I am a confirmed poetry agnostic. I don’t read it in The New Yorker. I don’t go to poetry readings. And I give the “chapbook” section of bookstores a wide berth. I know this is wrong. I know that I’m missing out. But me and poetry don’t grok each other, and I’m not sure there’s anything to be done about it.

While I’m fairly sure that it won’t bring me over to the poetry dark side, it is worthy of note that Shauna McCabe’s first book of poetry is being launched this Friday. You may remember Shauna from earlier episodes of the weblog like Charlottetown Remixed and Plazes Comes to Charlottetown.

Of the aesthetes in town, Shauna’s work has always struck me as being the most “relatable to,” — although she can trade in the language of “deconstructionist allegory memes” and “stunning Rabelaisian bio-quirks” with the best of them, the works she curates at the Confederation Centre always seem to have elements that “everyday people” (like me) can jump into. As such, there’s a remote chance that I might even appreciate Shauna’s poetry. A remote chance.