has just begun.