Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote

The droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote,

And bathed every veyne in swich licour,

Of which vertu engendred is the flour;

 

(Geoffrey Chaucer: roughly translated —

when April’s nourishing shower’s sweet

have pierced the drought starved roots of March

and bathed every vein in sweet juice

that has the power to bring forth the flower)

Poems make the month of April. Having passed the threshold of spring in March we look to April with its freshening breezes and warming temperatures. Instilling a kind of restlessness of new growth and rising sap in both woman and plant.

April is National Poetry Writing Month, which I would amend to be National Poetry Writing AND READING month (someone has to read all these poems people are writing.)  As a participant, the ideal is to write a poem a day for a month.  A website for encouragement, National Poetry Writing Month (http://napowrimo.com) provides prompts and words of wisdom as well as publishing poems and links.  You can also visit http://www.poets.org/page.php/prmID/41 , http://www.poetryfoundation.org/ or google National Poetry Writing Month

I will be participating as I did last year.  My involvement last year was almost by happenstance. A friend posted on FB that she wanted to start up a google group to encourage writing.  I signed on to the small group.  Between the group, the prompts from NaPoWriMo and my own discipline, I managed to write a poem a day. Some of these turned into songs as I was experimenting with songwriting last spring as well.

So here’s something I wrote last year

 Writer’s block

even as I’m playing about with words.

I’m drawn to other people’s schemes.

I read poetry to determine

the casting of the bones that

other’s have laid out like entrails.

breathed in like Cassandra’s vapors,

to put meaning into the small shell

of language. The thousand definitions, maybe

millions, that shape and sound the texture of our days.

Now contoured to another mold.

 

I’m only writing now, to figure it out. To puzzle what

makes the sacred from profane. Teasing my brain to find

the hidden answer in the oracle’s riddle, the riddle of

words, the riddle of poetry.

 

The riddle of what reaches us beyond the thinking mind.

Riddling our armor with what must be mystery

Because it cannot be touched , only imbibed.

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