Happy National Poetry Month!

Since it's national poetry month and spring, here are some delightful poems to welcome this light-filled season with!

1. Such Singing in the Wild Branches by Mary Oliver
Mary Oliver's poems are often dotted with the delights of nature and the joy of life, so her poetry is perfectly suited for this season.

2. Spring Rain by Sara Teasdale 
Almost nothing says spring better than wild rain and remembered love. 

3. A Prayer in Spring by Robert Frost 
A lovely, short plea asking to stay in the beauty of the here and now. 

4. Spring by Christina Rossetti 
Rossetti is one of my favorite poets of the 19th century. Check out this lovely rendition of what's truly happening in spring: how alive everything is. 

5. The Caterpillar by Christina Rossetti
A short, slightly humorous poem about Rossetti's hopes for this insignificant, yet potentially beautiful creature. 

6. In Just by E.E. Cummings 
One of my friends loves Cummings so much that she named her car after him. Me, not so much, but this poem is sweet and whimsical-perfect for this season. 

7. Spring by Gerard Manley Hopkins 
A lovely lyrical look at lambs, thrushes, and trees (so, basically, all things spring). 

8. Today by Billy Collins 
I feel like Collins and I are great friends since his poetry is so real, raw, and risible. Although Today is not risible, it gives you a fresh perspective on the wonder of today.  

9. After the Winter by Claude McKay
This poem will make you sigh and murmur, 'aw' at its conclusion. After all, isn't love what we're all searching for? 

10. Lilacs by Amy Lowell
You can't have spring without flowers...or, more specifically, lilacs! 

Poetry Fun

Not all poetry is deep, about a soul-mate or what it feels like to suffer the death of a loved one. And thank goodness, or we'd all be crying our hearts out each time we wanted to read something more lyrical. Here's a poem about the silliness of the English language to end the month of April on a light note (or rhyme ;).

Foolish Questions

American Folk Rhyme adapted by William Cole

Where can a man buy a cap for his knee? 

Or a key for the lock of his hair? 

And can his eyes be called a school? 

I would think-there are pupils there!

What jewels are found in the crown of his head,

And who walks on the bridge of his nose? 

Can he use, in building the roof of his mouth, 

The nails on the ends of his toes? 

Can the crook of his elbow be sent to jail-

If it can, well, then,what did it do? 

And how does he sharpen his shoulder blades? 

I'll be hanged if I know-do you? 

Can he sit in the shade of the palm of his hand, 

And beat time with the drum in his ear? 

Can the calf of his leg eat the corn on his toe? 

There's somthin' pretty strange around here!

Oh, Tennyson

Another poet spotlight today (because, remember, it's national poetry month!), and today it is the very talented Tennyson. As I'm sure you've noticed, all of the poets I've chosen are dead. This is mainly because those are the ones we (mostly) studied in college, so I'm not very familiar with contemporary poets. And they've lasted all of this time for a reason, right?

I've found Tennyson's poetry romantic (not in a boy-girl way), imagistic, and deep. If you haven't tasted any of his delicious poems, view this as your invitation. You won't be sorry.

The Dying Swan 

By Alfred Lord Tennyson

The plain was grassy, wild and bare, 

wide, wild, and open to the air,

which had built up everywhere

an under-roof of doleful grey. 

With an inner voice the river ran,

adown it floated a dying swan,

and loudly did lament. 

It was the middle of the day. 

Ever the weary wind went on, 

and took the reed-tops as it went. 

Some blue peaks in the distance rose, 

and white against the cold-white sky, 

shone out their crowning snows. 

One willow over the river wept, 

and shook the wave as the wind did sigh; 

above in the wind was the swallow,

chasing itself at its own wild will,

and far through the marish green and still

the tangled water-courses slept, 

shot over with purple, green, and yellow. 

The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul

of that waste place with joy

hidden in sorrow: at first to the ear

the warble was low, and full and clear; 

and floating about the under-sky,

prevailing in weakness, the coronach stole 

sometimes afar, and sometimes anear; 

but anon her awful jubilant voice,

with a music strange and manifold, 

flowed forth on a carol free and bold; 

as when a mighty people rejoice

 with shawms, and with cymbals, and harps of gold, 

and the tumult of their acclaim is rolled 

through the open gates of the city afar,

to the shepherd who watcheth the evening star. 

And the creeping mosses and clambering weeds, 

and the willow-branches hoar and dank, 

and the wavy smell of the soughing reeds, 

and the wave-worn horns of the echoing bank,

and the silvery marish-flowers that throng

the desolate creeks and pools among, 

were flooded over with eddying song.