Cool thing. Just found out that this week - Oct. 25-31 - poets across the country (that is, Canada) will be delivering Random Acts of Poetry. On the streets, in the parks, at bus stops, schools, cafes, shops and libraries, they'll be accosting regular passers-by and reading them poetry.
According to a press release I received, the point is to promote literacy in Canada, so after being hit with the reading, the accostee will be presented with a book of Canadian poetry. Designated readers will also have information about literacy issues in Canada and suggestions on how to support literacy in the community.
The other goal is just to help change the perception of poetry as a bitter pill, and invite people to slow down a little and enjoy some nourishment for the soul. I SO hope I get accosted - even though I'm not actually a big fan of poetry. In fact, I hate to admit, I really dislike the majority of poems out there.
That said, I really like a lot, too. More than I thought, apparently, because my initial idea was to post one poem a day from my little stash of personal faves. All I'd need is seven, so I thought that should be easy . . . until I took out the old Norton's Anthology, and started discovering how many favourites I have! There's no way I can fit them all, but at least it's something - and perhaps along the way they will reveal something about who I am. Or something. I wish I could say that I'd be posting a huge variety, to expose everyone to something different and new, but - sadly - they're all fairly old - Romantic, Victorian and Early 20th C. Oh, yeah, and pretty well known. Sorry.
However, since this is about random acts of poetry, I'm expecting some sharing from you. I don't care if it's "Roses are red, violets are blue . . . " or something your insane, non-literary aunt wrote (may have to draw from that bank myself, if only for a laugh). It's all in good fun - just remember to say a few words about why you chose it, as I will.
In the meantime, check out www.randomactsofpoetry.com and enter to win $500 worth of books, four gift baskets filled with Prairie Naturals products and two tickets from WestJet Airlines by finishing the sentence, "I read poetry because . . . " (and if you win, I want the second ticket ;)
Anyway. Today's poem is by one of the only American poets I like - the incredibly bizarre e.e. cummings and his anyone lived in a pretty how town. I'll spare you the lit class, but basically I like it because of the musical quality of the words, the esoteric approach and because sometimes I feel like I am anyone; at other times like noone (yes, they're character names).
Anyway, it's poetry, yes, but read it. Preferably out loud. Do it for you, even if you hate poetry. Then add something - yes, do. Who knows, you just might get something from it.
anyone lived in a pretty how town
By e.e. cummings
anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did
Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain
children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more
when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her
someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream
stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)
one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was
all by all deed by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes
Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain
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Tonight in the dark a silent snow
lanterned the last anemone. The yew
and Helleborus rose under
its spell, too. Buds and thin branches
tongues of ice candles. The black world
suddenly white and all, all fog-quiet
the ground and air glistened
with slivers of ice as if some knife
had shaved a huge passing floe
each flake telling a story
of a cloud womb rent open
to season the earth with crystals
fragile as wing-bones
kunitz saw a shell pink light
and fled beauty's distraction
to write. My eyes held fast
to what I saw: forms being born
in the shadowless garden
snow spinning the trees' dark
boughs into long lovely hands
fingering the falling fern-like white
And I flung the door open to write:
tonight when I look outside
and see the steeped light I think yes
I can wait for a new morning.
The Round by Stanley Kunitz
Light splashed this morning
on the shell-pink anemones
swaying on their tall stems;
down blue spiked veronica
light flowed in rivulets
over the humps of the honeybees;
this morning I saw light kiss
the silk of the roses
in their second flowering.
my late bloomers
flushed with their brandy.
A curious gladness shook me.
So I have shut the doors of my house,
so I have trudged downstairs to my cell,
so I am sitting in semi-dark
hunched over my desk
with nothing for a view
to tempt me
but a bloated compost heap,
steamy old stinkpile,
under my window;
and I pick my notebook up
and I start to read aloud
the still-wet words I scribbled
on the blotted page:
"Light splashed . . ."
I can scarcely wait till tomorrow
when a new life begins for me,
as it does each day,
as it does each day.
SKunitz
~ dh
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