Happy National Poetry Month!
It’s like Christmas morning, except if you’re writing poems all month you have to provide all of the presents. And some of them will be sweaters. Bad sweaters you knit yourself. And some of you can’t knit for shit. But that’s okay, because some of them will be mint condition Transformers and Super Scrabble and a DVD collection of The Twilight Zone and money…straight cold grandma cash!
But then, some of them will be sweaters. In APRIL.
But since you’re making all of the gifts, it will be more like Kwanzaa! And because it lasts longer than a day, it will really feel like Kwanzaa. But then, when that eighth day kicks in and you have to make another sweater, and you look at your calendar and you see you got 22 more maybe-sweaters left to knit, it becomes very much not-like Kwanzaa. It begins to not feel like a holiday at all.
And that’s because it’s not a holiday; it’s a celebration! It’s like Mardi Gras!
Well, save that no one wants to see your tits and what they’re throwing isn’t beads. And there aren’t any floats. No poetry floats, no open mic floats, no floats brimming with AWP readings or poetry slams. No floats that pull up in front of Radio City Music Hall, stop for a hot minute to show children dancing in “Howl” costumes behind The Roots and a gang of Muppets reciting “The Raven.” No confetti, which, honestly? We should already have been using, since we have such an abundance of source shreddables in our submission slush piles and rejection letters. And once you find yourself dancing alone, in your living room, poorly trying to convince yourself that National Poetry Month really could be like Mardi Gras, you sit down and you pick up your pen and you knit another sweater. Or make an awesome Optimus Prime. Whatever.
You celebrate poetry.
You go to the readings, you steal all of the prompts, you read over all the poems posted by the poets you admire and a few you don’t, you buy a book for once, you write, you listen, you read, you commune, you steward, you shepherd, you Yoda, you glom, you moan, you hate, you hug, you chap, you inspire.
And you dream about the day you turn your car into a kick-ass poetry float for April, just once, just to show everybody who’s the boss.