Thursday, April 23, 2015

The poetry of Spring

So far this April we haven't done much out of the ordinary to celebrate National Poetry Month. Let's do something about that today. First, my Better Half sent me a link this morning that I want to share.
  • The BBC has a marvelous piece on WB Yeats (pronounced "Yates," rhymes with ate) on how to read a poem. Definitely worth a read and listen.

  • Next, one of my favorite poets, Pulitzer Prize winner and former U.S. Poet Laureate, Ted Kooser, has an interview in the Daily Yonder. I continue to be motivated in my writing by his ability to find the wonder and poetry in everyday things.

  • Finally, for today, the Huffington Post has Mandy Kahn's "Thirteen Thoughts on Poetry in the Digital Age."
My Daughter Person gave me a great suggestion this morning. I was complaining about my inability to find wildflowers. She suggested I check out William O'Brien State Park. Here's some of what I saw:

Sanguinaria canadensis (Bloodroot)
Sanguinaria canadensis (Bloodroot)
Photo by J. Harrington

Caltha palustris (Marsh Marigold)
Caltha palustris (Marsh Marigold)
Photo by J. Harrington

the first dandelion of the season
the first dandelion of the season
Photo by J. Harrington

I need to spend some time with field guides to sort out what else I photographed today. I'm glad I sometimes have enough sense to listen to the younger generation.

National Poetry Month


By Peter Campion

After the cling of roots and then the “pock”
when they gave way
                                     the recoil up the hand
               was a small shock
of emptiness beginning to expand.

Milk frothing from the stems. Leaves inky green
and spiked.
                      Like blissed-out childhood play
              turned mean
they snarled in tangled curls on our driveway.

It happens still. That desolating falling
shudder inside
                            and then our neighborhood
                seems only sprawling the patterns eaten on driftwood:

even the home where I grew up (its smell
of lingering
                      wood-smoke and bacon grease)
             seems just a shell
of lathe and paper. But this strange release

follows: this tinge like silver and I feel
the pull of dirt
                            again, sense mist uncurling
               to reveal
no architecture hidden behind the world

except the stories that we make unfolding:
as if our sole real power
                                                    were the power
             of children holding
this flower that is a weed that is a flower.

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Please be kind to each other while you can.