Do you have a poem in your pocket?

poetry magnetsYou should!

Thursday, April 29, is National Poem in Your Pocket Day. Take a moment and find a poem you love, write it down, and put that poem in your pocket to share with those around you on that day. It’s all part of celebrating April as National Poetry Month. (Don’t feel bad – I just found out about it, too.)

Need some help finding that perfect poem? Try these resources:

  • Poetry 180 – includes a list of all 180 poems they recommend for high school students (a poem for each of the 180 days in a school year)
  • Poets.org – website for all things poetic, including poem-a-day, seasonal poetry lists, teen poetry resources, and a lot more
  • Poetry Tool from the Poetry Foundation – narrow down the poem you are looking for by category, occasion, title, first line, and author. 
  • The Writer’s Almanac – get your poem for the day, as well as “this day in history” snippets. Includes a searchable database of poems Garrison Keillor has read on the Writer’s Almanac.

What poem is in your pocket? Mine is inspired by this morning’s rainy drive to the library:

Spring rain
leaking through the roof
dripping from the wasps’ nest

-Matsuo Basho

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One response to “Do you have a poem in your pocket?

  1. My Pocket Poems:

    (share and enjoy!)

    Legends

    I rode far upon a mare of the night
    she of high fame and noble descent
    snorting displeasure at my feeble attempt
    to guide by the stars her unfettered flight.
    We ventured to caverns lit by bright vermin.
    We enjoyed the charm of enchanting seers.
    I held the heart of folk I held dear in a dream
    carried lightly in my pocket, far yet too near,
    for the fear came upon me
    again and again that I might fail, might fall,
    might show a crack of desperation
    and who could love me now?
    Who could find me bare and broken,
    hear the words I could not speak,
    recite the words that I must hear
    to retrace, to find my place,
    on back of the sacred mare,
    back on my sacrificial journey?
    Love becomes too great a luxury.
    I must be free to name my price.
    I travel the vast reaches of space for you.
    I delve into my deepest pain to hold out
    painted posies, dripping in consecrated wine.
    Where would I not rush in if I could blast the barriers
    to bring your treasure, wrapped in shining glory?
    Alas, Alack, these treasures I demand in your honor
    are not those of your own demand.
    Again I face you bent and bowed with empty hand.
    I can not face that anymore.
    We ride, I astride my plucky equine avatar.
    She is, as it has turned, my only friend.
    Our adventures become legion, become legend.
    I’ll not be bringing home that story.

    (c) March 31, 2007 Laurie Corzett/libramoon
    http://emergingvisions.blogspot.com/2009_03_01_archive.html

    This Is the Way I Communicate

    Like light flickering over a piano in a sultry cabaret, like a round blue balloon fitfully drifting out into the storm-laden sky, like anyone you know or I know trying yet again to remember just what it was we were doing with our lives: that’s what its all been like. The cat cries, and I respond filled with the illusion of concern. The world cries, and my besotten brain bleeds into tears of angry, chain-rattling despair. It’s all about language. It’s all about the symbols we choose. A new day dawns cloudy and forbidding.
    We are entering San Francisco in the morning fog, early, early, the world still dreaming. Or maybe it was Cambridge, Mass., lost in the fog, unsure of time or space. Sometimes there is singing: something about a “Yellow Submarine” or “Strawberry Fields” or sometimes haunting melodies without words. But it’s all about the words, even those implied by the music.
    Wine can help. By the gods, wine is sometimes all that can help (tho sometimes even wine betrays me).
    The stinking debris of mornings after the night before, or just morning by the coast with the stink of rotting fish, the cries of gulls or sirens, the emptiness without tears, the cold of morning — I remember that too. That no more mornings could touch me, that I could hide contented in the night dreaming flying dreams so none could touch me. Fragments. Taking life in fragments. Folding each shiny fragment into tender velvet pockets sequined to reflect the light, let them be all right, feel cared for. Let the nights protect us from the days. Like a wandering hermit with a self-igniting lantern . . . .

    2005 Laurie Corzett/libramoon

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