https://www.newyorker.com/culture/2018-in-review/the-poetry-i-was-grateful-for-in-2018

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American poetry in 2018 is a massive oak, and I’m not going to try to jam it back into its acorn. Words like abundance and variety come to mind, only to be swatted away as inadequate, plus a little patronizing. Mine is one view, helpfully elevated, unhelpfully insulated. The best view of poetry is to have no view, to be lost inside a line, a poem, a book, a new or newly reanimated tradition. That’s where you find the happiest moments. Then you resurface and try to tell the world what kinds of insanely beautiful visions you were shown. You were taken to where the culture’s keys are hidden, then sent somewhere to dry out. My metaphors strain, which is their nature: it’s how you know they Full story

30 November

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