It sometimes amazes me what I leave behind at my mother’s place. Most of the time, I think that possessions are a drag. When you are without them, you begin to wonder why you even want/ need them in the first place.
But books always have a place in my space. Even as each square foot here becomes more priced.
I dusted two collections, and brought them home. I knew I was looking for the Pablo Neruda one. And then I spotted the W H Auden. I felt so bad for having left them there! As if books have feelings.
I don’t know what it is about poetry, but sometimes, I just want to read them. Maybe it is the capacity for imagination, maybe I admire the concise delineating a scope larger than itself. Sometimes, reading poetry calms me.
Some poetry is good for you, I think.