Cate says I need to covet more.
I would like to be able to tell you that I have nothing to covet. I have seen the error of my materialistic ways, and have become a Buddhist.
I can't tell you this. I lack understanding of most Eastern belief systems and philosophies, and I like stuff. Stuff is good. Fortunately, many of the things I like I can pretend make me intellectually superior to other people who like things.
Let me tell you a story.
When I was in elementary school, we would periodically get thin catalogues of books and book-related items from Scholastic. I don't know why. But whoever had this idea was a wonderful person. There might be one or two of these catalogues, and they were maybe four pages long--forgive me if my memory is faulty--and whenever I got them I carefully went through and circled every single book I wanted.
Then, knowing I couldn't have everything I wanted, I would erase some circles. Eventually I would go to the order form, a simple set of columns where one could mark how many of each book one wanted. I usually would narrow it down to, oh, I don't know, four. Then, when I talked to my mother about it, I would either have to whittle it down to one or two or try to get her to let me put more on the order form.
I think my mother must have been absolutely delighted with Scholastic. These books were cheap. Her only daughter loved to read. It was a beautiful situation.
I loved it, too. I was coveting from a young age, and when the books we ordered arrived, it was like Christmas. Christmas with books.
Admittedly, Christmas was usually with books for me.
Now that I am no longer in elementary school, I realize that a significant portion of my book collection probably came from these Scholastic book orders. I may not love all those books as much anymore, but I think the Scholastic book orders were the best thing ever--and I hope no one can prove me wrong, because I would be horrified and saddened to learn that my books were bound in sweatshops by underpaid Chinese children who are addicted to nicotine--and I do have one right here that I have enjoyed for over ten years.
This is my copy. You can't have it.
On the back cover, Olivia Newton-John "wondered if it shouldn't be called Everyone's Anthology of Poetry." The Poet Laureate Robert Hass says some things, too, but he didn't star in the musical all my peers loved. (I thought Grease was all right, but it always seemed to me that Sandy changed far more for Danny than he did for her and that it wasn't especially fair.)
As I was saying, the collection of poems in this volume is varied. Some reviewers on Amazon give it two stars for having poems that they claim children won't understand. I assure you, a child will pay no mind to such a poem and turn the page; it's not a reason to get upset over the title. I am happy that I have had this book as long as I have. It contains poems from staples of American culture and high school English classes: Poe, Dickinson, Tennyson, Thomas, Whitman, and so on.
I am not a great connoisseur of poetry. I can tell you that the translation of Basho's frog-in-a-pond poem isn't my favorite, and (get ready for this) that even I would have included more than "In a Station of the Metro" for the Ezra Pound pages, but I also just forgot T. S. Eliot's name for about two full minutes. I am not kidding.
One thing this poetry anthology has done for me, though, is confused me majorly when reading certain well-known works in the various poetry-related classes over the years. I remember thinking once, "I've never read Christina Rossetti before," and then finding her in my anthology. Incidentally, the bookmark you can barely see in that photograph is at "Remember," page 236.
I also credit this anthology with my interest in trashy romance novels. How, you ask? Alfred Noyes's "The Highwayman" is included. While the highwayman and Bess aren't the lords and ladies of my beloved Regency romances, the highwayman is well-dressed and he keeps his guns shiny. It doesn't take much to romanticize danger and illicit meetings for little Maureen.
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