Ever since the start of 2020, I’ve been–more or less–posting a poem a day on Facebook. It’s been a wondrous gift. A poem, short and searing, takes just a few moments of your time to read. I’ve shared poems from across the centuries, happy poems, crushingly sad poems, hopeful poems, and poems about random things. I am addicted. […]
In honor of April being National Poetry Month, I asked some of the AAR staffers to share their favorite romantic poetry. As it turns out, our staff shares a love of poems, both classic and contemporary. There were so many excellent suggestions that I can’t include them all, so there are links to even more. If you would like to celebrate National Poetry Month with a bit of romance, here are some of their picks.
Rita Dove said that “Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful.” I totally agree with that. Whether it is painting a beautiful picture or capsulizing an ugly truth, a poem is language used in simplicity and beauty to help us see what can often not be captured by the naked eye. A favorite poem can say a lot about love, about life, about the author but it also tells a bit about the person who loves it. Here are a few of the AAR staff’s favorite poems: […]
Okay, so we’re a little late in the game — almost 2/3 of the way through April — but I couldn’t resist doing a poetry shout-out. I tend to be particular about poems. I’m usually somewhat ambivalent, but the ones I like, I love. So here is one of those poems that I love: Daddy, by Sylvia Plath. It has an incredible rhythm and rhyme to it. It’s a dark poem, but in my opinion the best poems make you want to read them out loud, and this one certainly does.
April is National Poetry Month. To celebrate, I’m sharing one of my favorite poems with you. This is Sharon Olds’ “I go Back to May 1937.”
I see them standing at the formal gates of their colleges,
I see my father strolling out
under the ochre sandstone arch, the
red tiles glinting like bent
plates of blood behind his head, I
see my mother with a few light books at her hip
standing at the pillar made of tiny bricks with the
wrought-iron gate still open behind her, its
sword-tips black in the May air,
they are about to graduate, they are about to get married,
they are kids, they are dumb, all they know is they are
innocent, they would never hurt anybody.
I want to go up to them and say Stop,
don’t do it–she’s the wrong woman,
he’s the wrong man, you are going to do things
you cannot imagine you would ever do,
you are going to do bad things to children,
you are going to suffer in ways you never heard of,