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Tag: April

an April poem‏

 "Red April" - Sam Gilliam

Red April (1970)

Sam Gilliam

_____

as March was a month of music for me,
specifically mostly Beethoven, with pop
but poignant love songs thrown in,
for
pathos and corresponding agony,
surefire anti-depressants, April is
purportedly the month of poems

here’s one, to itself, the month of
showers, flowers, but also of
ephemerality, evanescence,
regeneration and change, according
to this poem

don’t throw your Aprils away, it
says, tend to them, they’re what,
for better or worse, we have

Richard

________________

Song of a Second April

April this year, not otherwise
Than April of a year ago,
Is full of whispers, full of sighs,
Of dazzling mud and dingy snow;
Hepaticas that pleased you so
Are here again, and butterflies.

There rings a hammering all day,
And shingles lie about the doors;
In orchards near and far away
The grey wood-pecker taps and bores;
The men are merry at their chores,
And children earnest at their play.

The larger streams run still and deep,
Noisy and swift the small brooks run
Among the mullein stalks the sheep
Go up the hillside in the sun,
Pensively,—only you are gone,
You that alone I cared to keep.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

5 April, 2010

                                                                                                                                                                               April is dour here, with grim rain and nearly sleet, but for the burgeoning buds and leaves manifesting themselves in a variety of resplendent colours, from the lightest pastels to the most saturated earth tones, for our wonder and delectation, despite the glum gray cover of clouds 
  
under my matching umbrella I am also a flower, I conclude, and take consolation, inspiration, from the fact that I am not among them alone
  
and proceed as though touched by magic   
    
  
Richard   

 

 

 

                               __________________________                                                                     

 

  

 

sowing poems

since April, National Poetry Month, and a flurry of commemorative throughout poems, one at least a day sent out by a dutiful and diligent moderator, I’ve carried in my pocket at her inspired, I think, suggestion not one but two poems, one per side per page, to scatter indiscriminately as raindrops, it was recommended, anywhere

I cannot help but think that these inadvertent seeds will somehow somewhere flower

they needed to be accessible, I thought, not trite, distinct enough as well to be quickly unforgettable, by definition nearly therefore profound

one described a poet finding intimations of perfection in the song of a nearby thrush, thereby inspiration and an instant recuperative salve

the other takes you into the heart of any poem

both to my mind are brilliant

I’ve been leaving them in restaurants beside my less august of course tip 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      

Richard

                 __________________________

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   The Poet with His Face in His Hands

You want to cry aloud for your
mistakes. But to tell the truth the world
doesn’t need any more of that sound.

So if you’re going to do it and can’t
stop yourself, if your pretty mouth can’t
hold it in, at least go by yourself across

the forty fields and the forty dark inclines
of rocks and water to the place where
the falls are flinging out their white sheets

like crazy, and there is a cave behind all that
jubilation and water fun and you can
stand there, under it, and roar all you

want and nothing will be disturbed; you can
drip with despair all afternoon and still,
on a green branch, its wings just lightly touched

by the passing foil of the water, the thrush,
puffing out its spotted breast, will sing
of the perfect, stone-hard beauty of everything.
 

                                     Mary Oliver

          _______________________________

 

How to Read a Poem: Beginner’s Manual

First, forget everything you have learned,
that poetry is difficult,
that it cannot be appreciated by the likes of you,
with your high school equivalency diploma,
your steel-tipped boots,
or your white-collar misunderstandings.

Do not assume meanings hidden from you:
the best poems mean what they say and say it.

To read poetry requires only courage
enough to leap from the edge
and trust.

Treat a poem like dirt,
humus rich and heavy from the garden.
Later it will become the fat tomatoes
and golden squash piled high upon your kitchen table.

Poetry demands surrender,
language saying what is true,
doing holy things to the ordinary.

Read just one poem a day.
Someday a book of poems may open in your hands
like a daffodil offering its cup
to the sun.

When you can name five poets
without including Bob Dylan,
when you exceed your quota
      and don’t even notice,
      close this manual.
 

                      Pamela Spiro Wagner
 

     

       _____________________________

“April Showers”

    “Let me sing a funny song with crazy words that roll along
     And if my song can start you laughing I’m happy, so happy”
 
I hadn’t seen this show in over forty years, I’d loved it then but who knew what I’d think of it now, I’d found it and its sequel for $2.99 apiece in a secondhand music store on videocassette no less, my only option now even at that low price since I’ve despaired of all DVD’s for being ornery, intractable too often, despite their vaunted versatility, all I ever wanted anyway was the movie, you can keep the superfluous dross
 
I thought I’d see it with my mom, who’d love, I was sure, the nostalgia, we watched it together last night
 
Asa Yoelson is picked up in a vaudeville act by an impresario who recognizes his unmistakable talent, turns him into the great Al Jolson, Larry Parks delivers the part in unforgettable spades, neither had they been forgotten
 
the biography is of course adulterated, each step towards success turned into instead a song, but what songs, each a masterpiece, each a part of our musical heritage, I walked home under a big round moon singing “April Showers”
 
    “Though April showers may come your way
      They bring the flowers that bloom in May
      So if it’s raining, have no regrets
      Because it isn’t raining rain, you know
      It’s raining violets”
 
    “And where you see clouds upon the hills
      You soon will see crowds of daffodils
      So keep on looking for a blue bird
      And list’ning for its song”
      Whenever April showers come along”
 
 
this evening as I walked the few blocks over to my mom’s under the blossoming cherry trees there was not a hint of rain, a breeze barely ruffled the russet and lime leaves that have been sprouting and burgeoning irrepressibly on the trees, where just recently there ‘d been only stark, brittle branches
 
birds sang as I indulged my own warble
 
     “So keep on looking for a blue bird”, I intoned,
     “And list’ning for its song
      Whenever April showers come along”
 
 
 
 
Richard 
 
psst: “The Jolson Story“, “Jolson Sings Again” 

   

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