(HOST) We turn now to writer and commentator Anne Averyt, who loves this time of the year – and not just for the weather.
(AVERYT) April is poetry month. And despite the premature warnings of its demise, poetry thrives. It is alive and resilient in a cluttered age of tweets and twitters, ipads, ipods, acronyms and abbreviations. IIWWMS – It Is Well With My Soul. The meaning of a minor 19th century verse shines even in 21st century texting. It speaks to hope and sorrow – the very heart of poetry. Poetry, which takes us inside ourselves, which says slow down, you who are running so fast to escape yourself….
Poetry can be cerebral like T.S. Eliot, or romantic like Wordsworth and Keats; it may laugh and make jokes like e.e. cummings – or be enigmatic like Emily Dickinson, imagistic like the Russian poet Achmitova.
Whatever form poetry takes, it is universal and it is intensely personal. I am an erstwhile poet. I write poetry because I need to know what my heart is feeling, what my mind is thinking beneath the rush of me in my petty pace – what something deep inside wants to tell me, if only I pause long enough to listen.
And when my soul’s voice can speak its poetry, its heart, it may be a sorrowful lament: "How quiet is snow at 4 a.m, how still the night…" – or a glory song: "I feel wide and full of joy… I feel grass growing between my toes, I feel the changing wind…." But to hear my poet’s voice, I have to first be still.
So, then, how will you honor this month of tribute, this month of poetry? By choosing to ignore it in your life of more important things, or by finding a quiet corner in the midst of rush and run, to renew an old friendship or begin a new one. It doesn’t matter whether you prefer a sonnet to a haiku, or get lost in formless free verse. There are no poetry police to tell you what to like or not to like.
Whatever you choose, the rewards will be priceless. You may meander down a familiar lane with Robert Frost, or rejoice with a priest in the glory of dappled things.
April, this month of poetry, opens with a nod to fools. Of course, poetry has nothing to do with fools – and everything to do with fools. Wise fools who speak in mime, who twist and play with words, poke your consciousness, sear your heart – stir you to dream, to ponder, to wonder, laugh and shed tears – to feel. Most of all, to feel.
Happy April, Happy Spring. Hop in a poetry book, and go for a joy ride.