Abstract
for decades reading the newspaper at breakfast nauseated me. a glance at the contents, and my mood turned dun while bile began to percolate, its grounds rough and almost tinny, as if my feelings were being shoveled into a burr mill. that has changed. a month ago I canceled my subscription to the morning paper. Now at breakfast I sip a cordial of poetry. the poems are not nepenthean—intoxicating and distancing me from life: instead the verse awakens and broadens sensibilities. amid the granola, bananas, soy milk, and Russian tea, I pause and, if I don’t smile, I nod, in the pleasure of words finding harmony. the world is always muddled, but living doesn’t have to be as confused as the front page of a newspaper, a surreal blend of pathos and absurdity, of gossip and propaganda, of commerce, and of pack aged heartache oozing artificial sweetener. Now at breakfast lydian airs freshen my spirit, and Childe Roland’s approaching the dark tower is endlessly suggestive. sometimes between spoonsful of all Bran I hum “native wood notes wild” and “sport with ama ryllis in the shade.” spring is months away, but when it arrives, weeds will spin “in wheels” and “shoot long and lovely and lush.” Besides, beauty is wondrously present and everdappled, no matter the season, when I read lines such as Meredith’s:
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