Bolaño’s poems had a pretty powerful effect on me. Not the content so much, but just how powerful and not precious they could be. This is not to say that Bolaño is the only one who writes like this at all–I had just locked poetry out of my life for so long, that this was a nice wake up call.
And so, I have written this poem as a thank you.
On Reading Bolaño’s Poetry
I feared
That poetry was an infant
Which I should not hold
Unless I was prepared
To nurture it.
A creature
Which could not be exposed
To the sun
Unless I promised
To shield it
With meticulous reading
And re-reading.
Unless I was willing
To memorize
Every point. And curve.
But poems are not
Butterflies,
Easily damaged through neglect
Or handling
Incorrectly. Or at all.
Indeed
Some are vipers and scorpions;
Venomous, waiting to prick
Unsuspecting eyes
And hearts.
Of course,
Not every poem is so sharp.
Some are frail
And unable to stand
Without my support.
But I should not
Determine its fate
Before letting it display
Its viability.
Which I know
Has nothing to do with me.
I Just Read About That... 
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