Whenever I think about the fire, I think of some of the things I lost. Many of those are books, and one in particular is a poetry anthology. The copy I had was dog-eared from reading and re-reading and re-discovering poets like Mari Evans and Phyllis McGinley and Richard Wilbur, and even the standards - Whitman and Frost and Browning. This is the book that made me realize that the copious amount of verse I wrote in high school was not really poetry. At least, not the kind that contributes to literature, the kind people read over and over again and come to memorize certain passages, even whole poems, and helps them crystallize their feelings and thoughts and understand the world around them. The majority of my poetry rarely transcended above my selfish need to pour out my adolescent angst.I loved this book. It's the only one I have spent any real time searching for so I could replace it. My problem was that I couldn't remember it's title or the editor's name - only that she was a she. I've actually grieved for this book (hey, some books are like good friends - you can turn to them anytime you need to, and you understand them and they understand you), and I've almost given up searching for it. Almost.
And today... I FOUND IT!!!!!! Excuse me for screaming, but it's worth it. And... I found it for the perfectly paltry price of $2.95 (plus shipping). Thanks, Alibris!
God bless the Internet.
