[stylist] a Favorite poem

[Lynda Lambert]

The first part  of the year is filled with so many good things - February, African American History Month;  March, Women's History Month; and April is National Poetry month.  This special month was introduced  in 1996  by the National Academy of Poetry. 

 It seems like we just go from one great thing to another during these three months. Each one has the most wonderful poetry to share.

 One of my dearest friends was a poet laureate in our area, for a few years before her death.  Our little ladies poetry group was always entertained by our friend as she would announce this month's theme with a broad  smile on her face.It was always a big occasion for us all, as we gathered to read our poems to each other  and  to read poems by our favorite poets, too.

This is a time when I like to investigate poets I am not so familiar with - Lawrence Ferlenghetti is my choice today. As I knit on a scarf, I am listening to Lawrence's poetry which I am very much enjoying. 

I'll be  sharing poetry with friends through my facebook pages, and my blog.

 I'd like to request that if you have a  favorite poet or poem - share it during April! And, if you have written some poems in homage to a poet, or that was inspired by another poem, why not post it during April?

I would love to hear from members on the list about their favorite poets and poems.

 

Here is a poem by one of my favorite poets, Billy Collins. It was sent to me today by my former secretary at the college. This is one by her favorite poet, Billy Collins.

The Country

I wondered about you
when you told me never to leave
a box of wooden, strike-anywhere matches
lying around the house because the mice

might get into them and start a fire.
But your face was absolutely straight
when you twisted the lid down on the round tin
where the matches, you said, are always stowed.

Who could sleep that night?
Who could whisk away the thought
of the one unlikely mouse
padding along a cold water pipe

behind the floral wallpaper
gripping a single wooden match
between the needles of his teeth?
Who could not see him rounding a corner,

the blue tip scratching against a rough-hewn beam,
the sudden flare, and the creature
for one bright, shining moment
suddenly thrust ahead of his time-

now a fire-starter, now a torchbearer
in a forgotten ritual, little brown druid
illuminating some ancient night.
Who could fail to notice,

lit up in the blazing insulation,
the tiny looks of wonderment on the faces
of his fellow mice, onetime inhabitants
of what once was your house in the country? 

"The Country" by Billy Collins, from Nine Horses: Poems


Lynda