not a good day; on poetryI'm feeling vaguely sad, and I'm not sure why. Not wrist-slashingly sad by any means. Just uneasy... uncertain. I just made $200 for doing not very much. After carrying it around a week a month for 2 years, I finally got a call on the Support pager at work. And it dragged on for 2 hours. So lots of money for me! Woo! It doesn't make up for me feeling crappy, though. I'm gonna go to bed soon. I picked up a book of poetry on the weekend. I don't do that very often. I did it out of a bit of synchronicity. It started with an Intel article about this film playing at Sundance. I think I'd heard of Al Purdy before, but in kind of a distant, abstract sort of way. Poetry was never my thing anyway. I held onto that idea for long enough to actually pick up one of his books in Chapters. He writes about the places he's from, like Ameliasburg ("that burg named after some little German dumpling named Amelia"), where my parents would take me and my sisters and me for drives in the summer, about the history, about his grandfather... He wrote occasionally about the Epic of Gilgamesh, which I loved in highschool. He carried on a decade-long correspondance with Charles Bukowski, the only other poet I ever really looked at, in my last year at university. The synchronicities added up, and I figured I should probably give old Al a try. I'm quite liking it. comments:
This post is archived. Comments are disabled. Feel free to send me email if you have something to say. | ||
|