Book bomb
Book bomb
Writing magazine sets an exercise this month, to write a poem about a book you've recommended for discussion at a book group, in terms of both its physical properties and actual content. It's always a risk suggesting a book to other people, who may have a different take on it to you - that's really the point of a discussion group - but it's also an emotional risk when it's a book you love.
It weighs heavy in my hand
This large format paperback
With its rich Pre-Raphaelite cover,
Its brittle yellowing pages
Hinting at its age,
Its ridged spine bearing witness
To the number of times I read it
In the flush of an old love affair:
Hands held in the Tate gallery
The exquisite pain of snatched moments.
A shared love of art and literature
The public face of sublimated passion,
The utter impossibility of it all
Reflected in the story held inside its covers;
It weighs heavy on my heart.
Now, after twenty or more years have passed
It's safe enough to pick up once again,
To expose this old favourite to fresh scrutiny
My own, and those I trust.
I read, anticipating a thrill that never comes
Its emotion no longer heightened
By the love that illuminated every page.
This time I find a different emphasis,
A more balanced interpretation,
The sub plot is finally given its due.
No longer fearful of the group's analysis
I reach catharsis. This cherished book
Has lost its power to floor me,
Its heft no longer emotional
It can be safely put back on the shelf -
Just like my old lover,
A fond memory, not a bomb.
© Copyright 2019. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved
Writing magazine sets an exercise this month, to write a poem about a book you've recommended for discussion at a book group, in terms of both its physical properties and actual content. It's always a risk suggesting a book to other people, who may have a different take on it to you - that's really the point of a discussion group - but it's also an emotional risk when it's a book you love.
It weighs heavy in my hand
This large format paperback
With its rich Pre-Raphaelite cover,
Its brittle yellowing pages
Hinting at its age,
Its ridged spine bearing witness
To the number of times I read it
In the flush of an old love affair:
Hands held in the Tate gallery
The exquisite pain of snatched moments.
A shared love of art and literature
The public face of sublimated passion,
The utter impossibility of it all
Reflected in the story held inside its covers;
It weighs heavy on my heart.
Now, after twenty or more years have passed
It's safe enough to pick up once again,
To expose this old favourite to fresh scrutiny
My own, and those I trust.
I read, anticipating a thrill that never comes
Its emotion no longer heightened
By the love that illuminated every page.
This time I find a different emphasis,
A more balanced interpretation,
The sub plot is finally given its due.
No longer fearful of the group's analysis
I reach catharsis. This cherished book
Has lost its power to floor me,
Its heft no longer emotional
It can be safely put back on the shelf -
Just like my old lover,
A fond memory, not a bomb.
© Copyright 2019. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved
Comments
Post a Comment