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NaPoWriMo

This is so cool. To hon­or Nation­al Poet­ry Month, there’s Nation­al Poet­ry Writ­ing Month, which is pro­vid­ing dai­ly poet­ry writ­ing prompts for April. I imme­di­ate­ly thought of Hope Evey. Because of this mar­velous thing I’m see­ing a poem a day from anoth­er love­ly lady.

NaBloPoMo April: Poem

So this mon­th’s blog­ging theme is “Poem.” Not poet­ry, but “Poem.” 1 It’s in hon­or of Nation­al Poet­ry Month. It’s been a few years since I wrote any poet­ry, so to hon­or the theme I’ll point you to poet­ry I’ve shared else­where on this site from a favorite author, Madeleine L’En­gle.

1 You can […]

Poetry: Jane Kenyon

The Blue Bowl by Jane Keny­on

Like prim­i­tives we buried the cat with his bowl. Bare-hand­ed we scraped sand and grav­el back into the hole.                                They fell with a hiss and thud on his side, on his long red fur, the white feath­ers between his toes, and his long, not to say aquiline, nose.

[…]

Poetry Question

In hon­or of Nation­al Poet­ry Month, the Acad­e­my of Amer­i­can Poets has been send­ing out a poem a day via email to sub­scribers. I’m enjoy­ing them, but one of them just…

Have you ever found the form of a poem to be so weird that it gets into the way of the mean­ing? I’m find­ing […]

Poetry: Edna St. Vincent Millay

I want­ed to do some­thing dif­fer­ent for today’s Thing-a-Day, and I signed up to be part of Live Read­ings a while back but had­n’t record­ed any­thing yet, so I’m post­ing this is both (all three?) places.

“What Lips My Lips Have Kissed, and Where, and Why (Son­net XLIII)” by Edna St. Vin­cent Mil­lay

What […]

Poetry: Michael Blumenthal

For my Sam

A Mar­riage You are hold­ing up a ceil­ing with both arms. It is very heavy, but you must hold it up, or else it will fall down on you. Your arms are tired, ter­ri­bly tired, and, as the day goes on, it feels as if either your arms or the ceil­ing will […]

Poetry: Robert Frost

The Arm­ful For every par­cel I stoop down to seize I lose some oth­er off my arms and knees, And the whole pile is slip­ping, bot­tles, buns, Extremes too hard to com­pre­hend at once. Yet noth­ing I should care to leave behind. With all I have to hold with hand and mind And heart, if […]