The Changing Light at Sandover by James Merrill is the first post-war poetry I am reading for pleasure, and enjoying. It’s not strictly contemporary, but it’s something that has hooked me and I am reading through The Book of Ephraim with interest.

It’s not strictly true that it’s not the first such poetry I’ve read; I devoured Brathwaite‘s work (post-war) and have dutifully dipped into Walcott’s poems (and am ready to read him properly; I’ve read a number of his plays) and have sampled Olive Senior‘s work and some Goodison. I’ve read some Bierds and have tasted Hudgins but that was duty, duty. (I enjoy several of my fellows from PFFA, but that somehow doesn’t Count). Reading Merrill for some reason gave me the feeling I was reading some of the more esoteric Yeats, and I’ve stuck with him for that reason.

And more.

I’ll continue to mention Merrill’s work now and then, assuming I have the time and inclination to continue reading Ephraim after I go back to work.


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