• against forgetting: twentieth-century poetry of witness,
• postwar polish poetry (edited by czesław miłosz!),
• poems for the millennium: the university of california book of modern & postmodern poetry vol 1 + vol 2,
• essential pleasures: a new anthology of poems to read aloud,
• poems that make grown women cry + poems that make grown men cry,
• the oxford book of short poems,
• a book of women poets from antiquity to now,
• first loves: poets introduce the essential poems that capitivated and inspired them (so many literary greats!),
• the poets’ grimm: 20th century poems from grimm fairy tales,
• disenchantments: an anthology of modern fairy tale poetry,
• arthur, the greatest king: an anthology of modern arthurian poems,
• chapters into verse: poetry in english inspired by the bible,
• killer verse: poems of murder and mayhem,
• poetry in medicine: an anthology of poems about doctors, patients, illness, and healing,
• a mind apart: poems of melancholy, madness, and addiction,
• friendship poems + marriage poems + motherhood poems + fatherhood poems,
• billy collins’ poetry 180 + 180 more,
• good poems + good poems for hard times,
• emergency kit: poems for strange times,
• the penguin book of… modern african poetry + irish poetry + japanese verse + hebrew verse + love poetry + sick verse (sic!) 

“I’ve spent most of my life chasing the person I want to be. Because 20-year-old me will have better friends and 25-year-old me will land a killer job and 30-year-old me will be madly in love. And me 6 months from now will be skinnier and me a year from now will have more confidence and me some time from now will be better somehow. So much better. For years, this is what I thought. That if I could just wait it out, everything would get better. It took me a long time to realize that life doesn’t work that way. Older doesn’t mean happier or easier, and it certainly doesn’t mean better; it just means older. Life isn’t a well-plotted screenplay or a checklist or, God forbid, some waiting room. We have got to stop waiting. Because life isn’t about growing up to be all that we’ve ever wanted; it’s just about growing. It’s about love and change and crying yourself to sleep when it’s all too much. And working at a burger joint and kissing your best friend even though he might not like you back and calling your mom every Sunday because you miss her like hell. It’s fights and promotions and hospital visits. Hellos. Goodbyes. And then it’s this: another wedding of another one of your college friends, the third one this year, but this time you meet a groomsman who’s just as down on love and you dance all night. And this: he cries when you say “I do.” And this: a kid with your eyes and his dorky ears. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s this: you write everything, everywhere, all the time, even when the prettier kids make fun of you, and the short teacher with the big nose tells you it’s good. Really good. And this: you’re living in a shoebox, by the skin of your teeth, but there’s a bar across the street that lets you read your poetry, and every time you do, someone in the crowd finally knows what it feels like to be understood. And this: your words being published. Your words. Being bought by people who could be spending their money on anything at all. And you sit in your twin bed where you’ve written your entire novel, a dozen empty coffee mugs still dirty on the nightstand, and you scream until your lungs burn. It’s all of these things and good things and bad things and the raw realization that it doesn’t get better or worse, it just gets different. It just changes. Always, always changes. And somehow that makes it more wonderful. Because future you may have the friends and the boy and the job, but she didn’t get it by waiting around. She is a product of you. Right now, tomorrow, changing and growing every moment that follows. She is kind and breathing and beautiful. But she waits for the day she doesn’t have to worry about the bills, and she worries too often about what people think of her. She’s homesick for everything she used to have. She still doesn’t have it together. And maybe that’s what I’ve learned after all this time: nobody has it together. We’re all just here, floundering around in pursuit of being something more. Broken, thoughtful creatures with too much time on our hands, desperate for the companionship of someone who reminds us that we are not alone. We don’t have much of anything figured out. Maybe we never will. But more importantly, I think that’s how it’s supposed to be.”