I have read my first book of the year, and it has turned out to be a poetry book.
I found myself relistening to a lot of Bo Burnham recently, and discovered he had a whole new set of work I’d not heard. In what, Bo reads from the poetry book he’s written. I bought it pretty quickly as I had recently finished another book.
I’ve never read much poetry – what I have I don’t remember – and so, I’m not sure how ordinary this particular book is. I do quite like, at least, I’d say, about two-thirds of the material in it.
There’re some pieces which are funny, some which are making a point, and some where the point isn’t all that clear.
Sometimes, I’d read one of the poems, wait before turning the page, and think. The conclusion that I often come to is so unusual that it can’t be the intended meaning. Maybe, that is what separates poetry from books – giving the reader license to draw their own meaning.
On the other hand, maybe the author totally knows what they’re doing – how they’re driving you to self-reflect. Maybe, that’s what makes a good poet.