The Poem Itself
I thought I’d like to have with me a copy of Stanley Burnshaw’s 1960 book The Poem Itself but realised the battered paperback I had was left in some obscure place. So I sent for one and received this almost edible oatmeal version, an American edition. It was a really important book for me, presenting those nineteenth century French poets to me in a way I could not have previously understood. Not so much in translation, but more in dissection. At the same time it is comforting to have the plasticity of the volume around, almost like a favourite coat. There is an unfathomable certainty in its title, which I feel reassured by. SC
notes from an urban hibernation 