The Boy Whose Hands Were Birds

In my opinion, poetry is best read aloud. Discussion of poetry, and especially writing about poetry, always strike me as boarding a fast carriage moving in the opposite direction of where you're trying to go. Reading poetry to oneself is kind of like watching a concert with the TV on mute. But I digress. Sometimes you want to read poetry, and the author isn't there to read it to you. (Trust me; it's the best way to do poetry.)

Since we're no strangers to shameless plugs, I'm going to shamelessly plug The Boy Whose Hands Were Birds, a book of poetry by my buddy Roy Seeger, even though his wife stopped submitting to In the Weird and they wouldn't send me a free reviewer's copy. It's a good book. I don't think I've heard the author read any of these poems, but I have heard him read other poems, so I'm doing my best to imagine his voice.

And even though I'm not great at writing about poetry, I'm going to link to my review of The Boy Whose Hands Were Birds, just in case you wanted to read my three-sentence summary of a book that introduces approximately three intense images in every line.