At long last I began reading The Collected Poems of W.H. Auden a few weeks ago. But a book of poetry of this size and magnitude simply can't be read like a novel. One goes back to it over a period of weeks, shelves the book, and takes it up again during commercial breaks of Seinfeld. Auden is one of those luminaries whose poetic breadth and length is astounding, and he writes a fair amount on love. I read a little Auden this week while trying to prepare an anniversary poem for Becky (our actual anniversary is today, August 18, and I can't wait to eat Chinese with the kids tonight, then home for an evening of bill paying and postage stamp sticking). But as far as great poetry, I'm not sure that even Auden can help a guy like me.
I will have to look back through my own collected poems to find something old and rare. Kind of like Becky herself.
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