Enthusiasm

Dorothy Porter died while I was in England. Mostly unnoticed by the English press. I never met Porter, so it's not a personal loss, but The Monkey’s Mask is probably the most enjoyable poetry book I’ve read.

Why does it feel so awkward to write that? Is it because a literary education is about learning to evaluate and appreciate and analyze, where everything has to be weighed and measured and any statements needs to be qualified, with any kind of certainty or personal response disappearing down an endless chain of subordinate clauses?

Is the lack of opportunity to sound clever or to do the critical performance with text as launching pad?

I don’t want to take back anything said or written about her work. But somehow I wish I’d said: ”I really enjoyed reading this.”