Saturday, February 4, 2012

Edna St. Vincent Millay

So, I discovered this American poet when I was in my senior year of high school and then, my best friend bought me a copy of her collected poems when I was in my first year of college. Sadly, during a really nasty flooding rain a few years ago, the book got soaked while still packed in a box from the move from my apartment to my house. Now, that book is missing its back cover and the pages are wrinkled and mildewed in places but it didn't keep me from putting it in its proper place on my shelf along with some of my other favorites.

And every now and then, when I feel like a good cry or just...when I feel like taking a look at another woman's gnashing and reeling and healing and forgetting, I take the book from my shelf and I peruse the poems I've marked over. And even though the ink is smudged and some of my own comments I can't read anymore, I can still recall exactly how I felt when I first read her.

I find myself wanting now to read her again...perhaps because it's the one book I could never let myself part with despite its own decay.

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