National Poetry Month Archives - Page 5 of 21

National Poetry Month: April 4th

April 4, 2015

The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greenness is a kind of grief.

Is it that they are born again
And we grow old?
No, they die too,
Their yearly trick of looking new
Is written down in rings of grain.

Yet still the unresting castles thresh
In fullgrown thickness every May.
Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.

Budding-Oak-leaves

This poem was selected by Jeff B. (Readers’ Services)

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National Poetry Month: April 3rd

April 3, 2015

My Papa’s Waltz by Theodore Roethke

The whiskey on your breath
Could make a small boy dizzy;
But I hung on like death:
Such waltzing was not easy.

We romped until the pans
Slid from the kitchen shelf;
My mother’s countenance
Could not unfrown itself.

The hand that held my wrist
Was battered on one knuckle;
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.

You beat time on my head
With a palm caked hard by dirt,
Then waltzed me off to bed
Still clinging to your shirt.

happy-old-man-drinking-glass-of-beer-everett

This poem was selected by Heather R. (Adult Services Librarian)

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National Poetry Month: April 2nd

April 2, 2015

Cheerios by Billy Collins

One bright morning in a restaurant in Chicago
as I waited for my eggs and toast,
I opened the Tribune only to discover
that I was the same age as Cheerios.

Indeed, I was a few months older than Cheerios
for today, the newspaper announced
was the seventieth birthday of Cheerios
whereas mine had occurred earlier in the year.

Already I could hear them whispering
behind my stooped and threadbare back,
Why that dude’s older than Cheerios
the way they used to say

Why that’s as old as the hills,
only the hills are much older than Cheerios
or any American breakfast cereal,
and more noble and enduring are the hills,

I surmised as a bar of sunlight illuminated my orange juice.

cheerios 2

This poem was selected by Kate K. (North Branch)

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National Poetry Month: April 1st

April 1, 2015

Happiness by Carl Sandburg

I asked professors who teach the meaning of life
to tell me what is happiness.
And I went to famous executives who boss
the work of thousands of men.
They all shook their heads and gave me a smile as though I was trying
to fool with them.
And then one Sunday afternoon I wandered out along
the Desplaines river
And I saw a crowd of Hungarians under the trees with their women and children and a keg of beer and an accordian.
.

This poem was selected by Russell J. (Adult Services Librarian)

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April is National Poetry Month

april Chances are good it snuck up on you. Between the madness of your NCAA brackets, binge-watching The Jinx, and owning the runway at New York Fashion Week, you very likely didn’t notice National Poetry Month peeking around the corner. But April is here, friends, and fortunately you’ve come to THE place for your poetry celebration. Off the Shelf has you covered. You see, today we kick-off our 6th annual National Poetry Month extravaganza during which we showcase one staff-picked “Poem of the Day” for the entire month of April. For your poetry pleasure, we’ll also have plenty of poetry news, quotes, features, and much, much more. So sit back, relax, and stay awhile. This poetry party is just getting started.

Goodbye, National Poetry Month!

April 30, 2014

Time sure flies when you’re having fun. It’s hard to believe another National Poetry Month is already drawing to a close, but for one last hurrah, don’t miss this great clip of actor Bill Murray reading a pair of Wallace Stevens’ poems. Enjoy, and make sure to keep coming back to Off the Shelf for Poetry 365 – a great way to scratch your poetry itch all year long.

National Poetry Month: April 30th

Classic Ballroom Dances by Charles Simic

Grandmothers who wring the necks
Of chickens; old nuns
With names like Theresa, Marianne,
Who pull schoolboys by the ear;

The intricate steps of pickpockets
Working the crowd of the curious
At the scene of an accident; the slow shuffle
Of the evangelist with a sandwich board;

The hesitation of the early-morning customer
Peeking through the window grille
Of a pawnshop; the weave of a little kid
Who is walking to school with eyes closed;

And the ancient lovers, cheek to cheek,
On the dance floor of the Union Hall,
Where they also hold charity raffles
On rainy Monday nights of an eternal November.

dancing

This poem was selected by Russell J. (Adult Services Librarian)

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National Poetry Month: April 29th

April 29, 2014

From the Dark Tower by Countee Cullen

We shall not always plant while others reap
The golden increment of bursting fruit,
Not always countenance, abject and mute,
That lesser men should hold their brothers cheap;
Not everlastingly while others sleep
Shall we beguile their limbs with mellow flute,
Not always bend to some more subtle brute;
We were not made to eternally weep.
The night whose sable breast relieves the stark,
White stars is no less lovely being dark,
And there are buds that cannot bloom at all
In light, but crumple, piteous, and fall;
So in the dark we hide the heart that bleeds,
And wait, and tend our agonizing seeds.

jatropha-seed-sprout1

This poem was selected by Lesley W. (Head of Adult Services)

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National Poetry Month: April 28th

April 28, 2014

Black Dog Goes to Art Colony by Maggie Anderson

I like it here. I like it here. They do things in packs,
At night they pile together on the floor.
I lie down on the leather jackets and boots
and the skinny ties I sink my teeth into and shake.
Tonight, as usual, they are listening to someone talk.
I track the smells: linseed oil and mink oil,
bag balm, gasoline and tar, cigarettes.
Tall thin man smell, cologne and sweat.
Great big woman smell, plastic, powder and pastries.
That woman’s still talking and now they’ve got a fire going,
smoke and pine and burning sap, and sulfur.
It’s the fire makes them want to drowse and pet a dog.
I move to one side, then the other, to catch the petters
with soft hands, rough hands, shirt cuffs, sweaters.
The guy with the pickup truck takes me with him to the dump,
otherwise I don’t have too many duties here.
I’ve found my place to settle among the brass studs
and the leather, the elbows and knees where
I’m waiting for the shoe to drop, for the talk to stop,
for them to whistle and clap for me,
to call my name, good dog, good dog.

My dog --- Buddy IN HDR! 1 exposure --- thus the grain.

This poem was selected by Laura H. (Adult Services Librarian)

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National Poetry Month: April 27th

April 27, 2014

Recuerdo by Edna St. Vincent Millay

We were very tired, we were very merry–
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable–
But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,
We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon;
And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.

We were very tired, we were very merry–
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry;
And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear,
From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere;
And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,
And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.

We were very tired, we were very merry,
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
We hailed, “Good morrow, mother!” to a shawl-covered head,
And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read;
And she wept, “God bless you!” for the apples and pears,
And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.

henri-cartier-bresson-10

This poem was selected by Jeff B. (Readers’ Services)