There hasn't been enough poetry in my life lately. Of course, I'm lucky in that poems of various kinds are never too far from me, owing to the nature of my work. In moments of minor crisis I'll grab something from the shelves, or something proposed for a test and read whatever has popped up along with a nice cup of tea down in SAC. But, satisfying and strangely stabilising as that might be, it's not quite the same as the experience of reading a particular poet full on, no holds barred, as it were.
I suppose the fact that my recent reading has revolved around one or two big, demanding novels accounts for why I've not been steadily moving through some kind of individual collection, or major longish piece. I lost sight of my chunky Tennyson edition when we were moving apartment, which meant a sequenced reading of In Memoriam I had undertaken was interrupted. And after starting on Joshua Ip's entertaining Making Love With Scrabble Tiles before the big move I similarly allowed the volume to drop out of consciousness.
This evening I decided to right this wrong and got moving again on both from the beginning. The contemporary poems seem even more enjoyable a second time round, as you might expect. And In Memoriam seems more contemporary than ever. Can't think how I came to neglect them both.