I’d have preferred, then, more abstract essays. I’d have preferred to bring my own example and imagery of pain and loss to that particular poem and meld it there of my own accord. For, then, that poem would be mine to experience. The nourishment I took would be directly from the source. I did not wish to read about the editors’ daily lives in regards to the other poets’ work. I’d have preferred, if personality must intrude, to read more about each poet, in each instance. A bit of scenery if you will, a setting. And then, let me discover the poems on my own. Let me bring to these words my own life’s music, if it must have accompaniment. Let the editors choose the twenty poems, and then choose what not to tell. The editing is in knowing when to stop.
The co-editors (who write poetry) have each included a poem they wrote. Those would have been the spaces following which to insert their editorials of personal experience and meaning; they could have done so with authority and shone light on their interesting individual and shared histories. In those cases it would have illuminated the poems’ paths. Otherwise, I could not hear the nature for the noise. I wish very strongly that, at the very least, the twenty chosen poems would have been in their own chapter at the front of the book - with no editorial commentary whatsoever. Then, either reprint the twenty poems paired with each of the twenty essays written by Ms. Valente and Mr. Reynard, or simply print the essays in their separate sections, under the appropriate matching chapter title. Give the reader a bit of space either way, for their own wander.
One thing I believe about a soul is that it needs room. One thing I believe about nourishment is it can’t take place elbow to elbow in a hurried jostle. Yes, I could have taken the time after each poem, put the book down. But I kept thinking, they would not have written this if it did not matter. So I turned the page. I suppose the thing I am saying, perhaps cruelly, is that the content of the essays did not matter to me. It matters intently, I’m sure, to the essay’s writers. To the people in their stories. But for me it was the host standing in the way of the poet I wanted to hear. I would pay for a second book which was all about their inspiring story; but I felt it was out of place in a poetry collection. It also, frankly, troubled me that editors of a poetry volume of mixed origin would include two of their own works. Does this mean their own poetry inspires them? Fair enough, but again I felt a boundary had been crossed, and diary had replaced editorial judgment.
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