Poem in Your Pocket Day

Today is Poem in Your Pocket Day, part of the celebration of National Poetry Month! In generations past, back in the day when students were required to memorize poems (somewhere around my grandmother's childhood), adults used to have a few poems committed to memory--they knew them "by heart." I'm pretty sure few people today, except maybe those of us who love poetry, have any poems or even parts of poems "by heart." That's pretty sad, really. Why wouldn't we want rich words embedded deep in our selves, to be used for joy or comfort, or to keep confusion at bay? 

Maybe one things we can do is keep a copy of a poem in our wallets, if we feel that our brains are just too full of "stuff" to add one more thing? Though it seems like a good decluttering of our mind-space might be in order. Just a point to ponder.

At any rate, people are always asking me what my favorite poem is, and I have no answer to give. It depends on my mood. Same for "favorite poet"-- just one?

I'm torn among so many favorites. I think it's entirely criminal (!) that today's school children don't get much--if any-- poetry in their lives. The reasons why they should are grounded in good scholarship and sound pedagogy, but yet, after Shel Silverstein somewhere in the very early grades, language classes get a little less fun, and are focused on Primary Texts and Real-Life Experiential Reading and the like. Ugh. Another time, in another post, I might just rant on about the reasons why the intentional focus on poetry is sound teaching. Today, I'm satisfied with sharing one poem I turn to when life gets a little overwhelming.

I love Keats, and this beautiful sonnet has provided some solace. I hope you like it, too.

Have a good day,

C

When I have fears that I may cease to be

   Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,

Before high-pilèd books, in charactery,

   Hold like rich garners the full ripened grain;

When I behold, upon the night’s starred face,

   Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,

And think that I may never live to trace

   Their shadows with the magic hand of chance;

And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,

   That I shall never look upon thee more,

Never have relish in the faery power

   Of unreflecting love—then on the shore

Of the wide world I stand alone, and think

Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.