Ted Berrigan's Sonnets. (Not all together, anyway. Though I've read individual ones here and there, off and on.)
Not sure. Just hadn't gotten around to procuring them.
Till now.
Update: It's really amazing to me how much of a poet one thinks one doesn't know that well one actually does know pretty well when one sits down to rectify the unknowing. Subbing for one and a poet. What; it's like I've already been absorbing the sonnets from the residue they've left on other poets? So soft! You're soaking in it. Or maybe I have just grazed at many of more of them I realized in my ramshackle browsing. This handy little book'll need to stay handy most of the time now on.
Update: Oh I'm not finished. Thinking or rather nothinking. (& remembering that I used to be less self-conscious talking into this thing.) You know what I mean. I mean they are comfortable instead of earth shattering, because I am not of the same moment as the book. So it is a relief to read the sonnets and also a disappointment. But it is mostly a joy.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment
I reserve the right to delete unwanted comments or ban users by IP address as necessary. Please don't make it necessary.