The Sun and Her Flowers

I am not a great lover of poetry and am usually stumped by it. Historically if poetry isn't a haiku or in iambic pentameter I am a little too dumb to read it, because I don't know how to make it sound in my inner voice. Don't ask me to read it out loud. I am self-conscious of this blind spot. I tried reading The Waste Lands last year and was totally bumfuzzled by it.

Anyway, I saw this in a little free library yesterday. Chewed through it rapidly. It is not surprising that I did not relate to all of these, but some of them really dropped into a hollow place within and bounced around, echoing all the while.

I am usually pretty open to vulnerability in my writing but these are pretty raw and I am a little too self-conscious to type the ones that meant the most to me here. But I will obscure them in a bit list of the page numbers for those that spoke to me so loudly:

19, 22, 25, 26, 30-33, 35, 36, 47, 52, 53.

63, 67, 79, 87, 97, 103, 105, 109, 122.

160, 185.

205, 207, 229, 240.

I also really liked the closing poem (?) on an unnumbered grey page towards the back that starts, “and then there are days...”