Poetry feels, largely, unable to be rated because, for the most part, a collection will contain some poems I don’t care for, some that speak to a deep core of me, and many that are quite good. This collection is no exception.
Instead, the story of how this collection came to be in my possession is interesting to me. And I want to write it down as a record, so one day I remember. One of my favourite people, a former teacher of mine, invited me to go through the house of her father-in-law. A man I never met. A theatre director, university professor, and member of the Order of Canada, with a prolific literature collection (among other impressive media collections). A man who meant a lot to a lot of people.
I took a lot. First editions of some of my favourite books. Whole collections from authors I know are important, but haven’t yet read. The early and lesser known works of my favourite writers. Magazines from the past featuring The Beatles. Vinyls of classical music collections. In almost every book, he’s written his name inside the front cover.
This is the first book I’ve read since I was invited to take what I wanted, a family’s desire to see their loved one’s items passed to those who will cherish them. At the time, his wife was very ill and, even though he was not, they were moving out of their gorgeous house near the river valley to a place with more care. My favourite teacher and her husband were getting the house, her husband’s childhood home, ready to sell. A lifetime of living, boxed away, given away, thrown out.
Since that day, both the man whose book I read today and his wife have died. When I read this, there were little rips of paper—not post it notes or stickies of any kind, but irregularly torn pieces of paper—tucked into the pages, marking certain poems. Poems to share? To revisit? To teach? To copy? To inspire? All of the above? Were they from him or someone else who borrowed his book? I won’t ever know for certain, but what I do know is that these scraps of paper in this book of poetry connect me to a man who no longer lives and who I never met. I’ve left them there for someone whoever reads this book after me to discover. And if that isn’t poetic, I don’t know what is.