I Read The New Yorker This Week 2

I feel like I've blogged before about Linda Gregg, only I can't seem to find it, and I'm having a recollection of beginning an epic post about Gregg and her ex-husband Jack Gilbert and our history of reading them, and then abandoning it--I can't find a post about Gilbert either, so probably that's what happened. Anyway, so as not to be epic, I will simply say that Linda Gregg and Jack Gilbert are two of the greatest American living poets (besides Joshua and Reggie, of course) (they are our two famous poet friends and we like to promote them whenever possible) (not that our promotion does much).

Lately, the poems in The New Yorker have been making me hate poetry, and, really, I love poetry.

But this week they have a new Linda Gregg poem that is, well, it's the kind of poem that makes me remember that I do love poetry. And because it's not online either, I'll copy it here, with all due respect to copyright and please don't anyone sue me.

ARRIVING AGAIN AND AGAIN WITHOUT NOTICING

I remember all the different kinds of years.
Angry, or brokenhearted, or afraid.
I remember feeling like that
walking up the mountain along the dirt path
to my broken house on the island.
And long years of waiting in Massachusetts.
The winter walking and hot summer walking.
I finally fell in love with all of it:
dirt, night, rock and far views.
It's strange that my heart is as full
now as my desire was then.

[I'm tempted to go on and on about why this poem is so great, but since I'm not in an epic mood, and really it's better to let a poem speak for itself, I'll just point to the line breaks. Those are some hella line breaks.]