My friend Amy recently had a book of hers published. (You all know Amy, don’t you? Amy – everyone. Everyone – Amy. There.) It’s not just any book either, but a book of poetry no less. It’s called ‘Out of True’ and you can – and should – pick up a copy here (for your bookshelf) and here (for your Kindle, iPad or smartphone).
It’s a marvelous book, wonderfully written and full of Amy-thoughts. Many of the poems reflect on love, but it’s not a squishy feel-good collection. Instead it’s full of wonder, pain, sorrow, joy and anger – just like life itself.
In one of her poems (‘The science of this’), Amy describes the brain as a chemical device and how this make us believe we’re attracted to someone or even in love by drugging us with endorphins, dopamine and the like:
“So listen: I don’t love you. My brain’s just telling me I do. And my heart’s still beating. On and on and on. There’s some poetry in that, somewhere. I’ll let you know when I find it.”
In another (‘Fever’) what it would feel like to spontaneously combust:
“They will find perhaps a foot, a finger, the curve of an ear. My clothes will still be plump with my shape. They will blame suicide, smoking. They will not think to blame you.”
In yet another (‘One honest man’), she encounters Diogenes:
“If you see him, let him know his fucking lantern isn’t doing me any good. It burned holes in my good sheets, and I want my Maglite back. I have a search to continue.”
I could go on quoting her all day, but I shan’t. For that you need to buy her book. And you really do need to. Trust me on this one.
Where to buy: