via google
via google

It’s National Poetry Month again! I adore National Poetry Month. For one thing, it’s April, and that’s my birthday month. So I get presents (which I also adore). But it’s also an entire month when I can talk about poetry, write about poetry, admit to loving it, and be totally nerdy about it. And no one bugs me. Well, not tooo much, at least.

This year I’m off to a slow start, as I ready for a trip to see the grandson, and try to leave the house in decent order for my sister, who’s dog/cat/house-sitting. Given that I would rather do almost anything than clean house, there was a lot of catch-up…

People often ask me why I love poetry, as if it was some kind of slightly perverse affliction. Usually I shrug & say ‘Why not?’ But since I’m among friends, I’ll confess: poetry has saved my life. More than once. And I mean that in the sincerest of ways.

via google
via google

When I have been as immured in the darkest of self-imposed prisons, when my life has seemed worthless & not worth continuing, some poet has always been there to lead me back to light. A lyric of a song — not only the music, but the words like a message; a mantra of a phrase; even the half-remembered lines from a dense graduate class… These have been signposts and maps and stars. I owe poets more than I can say. That’s why poetry.

I toyed with the idea of giving you some of my own poems, but decided instead to link to the amazing poetry of others. Some famous, others not-so. I’m beginning with a poet who is pretty well-known in schools, but never has achieved the popular appeal I’d like for him to know. Poet Robert Hayden, the first African American to be appointed as ‘consultant in poetry to the Library of Congress‘ — now known as the US Poet Laureate position — is one of my very favourite poets. I have a kind of fangirl/author crush on him. His poetry is both accessible and rewarding of deeper study. He seems a great poet to begin with.

Here’s his famous poem Those Winter Sundays. Enjoy!

Sundays too my father got up early 
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold, 
then with cracked hands that ached 
from labor in the weekday weather made 
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him. 

I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking. 
When the rooms were warm, he’d call, 
and slowly I would rise and dress, 
fearing the chronic angers of that house, 

Speaking indifferently to him, 
who had driven out the cold 
and polished my good shoes as well. 
What did I know, what did I know 
of love’s austere and lonely offices?


More from Beliefnet and our partners
previous posts

I know education intimately. I’ve worked w/ urban schools, k-university, since 1990. At the district, state, & national levels. I’ve met w/ officials from across the globe (literally: Africa, Europe, Australia…). I have educator friends & colleagues around the country. So keep that in mind. The pro-DeVos argument  is loaded w/ biased rhetoric. Let’s begin w/ […]

Reading Jessica Livingston’s ‘Sound of Silence‘ struck so many resonant chords it was like she was playing my song. A soundtrack to a current dilemma I’m waffling over. Which is…to FaceBook or not to FaceBook. Livingston articulates the downsides eloquently: I’m sick of being a target for every neocon who buys alt-right agitprop. I’m tired […]

In a month of giving thanks for everyday blessings, people sometimes assume that I’m not grateful for the big things: my home, my family. My material well-being. But the point to an entire month of giving thanks for ‘ordinary magic,’ is to remind each of us (me especially!) that in our lives, there is much […]

Today I’m grateful, in this month of 30 days to remember all we have to be thankful for, that I’m an aunt. Being an aunt is a gift someone else has to give you — no one gets to ‘pick’ it. And it’s nothing at all like being a sister, or a mother, or even […]

Close Ad