Some time ago, I pulled out Dorothy Wordsworth’s Grasmere Journals, read them, and reviewed them on the blog. I knew I had a book of William Wordworth’s Poetry, and thought it would be a good time to find and read it. I was pretty sure it was in a certain place, my bookshelf in the storeroom, and sure enough it was there.

So I dusted it off, brought it up to the sunroom for my noon reading, began reading it every day, and promptly fell asleep. The book was boring! Boring in the extreme.

I’ve another poetry book I found I couldn’t read. It wasn’t boring, but it just wasn’t enjoyable. It wasn’t my kind of poetry. But Wordsworth’s was closer to what I wrote and the type I like to read. So I can’t really explain my aversion to Wordsworth’s poems.

Or maybe I can. In the preface to Lyrical Ballads, Wordsworth explained his philosophy of poetry: that it should in the common language of the day, with meter added. I guess that’s what he did. His poetry is in very plain language, heavy on scene description, short on words that want to keep me reading.

The book of poetry that I didn’t like, I was determined to stick with it until I had read 20 percent of the book. I tried to do that with Wordsworth’s but couldn’t. I stopped at about 12 percent. No, I’m not going to pick this book up again and finish it. In fact, I plan on taking it to the next meeting of my critique group and see if anyone there wants it. If they don’t, it goes straight into donation pile.

Oh, yes, I give it just 2-stars.