The best poetry books for skimming the surface or diving deep into life: you choose

I grew up in an Italian family where the wisdom of my elders poured from ocean voyages. At family gatherings my relatives spoke of chaperoned romances, ice trucks, and cinematic stories that went on and on.

Peggy Freydberg’s image, the lined flesh conveying time’s signature, is what first drew me in. When I learned she began writing poetry at 90, I was curious and immediately humbled after diving into her work. Here was a woman in fierce-writing shape and in physical command of a powerful voice. She was brutally honest about life, aging, and death.

Her poems remain gritty, defiant, elegant, and sad. She passed at 107, and I still imagine the words she’d yet to write. I keep Ms. Freydberg’s memory and her brave words close to my heart.

I’ve never been one to read a writer because of their accomplishments. But there are confessional voices (with stellar accolades), I can’t avoid. Louise Glück’s poetic voice evaluates experiences in ways that remind me that we’re all a bit messed up, but beauty sometimes lingers under rocks if you’re willing to dig. And dig I must to improve my work.

My poetry sometimes hides behind soft language, while my word-wolf remains hidden. Poems like Ms. Glück’s “Purple Bathing Suit” force me to evaluate if I’m artfully deceiving or striving to rise to her level of genuine gut-wrenching prose.

“I like watching you garden / with your back to me in your purple bathing suit: your back is my favorite part of you, the part furthest away from your mouth”

As a small child, I’d felt as alone as a moon in a blank sky.

While my classroom mind collected daydreams, I often missed what the adult in the room was saying. I spent too much time not following directions. I always wanted to prove I was as strong as any boy. My kindergarten teacher had recommended that I repeat the year. My parents decided I should move on. For a long while, fitting-in had felt like sand in my eyes until I discovered Geranium. The words and the fantastical illustrations knew me.

This book taught me to cope by using my words and my art. So, I found Geranium when I was eight, or it found me, and it has been with me ever since. 

Four-legged girl begins with a powerful cover image and ends with the equally evocative “four-legged girl.” Captivating and curious.

I own several Diane Seuss collections, but this one (her third) is my favorite. Seuss bares the train wrecks in a way I admire and strive to emulate. Her lines crash, her images explode – I’m reading but can’t stop the comet crashing to earth, or sometimes earth is crashing into the comet – either way, Ms. Seuss, a former therapist, doesn’t do faux redemption like I so often do out of guilt for happy endings. Her frank language catapults. She confesses, critiques, includes me in her world and excludes pity of any kind.

Her poetry pushes me, in the best way possible, to smash every crayon in my secret box. 

This gorgeous book is labeled an epistolary novel (the first of a three volume saga), but in my heart it’s the purist kind of poetry.

When I first discovered this gem, my inner-child giggled when tugging out the lovers’ correspondence from envelopes adhered to pages. Other romantic notes are laid out in vivid vignettes on postcards with fantastical images and dynamic collage work. I hold Mr. Bantock’s art/poetry/novel and brilliant mind in my hands and dream of a project I could create that might reach his level of lush illustration and emotional language.

At the end of the day, I consider myself an artist first and a poet/writer second. My ongoing challenge is the daily toggle between creating art, creating prose, and remaining happy and sane in the process.