Present to self

It could only happen online. The other day I heard a text ping in - a text from an online friend whom I've met twice, I think, in real life. I feel we know each other quite well, despite the wired nature of our connection; he certainly knows me well enough to understand the depth of my enthusiasm for the poetry of R. S. Thomas - an enthusiasm he shares. The text message sent me a link to Amazon, with the news that he'd found the book for sale at £17 instead of the £84 it had originally cost (really) and was I interested? 

The upshot of this was that five minutes later I'd bought it - one of the only two left on sale, apparently. And I'm really pleased. I came to Thomas' poetry myself, as a teacher of Higher English analysing one of his Welsh poems before using the exam paper it was in to instruct my class in the niceties of Practical Criticism. Later - in that same year, I think - I used another of his poems, one I'd not come across before, when I was setting a paper in the subject. This had me so excited I wrote to him, I copied out poems from library volumes, I came across more and more, I read his autobiography.

Every now and then, I read what other people have to say about his poetry. I feel much of the discovery is my own, but I'm excited by the prospect of a chapter headed A poetic theology of suffering. I think I'm on the brink of having my mind expanded again - not something that often happens at my age. It was commended me as a great book for Lent - but I may not be abe to wait as long as that.

But I am not going to read it before Christmas ...