Had this idea for a while now that instead of jumping on the internet first thing every morning and checking my Twitter feed to find out what way the world ended or failed to end overnight, I’d begin the day by reading some poetry. I thought this would be a more writerly and inspiring way to get things going. It would put good words in my head, good as in beautiful and useful, and, if I chose the right poets, help reconnect my thoughts to the physical world after a restless night in which I alternated between insomniac anxiety and nightmares.
This morning I decided to put the idea into practice and at first light grabbed for the first book of poems that came to hand from a stack nearby the bed---I’m sorry it wasn’t either of yours---and dove in, opening it to a random page and reading whatever met my eye, which happened to be this from Meatloaf by Donald Hall:
5.When I was named Poet Laureate,
the kids at Danbury School painted
baseballs on a kitchen chair for me,
with two lines from "Casey at the Bat."
In fall, I lost sixty pounds, and lost
poetry. I studied only Law
and Order. My son took from my house
the eight-sided Mossberg .22
my father gave me when I was twelve.
Yikes. Sticking with the new program anyway.