I think there may be a conspiracy to make me a fan of poetry.
It began innocently enough. I read Ali Leibgott's The Beautifully Worthless, which is part prose, part poetry, and really liked it. I've picked it up a couple times since, read a few pages, and crushed over it again.
My introduction to Trebor Healey's writing was his novel, Through It Came Bright Colors- absolutely the best book among the Violet Quill nominees that year, so it was no surprise to me when it won. That's how these poets suck me in, I've decided. They write astounding prose and then next thing, I'm holding a copy of Sweet Son of Pan in my hand and listening to Trebor read these amazing poems, and I say, "Wow. If it's like that, I think I can get into this."
Sometimes I think there's a space/time continuum anomaly surrounding Trebor, because every time I talk to him it feels as if I have to think at the speed of light just to keep up with him, but physical time stands still. Then I look at my watch and two hours have passed. This space/time mystery surrounds his writing too. I meant to pace myself this weekend and read only a couple of his poems a day. Then I read a few more. Next thing I knew, it was Sunday evening, and I didn't have any more to read. Now I'm carrying hia words around in my brain, and a few in my heart, and I have a feeling that I'll be taking this collection out into the backyard on other weekends and passing pleasant hours reflecting on his work. Which -egads - makes me a fan of poetry. It's a conspiracy, I tell you.
Psst. You wouldn't be holding, would you? Whitman? Auden? I just need a taste.