The Certainty of Poetry

This week I find myself returning, not for the first time, to Kate Hall's shivery-perfect 2009 book The Certainty Dream . A young writer is standing in my office. She barely knows she's a writer. She has materialized from somewhere down the hall and is standing there practically giving off sparks of electricity, sputtering and catching like a combustion engine, talking about poems and other things writers make and do. I pull down this book and show her the poem "Dream in which I Am Allowed Twelve Items." It's a poem I return to often. I can't help reading parts of it out loud. Let me let me let me the poem pleads. The young writer doesn't know quite what to do with it, but that doesn't stop her. The Certainty Dream is full of poems like this, poems that erupt into my consciousness and take up residence there, poems so sure of their desire and unknowing they change me. Let me have and let and let and let and let, the poem urges, its list