Line by Line

It’s hard for me to enjoy things. I try to be pleasant, but I’m a cynical know-it-all by nature. When I read a great poem, my mind reflexively tries to take apart and examine every aspect of it, as if to ward off the thought that I might be moved for reasons beyond my comprehension. For a while, I channelled this deconstructive impulse into something ostensibly productive and reviewed poetry books, but I never really got to the bottom of it. During the pandemic, I found myself reading more and more about Benedictine monks and realized I was in trouble. My meaning-seeking needed a new focus.

Therefore my immediate reply when I was asked to edit a best‑of anthology, after I confirmed that I was not expected to do it for free, was yes. I tried to go about the task without the usual hand-wringing. I didn’t fret over whether I was the best person to select the best poems. It’s an entirely...