It is a very quiet evening here in our quiet home, on our quiet street, with our lovely cats. I've been reading poetry and feel a little lyrical and a little dense. I love poetry, the way an idea forms almost from nothing, from a wisp of smoke. But I do confess a little bit of weariness to some of the 'greats'. I guess I am not that brilliant of a scholar to be able to catch the subtle nuances of language and feel. There is a mystery to a poem and directness and a sly sideways glance, almost like catching the site of a fairy out of the corner of your eye an when you turn to it, its gone. One of my favorite poets is Billy Collins and I like him for precisely the reason that he seems to be derided by critics. He is accessible. I do not have to be in the know to know his poetry. His language is simple and spare and bare bones and lovely. He is lyrical without being pretentious. I guess that would explain his critics but still I enjoy his work.
This is not to say I do not love other poetry. That I do not get say "Praise Song for the Day" from the inauguration recently. Or Emily Dickinson who is a lovely poet, so sharp and clear. I always wanted to get poetry, to be in the know, and possible to speak in that language, but I do not, I am a simple person with simple language and spare parts left over from reading too much Jane Austen.
Today has been a long day and I am tired.