Poetry

April is National Poetry Month and tomorrow is Poem in Your Pocket Day.  To celebrate, Otto will be bringing a copy of Shel Silverstein's poem Where the Sidewalk Ends to each of his school mates, and I am considering some serious poetry bombing on our campus.  Because, why not?  Poetry is awesome.

Check out this amazing woman, poetry bombing by sewing verses into thrift store clothing:





 And here, for you, is one of my favorite poems (although it is very difficult to choose just one):

 Morning Song 

by Sylvia Plath 

Love set you going like a fat gold watch. 

The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry 

Took its place among the elements. 

Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue. 

In a drafty museum, your nakedness 

 Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls.

I'm no more your mother 

Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow 

Effacement at the wind's hand. 

All night your moth-breath 

Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen: 

 A far sea moves in my ear. 

One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral 

In my Victorian nightgown. 

Your mouth opens clean as a cat's. The window square 

Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try 

Your handful of notes; 

The clear vowels rise like balloons.

"Love Set You Going like a Fat Gold Watch"

As Megan pointed out- April is National Poetry Month. The delightful Ms. SortaCrunchy also suggested a little bloggy poetry reading and -YAY -here we are.

Now, I have been known to pen the occasional poem in my life, but trust me when I say, you REALLY don't want to read them. And I'm not just being modest. Poetry is NOT my strong suit as a writer. I do, however, harbor a healthy appreciation for those who can and do write wonderful poetry.

It was difficult, naturally, to choose which poem to "read" here on my blog- I have so many favorites.

I love Sylvia Plath and finally settled on the following. It is a bit of an obvious choice, given the events that have taken place in my life in the past year. As always, her language is so achingly beautiful it almost hurts.

Morning Song
Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
Took its place among the elements.

Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue.
In a drafty museum, your nakedness
Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls.

I'm no more your mother
Than the cloud that distils a mirror to reflect its own slow
Effacement at the wind's hand.

All night your moth-breath
Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen:
A far sea moves in my ear.

One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral
In my Victorian nightgown.
Your mouth opens clean as a cat's. The window square

Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try
Your handful of notes;
The clear vowels rise like balloons.


Who's your favorite poet?