Happy National Poetry Month!

I am doing something exciting for this year's National Poetry Month. I am attempting to write poetry every day for the month of April. Perhaps some days I'll be revisiting previous poems or adding a stanza to the previous day's work. At the end of the month I'll share the best thing I wrote in April.
I'm inviting my college friends to join me and I thought I would extend the invitation to you as well. I'll share my best poem on my blog and would love it if you link your work in the comments. National Poetry Month isn't just about appreciating great poetry that's come before. It's also about being brave enough to try your own hand at poetry.
So who of you will join me? Let's make this a productive month of reading, writing, and searching our souls.

National Poetry Month: Me.

As a special for National Poetry Month, this is a poem I wrote for a class a few weeks back.
"A Tryst in the Greenery"

A single crimson droplet seeps to the surface
Trembling on the edge of my fingertip and
It is drawn into the fabric of my sweater,
Absorbed into the fine weave.
The thorny prickled bushes snatch at my hair
And entwine their arms with mine.
My cheeks are scratched,
Clawed by unseen hands.

There are flowers blooming in the dark,
Vines whithering untouched
And trees torn while still golden.
A tomato dangles on a whiskered stem
Soft orange, not yet ripe,
But the underside is blackening
Dying inside already.
And where are you?

So what do you guys think? I don't share a lot of my creative writing on here, but I rather liked this poem.

National Poetry Month- Christina Rosetti

"An Apple Gathering" by Christina Rosetti

I plucked pink blossoms from mine apple-tree
And wore them all that evening in my hair:
Then in due season when I went to see
I found no apples there.

With dangling basket all along the grass
As I had come I went the selfsame track:
My neighbours mocked me while they saw me pass
So empty-handed back.

Lilian and Lilias smiled in trudging by,
Their heaped-up basket teased me like a jeer;
Sweet-voiced they sang beneath the sunset sky,
Their mother's home was near. 

Plump Gertrude passed me with her basket full,
A stronger hand than hers helped it along;
A voice talked with her through the shadows cool
More sweet to me than song.


Ah Willie, Willie, was my love less worth
Than apples with their green leaves piled above?
I counted rosiest apples on the earth
Of far less worth than love.

So once it was with me you stooped to talk
Laughing and listening in this very lane:
To think that by this way we used to walk
We shall not walk again!

I let me neighbours pass me, ones and twos
And groups; the latest said the night grew chill,
And hastened: but I loitered, while the dews
Fell fast I loitered still.

National Poetry Month: Dylan Thomas

"The force that through the green fuse drive the flower"

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.

The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman's lime.

The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.

And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.

Please remember to read poetry this month (and every month). Support local open mic nights and check out poets.org.

National Poetry Month Festivities

In honor of National Poetry Month, the literary society will be Committing Random Acts of Poetry (C.R.A.P) around campus this month-- not the whole month, just the latter half, but still. I will be performing "Jabberwocky" by Lewis Caroll:

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand;
Long time the manxome foe he sought –
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

It will be epic.

Poetry Recovery Month?

As Jane Austen said:

“She thought it was the misfortune of poetry to be seldom safely enjoyed by those who enjoyed it completely; and that the strong feelings which alone could estimate it truly were the very feelings which ought to taste it but sparingly”

In other words, too much poetry is not a good thing when it comes to being sensible. (ooh... is this a debate between sense and sensibility? I digress.)
So this month I am dedicating myself to reading a healthy amount of prose to counteract all the romantic notions I've probably got in my head after a month of so very much poetry. So, I'll be getting a jump on my summer reading. The title of my list this year is "Don't be so ignorant." Things I've been meaning to read, have heard referenced constantly, and really should know being an English major. Although there are some European authors on the list (like James Joyce), I'm going to try and fill the deficit in my knowledge of American literature. I have never read The Great Gatsby. I know. My shame is deep.
Now what book to dive into first?
Oh, and I did call my grandmother (see post below). She was delighted and assures me that I won't need to remind her about the program, this she'll remember. Sometimes she calls me by my brother's name, but this, she'll remember. Ah well, it'll brighten her summer.

Sonnet Sunday: Open Edition

Since I am running out of favorite sonnets I am opening today's entry up for anyone to post their favorite sonnets. It's either this, or I post one of my rubbish sonnets. No one wants that.
Please, I am desperate for fresh 14-liners.

Non- Sonnet Saturday: Anna Akhmatova

One of my favorite poems by Russian poet Anna Akhmatova, "You Thought I was that Type"

You thought I was that type:
That you could forget me,
And that I'd plead and weep
And throw myself under the hooves of a bay mare,

Or that I'd ask the sorcerers
For some magic potion made from roots and send you a terrible gift:
My precious perfumed handkerchief.

Damn you! I will not grant your cursed soul
Vicarious tears or a single glance.

And I swear to you by the garden of the angels,
I swear by the miracle-working icon,
And by the fire and smoke of our nights:
I will never come back to you.

Poetry Reminders

This National Poetry Month is nearing its close, but their are still exciting events to look forward to:
-Poem in Your Pocket Day, April 23. Carry around your favorite poem and share it with everyone you know (and maybe a few you don't... but don't get injured or arrested)
-Shakespeare Day, also April 23. William Shakespeare, by all records seems to have been born and died on the same day. Weird.
Combine both aforementioned celebrations by carrying a Shakespearean sonnet in your pocket. That's what I'll be doing.
Now I need to research dopplegangers in literature and get some sleep.

Sonnet Sunday: Neruda

Sorry it's late: busy day.
Sonnet XVII by Pablo Neruda

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

Non-Sonnet Saturday

I took a literature class once where we studied song lyrics as the most highly circulated form of poetry in the modern world. With that in mind my poem today is a song by The Decemberists, a very eccentric band. They have specific signatures and sounds in their music, but at the same time they experiment with quite a variety of styles. I highly recommend them. I've been listening to them quite a lot this week, re-realizing their genius. Something quirky and humorous today:

"Apology Song"

I'm really sorry Steven
But your bicycle's been stolen
I was watching it for you
'Til you came back in the fall
Guess I didn't do a good job after all

I was feeling really sorry Steven
And I spent all morning grieving
And everybody's saying
That you'll take the news gracefully
Somehow I don't think I'll be getting off so easily

I meant her no harm
When I left her unlocked
Outside the Orange Street Food Farm
I was just running in
Didn't think I'd be that long
I came out, she was gone
And all that was there was some bored old dog
Leashed up to the place where your bicycle had been
Guess we'll never see poor Madeleine again

Let this be consolation, Steven
That all the while you were in England
I treated her with care and respect
And have her lots of love
And I was usually pretty good 'bout locking her up

Where has she gone?
Well, I bet she's on the bottom of a Frenchtown pond
Rudely abused on some hescher's joyride
So I wrote you this song
In the hope that you'd forgive me
Even though it was wrong
Being so careless with a thing so great
And taking your poor Madeleine away, away

Sonnet Sunday: Frost

A sonnet by American poet Robert Frost, most famous for his poem "The Road Not Taken." Today, "A Dream Pang":

I had withdrawn in forest, and my song
Was swallowed up in leaves that blew away,
And to the forest edge you came one day
(This was my dream) and looked and pondered long,
But did not enter, though the wish was strong:
You shook your pensive head as who should say,
'I dare not--too far in his footsteps stray--
He must seek me would he undo the wrong.'

Not far, but near, I stood and saw it all
Behind low boughs the trees let down outside;
And the sweet pang it cost me not to call
And tell you that I saw does still abide,
But 'tis not true that thus I dwelt aloof,
For the wood wakes, and you are here for proof.

Sylvia Plath: Mad Girl's Love Song

Our Keats Party had a small,but enthusiastic turn out. Tasha brought an amazing spinach dip that went over quite well, and my iced chai did not stay on the table long either.
Saturday non-sonnet poem is one of my favorite examples of early Plath:
Mad Girl's Love Song

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

Throwing a Keats Party

Surprisingly, entering "Keats Party" or "Romantic Poetry Party" into a search engine yeilds little results. I, along with the rest of the campus literary club, are throwing a party tomorrow night to celebrate John Keats and his contemporaries. It is apart of the National Poetry Month festivities.
As a party theme, there aren't many activities that spring to mind for a group to participate in. I'm bringing my copy of Bright Star, but we really had a difficult time coming up with other activities. My suggestion of contracting tuberculosis was rejected with good reason, so we decided we will have a reading of our favorite Keats poems as well as those of other romantics, and there will be a Jane Austen board game. The film will likely occupy most of the guests for the majority of the time. There is a possibility of some Magnetic Poetry making an appearance as well, which will likely lead to many interesting compositions.
Our refreshments will consist of cupcakes, mushroom puffs, chips, soda, and iced chai tea.
Feel free to use this as a guide to throw your own Keats party for National Poetry Month or whenever the mood takes you.
Now, really stop distracting me, I’m a bit behind on my Script Frenzy page count.

Sonnet Sunday: Shakespeare

April 23 is the anniversary of William Shakespeare’s death and most likely his birth (he was christened on the 26th). On the 28th of this month the RSC’s Hamlet premieres in America on the PBS series Great Performances.

Sonnet 98

From you have I been absent in the spring
When proud-pied April, dress’d in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,
That heavy Saturn laugh’d and leap’d with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
Could make me any summer’s story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:
Nor did I wonder at the lily’s white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
Yet seem’d it winter still, and you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.

"Symptoms of Love" by Robert Graves

Saturdays in April will see a non-sonnet poetry post by me to spread the poetic spirit and encourage Random Acts of Poetry.
"Symptoms of Love" by Robert Graves

Love is a universal migraine,
A bright stain on the vision
Blotting out reason.

Symptoms of true love
Are leanness, jealousy,
Laggard dawns;

Are omens and nightmares-
Listening for a knock,
Waiting for a sign:

For a touch of her fingers
In a darkened room,
For a searching look.

Take courage, lover!
Could you endure such grief
At any hand but hers?

April 1st, a Day Crowded With Incident

In a literary sense this is an exciting day; April first marks the kick-off of Script Frenzy, April is also National Poetry Month (please perform RAPs Random Acts of Poetry!)
It is also a day of pranks and lampoonery. Google has not forgotten that tradition with this entry on their official blog: A different kind of company name. I must applaud them for this as well as their attention to detail. Have you Topeka'd today?
Let the Script Writing and Poetry Reading begin! Visit the websites: Poetry.org and Script Frenzy