My young son, and my husband, have opened my ears. Again.

Young son gave to me for Christmas "ten poems to last a lifetime" , edited by Roger Houseden. Apparently there are a number of these (open your heart, change your life, set you free, of love and revelations); but I'm really enjoying the one he gave me.

First of all, it's not expected of a 12 year old. Second of all, they are good poems, from good poets I would otherwise have never read. (Which is why I highly recommend giving books to friends which they might never pick up. You never know when you might change a person's life.)

The second poet to hit me between the eyes since December is Charles Bukowski. Hubby has had people raving about his poetry for at least 35 years. We finally read it - sense a kindred soul - and he's been dead since the mid-90's. Oh well. At least he left a bunch of stuff for his widow to publish (and benefit from - go, chuckie baby!). It doesn't matter which book of his you pick up - though I will say the one published in 2005 had a certain ring to it, since many of those poems were written in his later years and I'm no longer a teenager. There's been another, already published with a 2006 date on it.

The third book was again presented to me by my precocious young son, this time for my birthday. He gave me Five T'ang Poets (translated by David Young) - Poets who wrote from the years of 699 to 858ad. Fucking brilliant. May I just say?

One of my favorites (by Tu Fu, considered China's best poet) starts like this:

"The riverside flowers are driving me crazy
because there's no way to describe their effect"

.

Fucking brilliant. Apparently, he was a failed politician. A good thing, too, because if he'd been successful and wealthy, he wouldn't have written such brilliant poetry.

I can try to write in the Bukowski tradition, which you've seen bits of. I am, however, totally missing the point when I try to write in the T'ang tradition.

Long live the urge to learn.