it is all poetry. all of it.

This is the last day of National Poetry Month, celebrated by a poem almost every day here on 37days. Poets take us places, juxtapose what doesn't fit to let us see differently, open up a world of imagination and experience we connect to, tell us truths. And as we close out our   celebration of all that poetry brings us, it feels right to acknowledge that all of life is poetry. All of it. Your life is a painting. Your life is a poem:  ...

The Royal Wedding, yo.

Overlook the fact that my head looks rather, well, enormous. I'm sure it was just the camera angle. [With thanks to Kathryn Schuth for making this particular dream a...

traveling through the dark

Traveling through the Dark Traveling through the dark I found a deerdead on the edge of the Wilson River road.It is usually best to roll them into the canyon:that road is narrow; to swerve might make more dead. By glow of the tail-light I stumbled back of the carand stood by the heap, a doe, a recent killing;she had stiffened already, almost cold.I dragged her off; she was large in the belly. My fingers touching her side brought me the reason–her side was warm; her fawn lay there waiting,alive, still, never to be born.Beside that mountain road I hesitated. The car aimed ahead its lowered parking lights;under the hood purred the steady engine.I stood in the glare of the warm exhaust turning red;around our group I could hear the wilderness listen. I thought hard for us all–my only swerving–,then pushed her over the edge into the river. -William Stafford Poetry is not all sunshine and daisies, nor all clouds and neatness. No, it is messy and hard, reflecting the choices we make in our lives, sometimes hot and chaotic and hurried and unrelenting. We avoid death, we sanitize it, we avert our eyes. Not so the poet. Not so, ultimately, any of us. [image from...

you and I could change all this

to an Iraqi poet   while i am shown generals on CNN doing comic shtick to the video images sent back from weapons smarter than them they would have me believe you have jars of mustard gas fermenting in your cellar petri dishes of black jello ripening in your fridge you are the crazed islamic warrior turning armageddon into something more than just another computer game achieving spiritual completion only when the fires of mass destruction lick the eyebrows off our faces   i will not be shown your grief as you sift through the rubble of our drive-by missile strikes pulling out the limp bodies of your crushed and bloodied babies i will not be shown the women crying at the funerals of their husbands and sons as they implore Allah to retaliate without mercy on this land of coca cola and super bowl Sundays   you and i could change all this meet at some clandestine location and build a missile of words launch it into the bureaucratic bellies of our leaders   who bring me shame and you, pain   then we could hold hands bow our heads cleanse ourselves with our tears pray in a language we would both understand -Richard Vargas   Poetry helps us see. It calls us to action. It reminds...

be the emperor of oranges

All you want is their email in your inbox, indeed. We are elebrating National Poetry month all month on 37days. With thanks to Kurt Reineking for pointing me to this poet, and this...