Time You Let Me In: 25 poets under 25, selected by Naomi Shihab Nye - review

Yes it's poetry. I don't like poetry as a rule, but by god I say yes to this:

...even when
the words grace me with their presence,
they don't always choose to step
delicately into the world, pink shoes
treading softly over the white horizon.
usually poetry slops lazily over the couch
of a page and dangles while I remove its muddy
shoes and rearrange the pillows, all the while
muttering something about Frost and how maybe
his comments against free verse were right
all along (poetry in rhyme always cleans up
after itself) although honestly, you haven't lived
until the homeless free-verse poem on your couch
decides to stay for a cup of tea and, if you're
lucky, lets you take notes on everything he says.

from "invitation" by Mackenzie Connellee, in Time You Let Me In

There's a butt-ton more of that where this comes from - meditations on the last photons from a dying star, the burning feeling of hiding and making out, joyrides and wine coolers, fitting in, learning, rebelling, parents, grandparents, and oh my god breathless love. Something about the sparkling grittiness of late youth - it's all coming at them so fast, no wonder all they have time for is poetry, little phrases of clarity captured on a car ride or lying in bed, strung together and looped across a window.

Here's another little bit:

as far back as I can remember
we've been pissed off,
the whole bloodline, just really pissed.

from "as far back as I can remember" by Jonah Ogles, in Time You Let Me In

If you could say "Good job!" in that delighted voice with the big smile in it that you give a three-year-old who zipped her own coat to a teenage or just-past-teenage poet (which you can't, not unless you want to hideously damage him or her), I would say "Good job!" to Lauren Eriks, who wrote:

I have bed knobs in my hands, portals,
doorways. I can leap over
buildings, baby, bouncing
through walls. I'm free as a
racing rubber ball. When I get lit
on the trail of your Camel cigarette,
you know I can break
every bottle, butt, bombshell around.

from "La Belle Dame Sans Merci" by Lauren Eriks, in Time You Let Me In.

As I write this, on this Spring night full of wind, there are teenagers vaulting from the parking garage to the roof of our library, trying doors and evading the cops. We are startled by their sudden presence, by the thump of their feet on our roof. Those kids will go home and write poetry. Or eat a Hot Pocket and play Rock Band and crack each other up re-telling what they just did. That's poetry too.

Poetry Friday is hosted today at The Drift Record.

Comments

[Mary Lee]

I think you've got teens right and I want to read this book more than ever now!

[Doret]

I can't wait to read this collection now. Its in my soon to be read pile. Soon is going to coming pretty quickly.

[Andromeda Jazmon]

I've got this book in the pile next to my bed. Thanks for the great review! You have whet my appetite. Love your description of the teens barnstorming your library roof.