I've bought a few books of poetry over the years, more than most people, I suppose, if we're not counting the works of Dr. Seuss or Shel Silverstein, and yet I'm not sure why I bother, because I never open them. Discovery, maybe even happenstance, seems to have become crucial to the poetry experience for me; a searched-out poem doesn't have the same kick. Still, when I find a poet whose work I like, I'm tempted. Sure enough, I looked on Amazon for Craig Arnold—but the books, all out of print and sold by third parties, were kind of expensive. Which is a shame, because Poetry's October issue had an excerpt of a poem, "Hot," that I'd like to read more of.
"Hot" (excerpt)
by Craig Arnold
I called in sick
next morning, said I'd like to take
time off. She thinks I've hit the bottle.
The high these peppers give me is more subtle—
I'm lucid, I remember my full name,
my parents' birthdays, how to win a game
of chess in seven moves, why which and that
mean different things. But what we eat,
why, what it means, it's all been explained
—Take this curry, this fine-tuned
balance of humors, coconut liquor thinned
by broth, sour pulp of tamarind
cut through by salt, set off by fragrant
galangal, ginger, basil, cilantro, mint,
the warp and woof of texture, aubergines
that barely hold their shape, snap beans
heaped on jasmine, basmati rice
—it's a lie, all of it—pretext—artifice
—ornament—sugar-coating—for...