insert poem here

it's that time of year again—the academy of american poets poem in your pocket day is TODAY.

discover a poem, fold it up, put the wonder of it in your pocket—or at least put it somewhere where it might be conveyed—and carry around a little inspiration, a little mystery, a little memory, a little experience. read and reread. feel the pull of an imaginative journey offering, perhaps, a secret, and always pleasure. whatever you do, don't forget to share it.

here's a poem by mary oliver that's in this, my virtual pocket....and in my real one, too.



~Mary Oliver~

ONE OR TWO THINGS 

Don't bother me.
I've just
been born.


The butterfly's loping flight
carries it through the country of leaves
delicately, and well enough to get it
where it wants to go, wherever that is, stopping
here and there to fuzzle the damp throats
of flowers and the black mud; up
and down it swings, frenzied and aimless; and sometimes


for long delicious moments it is perfectly
lazy, riding motionless in the breeze on the soft stalk
of some ordinary flower.


The god of dirt
came up to me many times and said
so many wise and delectable things, I lay
on the grass listening


to his dog voice,
crow voice,
frog voice; now,
he said, and now,
and never once mentioned forever,


which has nevertheless always been,
like a sharp iron hoof,
at the center of my mind.


One or two things are all you need
to travel over the blue pond, over the deep
roughage of the trees and through the stiff
flowers of lightning—some deep
memory of pleasure, some cutting
knowledge of pain.


But to lift the hoof!
For that you need an idea.

is that a poem in your pocket or....?

i scrounge around in notebooks, folders, tote bags and handbags (why on earth do i have so many tote bags and handbags, way more than i do shoes or hats? time to donate to goodwill), and check what's inside the covers of books—bits and scraps of paper with poetry written on them tucked inside books with pages and pages of poetry. what is all this? i should learn how to file like a normal person)—as i look for a printed poem that i might have stashed—hoarding poems like a squirrel hoards nuts—in there.

i need one poem to mark the day. but the problem is finding just one—and only one—the right one, out of dozens.

today is the day to ask is that a poem in your pocket or.....?

the whole month of april is national poetry month and today, the 26th day of april 2012, is poem in your pocket day—any poem, write your own or print out someone else's, be it a famous poet or one written by a friend. you put the poem in your pocket and during the day you share it with co-workers, wives, husbands, kids, friends. think of all the poems being carried around today like fun little packages that, once unfolded, contain meaningful gifts. it's like christmas in april.

the problem is, which poem do i put in my pocket?

do i need to photocopy one of evie's or billy's or arthur's?

home again or victoria's secret by billy collins? the shapes of leaves or at the equinox by arthur sze? canvas and mirror by evie shockley? what was told, that by jalal al-din rumi? before air-conditioning by frederick seidel? horsetail by richard wilbur? green farmhouse chairs by donald hall? no ideas but in things by jessica greenbaum? try to praise the mutilated world by adam zagajewski? getting it right by matthew dickman? my lie by jen mcclanaghan?

okay. i picked one; no, make that two (if there is a third that'll be my secret since i'm way over the limit and i'm not playing by the rules as it is): taking off emily dickinson's clothes by billy collins and poem by douglas goetsch.

so just do it—pick a poem and put it in your pocket today, and even tomorrow. and even the day after that. poems are very good for you. full of nutritious stuff.

poetry is the news

as we near the end of april and the end of national poetry month—it's been a great month of reading poetry, in addition to 30 days' worth of other good reading, too—here is a thought about poetry from billy collins:


~ Poetry doesn't need to keep up with the news; poetry is the news. And the news is very simple: life is beautiful and you are going to die. Read all about it.



the rain stops.

the sun entices.

today we passed drought—earth choking,
cracked, mean—
and arrived at a nicer stop
called wave-a-wand green.

what i am seeing
this morning through the windowpane
seems, to me at least, like magic
as if while i traveled the hours
my eyes closed, i dozed
and when i opened them again
i suddenly discovered
a treasure trove of emeralds—
bright, weighty, priceless, yet
every last one of them

free.