Poetry is that which is not prose.

One merit of poetry few persons will deny: it says more and in fewer words than prose. –Voltaire

Do you have a poem in your pocket (or pocketbook) yet?

Here’s a poem to top it off:

Oh It is Good by Robert Service

Oh, it is good to drink and sup,
And then beside the kindly fire
To smoke and heap the faggots up,
And rest and dream to heart’s desire.

Oh, it is good to ride and run,
To roam the greenwood wild and free,
To hunt, to idle on the sun,
To leap into the laughing sea.

Oh, it is good with hand and brain
To gladly till the chosen soil,
And after honest sweat and strain
To see the harvest of one’s toil.

Oh, it is good afar to roam,
And seek adventure in strange lands;
Yet oh, so good the coming home,
The velvet love of little hands.

So much is good. We thank Thee, God,
For all the tokens Thou hast given,
That here on earth our feet have trod
Thy little shining trails of Heaven.

“April is National Poetry Month. To celebrate this special occasion, the New York City Department of Education, in collaboration with the Office of the Mayor, Department of Cultural Affairs, City University of New York, and the New York Times, is co-sponsoring the third annual Poem In Your Pocket Day on Thursday, April 21, 2005. New Yorkers are encouraged to carry a poem in their pocket and share it with friends, family, coworkers and classmates. Public schools throughout the five boroughs will highlight poetry on this day through readings by CUNY poets, poetry workshops and specifically designed lesson plans. Tuck a poem in your pocket and see what surprises may come your way. What will your poem be?”

The name for this day comes from Beatrice DeRegniers’ poem, Keep a Poem in Your Pocket. Be sure to choose your poem today and carry it with you tomorrow–especially if you live in New York City. However, the rest of us can participate, too.
How about every blog posts a poem tomorrow?
And if you go out, keep a poem in your pocket or purse.
My urchins are required to bring a poem to morning devotional time tomorrow.

I gave up on new poetry myself thirty years ago, when most of it began to read like coded messages passing between lonely aliens on a hostile world.– Russell Baker

I think Mr. Baker was talking about modern free verse, not this poem which really is a sort of a coded message. I copied the poem and the acompanying explanation from this website which has lots more information about teaching and appreciating poetry.

<> ! * ‘ ‘ #
^ ” ` $ $ –
! * = @ $ _
% * <> ~ # 4
& [ ] . . /
| { , , SYSTEM HALTED

The poem can only be appreciated by reading it aloud, to wit:

Waka waka bang star tick tick hash,
Caret quote back-tick dollar dollar dash,
Bang star equal at dollar under-score,
Percent star waka waka tilde number four,
Ampersand bracket bracket dot dot slash,
Pipes curly-bracket comma comma CRASH.

The above poem appeared in the May/June 1990 issue of Infocus magazine and has since been floating around the net. The original authors were Fred Bremmer and Steve Kroese of Calvin College & Seminary of Grand Rapids, Michigan.
A poll conducted among Infocus readers had established “waka” as the proper pronunciation for the angle-bracket characters < and >, though some readers held out resolutely for “norkies.

Poetry is like shot-silk with many glancing colours, and every reader must find his own interpretation, according to his ability and according to his sympathy with the poet.— Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Sea Fever by John Masefield

I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

I’ve never been a sailor, hardly ever been on the ocean at all, don’t even know if I’d enjoy sailing or boats at all. Nevertheless, there’s some kind of affinity or sympathy in me for the feeling of this poem. It’s the “wild call” and the “clear call” and the “vagrant gypsy life” and the “wind’s song.” Something in all that sea feverishness resonates with a wildness in me and with the gypsy in me.
Someday I may be a real gypsy. I’d love to travel. Right now I’m only a gypsy-of-the-mind.

.

. . And she will have leisure enough beside to run over the English poetry, which is a more important part of a woman’s education than it is generally supposed. Many a young damsel has been ruined by a fine copy of verses, which she would have laughed at if she had known it had been stolen from Mr. Waller. –Lady Mary Montagu, Advice to Her Daughter on Educating her Grandaughter

So girls should study poetry so that they won’t be fooled by some cad who claims another poet’s words for his own. Well, it’s a reason.
Note to my daughters and to any other young maidens who are reading: If some guy pledges his undying love for you in these words, the words themselves are not his:

SHE walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that ‘s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow’d to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair’d the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

On the other hand, if he’s smart enough to borrow the words of Byron, he may be worth considering. Just don’t be “ruined by a fine copy of verses.”

There is nothing wrong with poetry that is entertaining and easy to understand. Genius could be the ability to say a profound thing in a simple way.–Charles Bukowski

The Minuet by Mary Mapes Dodge

Grandma told me all about it,
Told me so I couldn’t doubt it,
How she danced, my grandma danced; long ago–
How she held her pretty head,
How her dainty skirt she spread,
How she slowly leaned and rose–long ago.

Grandma’s hair was bright and sunny,
Dimpled cheeks, too, oh, how funny!
Really quite a pretty girl–long ago.
Bless her! why, she wears a cap,
Grandma does, and takes a nap
Every single day; and yet
Grandma danced the minuet–long ago.

“Modern ways are quite alarming,”
Grandma says, “but boys were charming”
(Girls and boys she means, of course) “long ago.”
Brave but modest, grandly shy;
She would like to have us try
Just to feel like those who met
In the graceful minuet–long ago.

I don’t have the Romantic poets’ penchant for equating poets with saints nor the sentimentality that elevates mothers to sainthood, but I do remember the poetry my mother read to me and quoted to me with some fondness and notalgia. I looked for a while (pre-internet) to find the anthology that my mother read from, My Poetry Book: An Anthology of Modern Verse for Boys and Girls.

This book, published in 1956, was the one from which my mother read poetry to me and my sister. Since it’s out of print, I was happy to be able find a used copy several years ago with the advent of online internet booksellers. It has some of my favorite childhood memory poems, including Mumps by Elizabeth Maddox Roberts, I Meant To Do My Work Today by Richard LeGallienne, Seein’ Things by Eugene Field, A Vagabond Song by Bliss Carman, Leetla Giorgio Washeenton by Thomas Augustine Daly, The Pobble Who Has No Toes by Edward Lear, and this one:

Lullaby by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Bedtime’s come fu’ little boys,
Po’ little lamb.
Too tiahed out to make a noise,
Po’ little lamb.
You gwine t’ have tomorrer sho’?
Yes, you tole me dat befo’,
Don’t you fool me, chile, no mo’,
Po’ little lamb.

You been bad the livelong day,
Po’ little lamb.
Th’owin’ stones an’ runnin’ ‘way,
Po’ little lamb.
My but you’s a runnin’ wil’,
Look jes’ lak some po’ folks’ chile;
Mam’ gwine whup you atter while,
Po’ little lamb.

Come hyeah! you mos’ tiahed to def,
Po’ little lamb.
Played yo’se’f clean out o’ bref,
Po’ little lamb.
See dem han’s now–sich a sight!
Would you evah b’lieve dey’s white?
Stan’ still twell I wash ’em right,
Po’ little lamb.

Jes’ cain’t hol’ yo’ haid up straight,
Po’ little lamb.
Hadn’t oughter played so late,
Po’l ittle lamb.
Mammy do’know whut she’d do,
If de chillun’s all lak you;
You’s a caution now fu’ true,
Po’ little lamb.

Lay yo’ haid down in my lap,
Po ‘little lamb.
Y’ought to have a right good slap,
Po’ little lamb.
You been runnin’ roun’ a heap.
Shet dem eyes an’don’t you peep,
Dah now, dah now, go to sleep,
Po’ little lamb.

I loved to try to read this poem out loud when I was a child. Dunbar was criticized for his dialect poems; people said he was perpetuating negative stereotypes about black people and the way they spoke and also about the way they lived under slavery. I just liked (and still do) the way the lullaby rolled off my tongue and sounded so comforting.

More poems by Paul Laurence Dunbar.

The art of poetry is to touch the passions, and its duty to lead them on the side of virtue. — Cowper

Lincoln, the Man of the People
By Edward Markham

WHEN the Norn Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour
Greatening and darkening as it hurried on,
She left the Heaven of Heroes and came down
To make a man to meet the mortal need.
She took the tried clay of the common road�
Clay warm yet with the genial heat of earth,
Dashed through it all a strain of prophecy;
Tempered the heap with thrill of human tears;
Then mixed a laughter with the serious stuff.
Into the shape she breathed a flame to light
That tender, tragic, ever-changing face.
Here was a man to hold against the world,
A man to match the mountains and the sea.

My brother-in-law said he memorized this poem for “declamation” back in the 1950’s, back when schoolchildren memorized poems about heroes. My urchins all thought he was making up the “Norn Mother.” Read the entire poem here.

Dr. Lloyd Huff was a professor at Hardin-Simmons University in Abilene, Texas when I was an undergraduate student there. He taught English, was unabashedly sentimental, and at the same time inspiring and intelligent. He taught a Shakespeare class in which he told the students that every time he read Romeo and Juliet he hoped that somehow everything would turn out right for the “star-crost lovers.” He also invented something called “The Six Hundred Club.” Any freshman who memorized six hundred lines of selected poetry or any Shakespeare student who memorized six hundred selected lines from the plays and sonnets of Shakespeare could become a member of “The Noble Six Hundred.’ The mimeographed lines of poetry Dr. Huff gave out to all the freshmen in his English classes began with this note:

Because one of the fringe thrills of your life will be your ability to recall the magic of some literature’s greatest lines long after your college years, the following selections are offered for you to commit to memory. Successful completion of this endeavor entitles you to membership in that exclusive and august society,
THE SIX HUNDRED CLUB

Happy thoughts,
Lloyd Huff

The “selections” were poems like The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes, America For Me by Henry van Dyke, and The Picture That is Turned Toward the Wall by Charles Graham. There are also a couple of poems by Emily Dickinson, a portion of Thanatopsis by William Cullen Bryant, and The Last Leaf by Oliver Wendell Holmes. Some freshmen and some fellow English professors may have looked with disdain and superiority at Dr. Huff’s selections, but I’d wager he brought more magic and joy to more students than many an erudite explainer of T.S. Eliot and Sylvia Plath. (Don’t shoot; I like T.S. Eliot, sometimes.)
As far as I can tell, Dr. Huff is retired and still lives in Abilene. And purely bragging, I am a member of “The Six Hundred Club.” (I memorized Shakespeare, not general poetry.)