bullwinkle-poetryRoses are red, concrete is gray, let’s say “forsooth” ’cause it’s


Shall we gyre and gimbal in the wabe, count the ways we love thee, quoth the raven, or just lose ourselves in one quixotic odyssey after another?

Poetry doesn’t care about making sense or obeying your precious grammar laws, and don’t have to show you no stinking badges! If there’s no perfect word to express an emotion, our Poetic License lets us just make one up on the spot, no matter how sillificacious it may sound. Shakesepeare and Dr. Seuss both made up bunches of them.

Poetry is not scholarship, has no practical application, and is often seen as the frivolous pursuit of personal joy, which only makes the experience all the more essential.

We all have our favorite poems and poets, and even those who claim to hate poetry can quote dozens of them. Whatever your taste, from the primal howls of Beat to the rhyming sugarplums of Romance, from free verse to iambic pentameter, a poem is a thing of beauty, a captured moment of clarity, beauty, insight or delightful nonsense.

A great poem is simply a pile of words spoken directly to our hearts and our souls, dragging our brains along for the ride. And religion buffs, don’t forget what expressive love poets were those father and son psalm machines, David and Solomon. Let’s make up a poem now:

“To poets and poems this day do we give

A small way to thank you for helping us live…” hmmm, that’s pretty bad, and sure not as easy as it looks when poets do it.

*Suggested activities: Rhymin’, Simon. Or not.

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