NATIONAL POETRY MONTH
I stand before you today to speak about
National Poetry Month. That explains
The ironical fedora and fashionably ripped jeans,
Black T, shades, patented free-floating angst,
The labrador-like headshot there in your flyer.
I regret John Keats, my ocelot, could not be here,
But neither could my reptilian creditors
(go on, you try making bank on free verse).
But let’s get down to business. This is the best
Month of the whole damn year, National Poetry.
It’s custom-made for us who wander lonely as a cloud,
Just stopping by woods on a snowy evening,
And so on and so on. And there’s that big mug
Of a moon beaming down, reminding us of all
Our missed opportunities (pro tip: this is how
A lot of poems big-bang into birth). Oh, my,
The travails of the poet, I could show you on Insta.
I’d like to dedicate this poem to you, whoever
You are, looking up at me blankly, which
Is what a poet like me deserves, while you are
Wondering what’s for dinner tonight. I get it.
I do. I am a poet, after all. Getting it’s my whole job,
My not-paid-very-well job. Thanks for the crowd-
Funding, every nickel in the bucket helps. I like
To think I grow on people over time. That’s why
I never hand over a poem and say, Enjoy!
Let’s return to you out there, listening, pretending to.
You have unrequited feelings by the bushel, which
Is perfect if you aspire to be a genuine poet,
Not to mention desires that make your scalp
Itch, that make you yearn for sweet cold water
When you thirst for someone near in the meadow,
Those kind of insatiable wishes, unquenchable
Desires. Yes, we’re talking poetry, people.
Your poems, in specific. You see, everything you do
Can make for a poem. Like, you peer into a closet one day
And you do not at first recognize the guy who lives there—
Who is that man if it is not you? The bell-captain
Vest is a dead giveaway, as is the sailor suit. You have
It going on now. Because, you know, that man
Just might be a poet like you, too. He might have
Some stories he’s kept to himself for so long but
He’s not forgotten the promise he made to someone
He would crawl across the desert for. And to this day,
This guy whose closet you are peeking into,
He might be very much in love with, let’s say you,
Because that’s how poems work, man, trust me.
If you’re the kind of person who knows the world
Is awash with angels, I’d drive you cross-country,
I’d want to hear you sing, I’d search for better shadows.
Yet let’s say you are sitting out there right now
In the audience, and you are looking for a line to hold
Onto, something to use against the sea’s choppy churn.
So you can hang on for dear life. You’re in luck, because
We’re going to ride out together the stormfront of our lives.
That was my closet you searched, and in the next room
A blue, white-crested bird trills inside its cage.
You open his door and it flies unto your open hand.
If you listen closely, listen hard, he will sing you your name.
