When poetry fits

Sometimes, I carry poetry with me to read when the book that I'm 'really' reading is too precious or cumbersome to take with me, or if I know that I'm unlikely to get much reading done. This works particularly well if I think I'll only get short bursts of time to give attention: when it's possible to read a whole poem, but not a whole chapter.

This skews the process of reading, since it means I'm more likely to read poetry in the middle of, and instead of, something else: so it sets up a lop-sided relationship between the poetry and the 'something else'. It also means I'm more likely to read poetry when I'm more busy, which must affect the way in which I receive it.

At the moment, I'm part way through an antique edition of John Ruskin's Seven Lamps of Architecture, but carrying around Carol Ann Duffy's The Bees. Ruskin's what I want to be reading (but also what I feel postponed from 'getting through'); Duffy's what fits easily in my bag or my day.

It's a curious thought that the physical properties of a book affect when and how you read it - and that this effect can apply to whole genres/forms. The more direct substitution of Twitter and email for poetry is a related issue, but one for another time.