“I, too, dislike it,” begins chapter one.
I remember sitting in class, words like “iambic pentameter” and “consonance” swirling about the room like an intolerable fly drunk on the stuffy classroom air. These words were important, we were told. To understand poetry, we needed to know the rules. And say we did learn the rules, well, we were sixteen-year-old kids and certainly not capable of unraveling the true meaning of a poem. Teacher’s pet and I didn’t even try to feign interest.
Ten years later, I’ve decided to give it another go.