The response was tepid. No one replied. No one wrote in to say they were touched. Perhaps, they felt I was being too pretentious. Perhaps, I was. I stopped mailing poems.
But the habit has stuck and I still feverishly scour poetry books on New Year’s Eve (this is good, since I rarely dip into poetry for the rest of the year).
Right now, I am wading through a lot of stuff by Arthur Rimbaud, the boy genius. Here’s a simple one from his amazing oeuvre.
A Sleeper in the Valley
A green hole where a river sings;
A young soldier sleeps, lips apart, head bare,
He sleeps with his feet in the gladiolas.
Sweet scents don't tickle his nose;