Two Editor's Choice Awards from the International Library of Poetry hang on the wall in my study. Basically, they don't mean much. In fact, I spent quite a little time trying to locate on of them; I had thrown it into some drawer with little thought at the time. What they do, though, is attest to my belief in the worth of poetry. With such a few words I can paint a meaningful picture of my thoughts at the time, and the only way to write poetry, I've found, is to read recognized poets and decipher their styles and intentions.
One whom I'm reading lately is Donald Hall, the present Poet Laureate of the United States. He was married to the late poet Jane Kenyon who died before growing old, leaving him a lonely man. It's not hard to judge his emotions after reading much of his poetry written after her death - "I rise from the carseat and hobble to the grave of a woman who does not age" or "the hour we lived in, two decades by the pond, has transformed into a single unstoppable day."
Last night we attended the prayer service for a lady who at 65 years of age died too young. When it had concluded, I searched out my brother-in-law and said, "She was our age." He nodded and said something to the effect that we'd better hurry and get some good things done. Enough said.
