I used to read POETRY aloud on the toilet whenever my bowels moved me. This was long before I undertook the ongoing great work of reading the world’s religious texts—a journey which is at this moment nearing the end of The Qur’an. Back then, I could polish off a copy of most any book of poems in a matter of days. As of late, though, I’ve taken to reading a couple of pages in the evening, after completing my nightly journaling and recording of the day’s failures. Thus, the slow pace of consumption.
I don’t normally “review” POETRY because I can never find the words to describe how I feel about modern and contemporary poetics. I read these works in a feeble attempt to press a pair of fingers to an artery of the culture and pretend I can measure the pulse. But as I reached the end of this edition I was reminded about what I do know of my ability to assess this often esoteric and impenetrable art form: I despise reading poets talk about their poetics. I find it gross, crass. And with this understanding of self I’m saved from the slog of several pages of direct pretense at the end of every issue.
2024.12.29 – 2025.02.08