Poetry is just one of those genres I never ever touch. No huge dislike particularly, just an overriding preference for a good story and an instinct that poetry should be performed rather than read and internalised. The other half, however, has been on a bit of a poetry binge of late and spreading the love. Starting with Ted Hughes’ Crow and ending with this beautiful little volume he bought for my birthday this year. (And, yes, the Faber and Faber copies are just too lovely to be true, I need to collect them all!)
12. Book of poems
‘September has come, it is hers
Whose vitality leaps in the autumn,
Whose nature prefers
Trees without leaves and a fire in the fireplace.
So I give her this month and the next
Though the whole of my year should be hers who has rendered already
So many of its days intolerable or perplexed
But so many more so happy.
Who has left a scent on my life, and left my walls
Dancing over and over with her shadow
Whose hair is twined in all my waterfalls
And all of London littered with remembered kisses.’