I was recently down in PA to visit my folks with my wife and sister in law. There, we watched The Darwin Awards, a surprisingly enjoyable movie with so many great cameos. One of those cameos involved the poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti, which, in my book, pretty much made the movie worthwhile there and then.

I immediately sought out my old copy of A Coney Island of the Mind, a wonderful book of poems, which was such a treasure to me all those years ago when I first was getting into poetry. In those early days, this book never left my side. (And if you ever see any of my very early poetry (which, God willing, you never will) they are very directly and very obviously influenced by Ferlinghetti.) My friends and I would read from this book to each other, along with Ginsberg, Cummings, Keats and many others. They were some of the happiest moments I remember from growing up in small town Pennsylvania.

Ferlinghetti has such a way with words. His poems nearly dance off the page, and so do you when you read them. His poetry is full of love and life and true music, at once accessible to everyone and rewarding of multiple reads over multiple lives. The back of one version I have (a fourth printing) mentions that he printed the book in paperback originally in order for it to fly far and wide, reaching the largest possible audience. I think that is Ferlinghetti to me, the poet who wants everyone to read and hear and love not just his own poetry, but the living and everlasting, everburning soul of poetry which lives in every place and time.

If you know anyone who loves poetry but finds contemporary poetry too obtuse, send them this book. It will reignite the flame.