Although I majored in English literature, I'm more of a novel/short story enthusiast than a reader of poetry. Generally, the major poets I read in college (Spenser, Keats, Shelley, Wordsworth, Tennyson) put me to sleep. Sacrilege, I know; there were a few I really liked (Coleridge's "Rime of the Ancient Mariner," William Blake, Milton's "Paradise Lost," Christina Rossetti) but these were poets (or poems, anyway) who told stories. I also liked some of the older poems ("Beowulf," "Dream of the Rood," "Sir Gawain and the Green Knight"), but more for their historical significance than as works of poetry.
Since graduating, I've tried other, more contemporary poets (Elizabeth Bishop, Sharon Olds, John Ashbery) with some success, but none of them lit my brain on fire. Until I discovered Albert Goldbarth.
I think what I find so enchanting about Goldbarth's poetry is that it doesn't read like poetry. It's philosophy, autobiography, sociology, history, the study of science (particularly physics), and a reflection on the popular culture of the twentieth century, all written with an informality and a gentle sense of humor that makes me want to both ponder the poem I've just read, and move on, eagerly, to reading the next one. I suppose one could argue that all good poetry is supposed to be at least one of these things, but before I read this book I don't think I'd given poetry enough thought to realize it. So I have Albert Goldbarth to thank for that. I see now that poetry isn't just "poetry," or at least it doesn't have to be. It's a synthesis of human thought. So, thank you, Mr. Goldbarth. You saved poetry for this one lapsed English lit major.