Should be a song, and while not optical in nature, it is of great value to me.
Cruising the book store, I casually alighted on a book of verse, hefted the tiny hardback, swore I wasn’t buying any more verse that I pay so little attention to, then opened the book. Fell open to a page with a short snippet of posey about a relationship.
Stuck that expensive hardback version of the book back on the sale shelf, grabbed a paperback, arguably cheaper, off the shelf next to it, and continued to wander and ponder.
Do I need more books of poetry? Especially the post-modern, post-punk variant that lacks lasting and classical appeal, a diminishing return over time?
Judging by the way the verse struck me, though, and I was still gripping that book by the time I got to the counter? Sure.
It was nothing more than a simple line, a series of lines, and spoke volumes to me. Reminds me a certain lover.
Image is here, via the side-project.
No, my resolution to bring in no more books, I’ve failed, yet again, especially expensive books of modern verse. But that one set of lines, the image? Answered all the questions about whether I should buy the book — or not.
Sticking to the modern model of criticism, with no background research — at all — I thought I read that the author was an import, an immigrant herself. I’ll wait until I’m done reading and commenting before I bother to research. The flyleaf proudly proclaims, “New York Times best-seller!”
It’s remarkable modern versified poetry wherein the voice is strong, female, and luxurious in that minimalist way. Love and loss, words so perfect it touches the soul. Another’s soul laid bare? Sure.
Standing at the counter, to buy the paperback version, the checker lady looks at me, asks if I have the discount card, I do, so the hardback was two bucks cheaper than the paperback. She hustles off and back, so I got the hardback version. All I wanted was that one page with its words, really.
Reading it through, though, there are moments of exquisite pain, perhaps redemption and hope for later, but that pain captured in the barest minimum of words. Not lyrics, but lyrical.
The middle section, something about love, the kind of verse where you lie in bed and read them aloud to your lover — it pleases her.
Just simple text, another verse, few lines.
If I were to teach an astrology class, again, if I were to set about constructing a course — and course work — this book would be part of the required reading. Any enlightened, or seeking enlightenment, type of person, willing to plumb the depths of the soul, yes, required reading. It’s cheap on Amazon.
I can read it like a novel and be done in hour or two, but the pain, the loss, the love, the growth of the unnamed character, presumably the author herself, and the sparse, spare quality of the words themselves.
Should be required reading, at least, for this week.
The thing about writing? As covered, “the thing about writing…”
Beautiful words, whatever the definitions are.