Poetry.

I’m the first to admit that I’m not a big reader of things. I tend to imagine voices and think about timbre and delivery when I read, meaning that it’s generally a slow process that I tire of easily. This is perhaps doubly true when it comes to poetry, which I admire from afar but don’t have much of an interest in. I find the fruity language to be interesting and the metaphors clever and satisfying but, well, the majority of poetry that I seem to have read has either been far too flouncy or far too bleak.

However, I have recently discovered Philip Larkin, who seems to write in such simple and graceful terms about the things that genuinely interest me (the human condition within somewhat quietly aggressive misanthropy) and it is absolutely marvelous.

Suddenly all of that time spent thinking that poetry was not for me fades away into nothing.

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