I wrote this a year ago before I had any followers or a clue. Here it is one more time because it’s April again and, gosh darn it!, I’m quite fond of it.
April is Poetry Month, forsooth, which is the only time you can get away with a word like that, to tell you the truth.
“Do we really need a whole month?” the poetry haters whine.” Wouldn’t a long weekend do just fine? Couldn’t we simply have National Poetry Day? Better yet, April’s so nice, can’t we just go out and play? Really, why bother with poetry at all? Play ball!”
And therein lies the problem: the perception that poetry’s archaic, as accessible as something written in Old English or Aramaic.
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