An Evening over Shared Affection: Poetry Books Not to Miss

by Mischa Willett

It has always seemed to me that a high and holy camaraderie accrues to people who love the same things. When I go to concerts, for instance, I feel a kinship with everyone else in the hushed (or by turns raucous) venue because we’re all of us leaning in the same direction, breathing at the same intervals. It’s part of why I like praying in liturgical settings, and why I like meeting other book-people when I give poetry readings: this is us, I think, these are my people. But the feeling carries for me even when we’re not physically-gathered, even when we haven’t met–we’re still leaning in; there’s still an us here–and sometimes I like imagine the talks we’d have could we stuff ourselves into some country pub with world enough, and time. 

Let’s say, for instance, find ourselves in the Queen's Arms, C.S. Lewis’ other favorite pub, the Bird and Baby being closed for repairs, or over at Two Kick in Seattle where I usually hang out, and maybe you see me scribbling away, or I see you reading The Mockingbird, or Image, or some other publication that signals an informed and artistically-interested fellow Christian, or anyway it comes out that I’m writing poems and maybe you are too and we get talking. Maybe you’re fresh from Hutchmoot or the Glen or one of these new Inkwell evenings that Ekstasis is hosting and are all fired up about the life of the mind, the soul of the world, the community-building potential of the arts. Eventually, we’d get around to the question “have you read anything good recently?” And that's when our cartridge needles would settle into our respective grooves and things would really start swinging. When it’s my turn, I’d spin something like the following.