Kay Ryan was the U.S. Poet Laureate from 2008-2010 and The Best of It (Grove Press, 2010) is certainly representative of her lifetime achievement in poetry. I was fortunate to procure this first edition last week and have been carrying her poetry with me as I've ambled from place to place and been busily engaged in my own compositions of comfort and joy. She writes sparingly, but precisely, and most of her poems have a philosophical air about them that are at once accessible and deep. Ryan is also a master at the metaphor, the double-meaning, the oxymoron. And this collection is enough supply for anyone looking to gain an appreciation for a poet at her zenith.
I like Ryan because she also writes of domestic affairs: the nuances of daily living; tapestries of relationships; the dichotomies of love.
Looking back on my own poetic output (thus far in 2012), I considered these expressions of love and all the poems my wife has not read (that's most of them). I thought I'd pick one from my own romantic slush pile and try it on for size. Here's one about growing older. Slowly. With enough time to think about it.
Time Was
Time was when I saw time
As all the time in the world
As time to ignore such hours
As hours slip golden by
And a dark hush swoons
Across the sky.
Time now as time defines
The broken circle breaks
As time in distant history
As hours fleeting hurled
And yearning for time's love
In the weak arms of the world.
I like Ryan because she also writes of domestic affairs: the nuances of daily living; tapestries of relationships; the dichotomies of love.
Looking back on my own poetic output (thus far in 2012), I considered these expressions of love and all the poems my wife has not read (that's most of them). I thought I'd pick one from my own romantic slush pile and try it on for size. Here's one about growing older. Slowly. With enough time to think about it.
Time Was
Time was when I saw time
As all the time in the world
As time to ignore such hours
As hours slip golden by
And a dark hush swoons
Across the sky.
Time now as time defines
The broken circle breaks
As time in distant history
As hours fleeting hurled
And yearning for time's love
In the weak arms of the world.
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