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f4f3I like reading poetry - it's sort of meditation distilled into words. I like the way the activity shapes my brain into certain paths, and I like the way I feel afterwards. The last two books of poetry I read were two collections by Liz Lochhead, Dreaming Frankenstein and The Colour of Black and White. I love Liz's work, performed and on the page, and I'm glad she's the Scots' Makar, that she speaks for us.
I tend to read collections a poem at a time, last thing at night, and let each sit with me in my dreams. Which makes for some interesting dreams, I can tell you.
The episodic nature of the poems, though, frustrates my need for narrative. I tend to read for something between 30 minutes and an hour (or three, or four) before sleeping, and even the chunkiest of modern poets don't stretch out that long. And if I read more than one at a time, their effect is diminished, not cumulative.
I've found something that satisfies both impulses, though, and I'm grateful, not for the first time, to a bull-necked Aussie for keeping me happy in bed.
I've read a few translations of Dante's Divine Comedy. Or, to be honest, I read all that juicy stuff about the inferno, and then stall halfway through purgatory and never reach heaven (uh huh, and my after-life may well impersonate art, I know). I've always read it almost as an academic exercise, though, and not for pleasure.
Clive James has changed that. There may be more scholarly, more linguistically faithful and more literary translations (there must be - he says there are in his introduction) but so far I've never read anything that's so much fun, that reads more like a novel that's propelled forward by every line, and in every line too.
I came across the hardback in Waterstons a couple of weeks ago,and it's been my constant companion (though I haven't taken it to work). If I'd bought the Kindle version I'd probably have saved some money, but I wouldn't have the physical pleasure of hefting it around, the small joy of watching my bookmark progress through the pages.
At the moment I'm alternating bed time reads between this and the Jack Reacher of the moment (on to number 17, I'm afraid, and looking forward to the Dresden books already).
It's a bit late to recommend this as a beach companion, but I think it's not a bad book to go with us into Winter and be our guide.
I tend to read collections a poem at a time, last thing at night, and let each sit with me in my dreams. Which makes for some interesting dreams, I can tell you.
The episodic nature of the poems, though, frustrates my need for narrative. I tend to read for something between 30 minutes and an hour (or three, or four) before sleeping, and even the chunkiest of modern poets don't stretch out that long. And if I read more than one at a time, their effect is diminished, not cumulative.
I've found something that satisfies both impulses, though, and I'm grateful, not for the first time, to a bull-necked Aussie for keeping me happy in bed.
I've read a few translations of Dante's Divine Comedy. Or, to be honest, I read all that juicy stuff about the inferno, and then stall halfway through purgatory and never reach heaven (uh huh, and my after-life may well impersonate art, I know). I've always read it almost as an academic exercise, though, and not for pleasure.
Clive James has changed that. There may be more scholarly, more linguistically faithful and more literary translations (there must be - he says there are in his introduction) but so far I've never read anything that's so much fun, that reads more like a novel that's propelled forward by every line, and in every line too.
I came across the hardback in Waterstons a couple of weeks ago,and it's been my constant companion (though I haven't taken it to work). If I'd bought the Kindle version I'd probably have saved some money, but I wouldn't have the physical pleasure of hefting it around, the small joy of watching my bookmark progress through the pages.
At the moment I'm alternating bed time reads between this and the Jack Reacher of the moment (on to number 17, I'm afraid, and looking forward to the Dresden books already).
It's a bit late to recommend this as a beach companion, but I think it's not a bad book to go with us into Winter and be our guide.
