Poetry

I've never been a huge fan of poetry. I usually find it inaccessible. Style gets in the way of comprehension, and I feel a little lost. Like that poem we read in 12th grade English about a snake. Remember that one? Only, I didn't know it was about a snake until Mrs. Bloodaxe* asked what the poem was about, and the rest of the class said in unison "a snake," and I said "huh?"

So the point is I'm not so good with poetry. But Coach's recent foray piqued my interest, and I remembered that despite my aversion to the genre in general, I do have a few favorites that have stuck with me for years. Here are two:


All God's Critters (Got a Place in the Choir)
by Bill Staines

All God's critters got a place in the choir--
Some sing low, some sing higher,
Some sing out loud on the telephone wire,
And some just clap
their hands,
Or paws
Or anything they got.

Sentimental Moment Or Why Did The Baguette Cross The Road?
by Robert Hershon

Don't fill up on bread
I say absent-mindedly
The servings here are
huge

My son, whose hair may be
receding a bit, says
Did you
really just
say that to me?

What he doesn't know
is that when
we're walking
together, when we get
to the curb
I sometimes start to
reach
for his hand

______________

"All God's Critters" is actually just the first stanza of this song. But even without the music, I love the imagery of all the animals in the world, clamoring to sing with God. And I think of myself as a chipmunk or a squirrel--maybe a racoon--with stubby little paws that I can't quite get together in rhythm. But it's good enough.

It makes me cry a little; that's the kind of sentimental fool I am.

And speaking of sentimental, can't you just see Hershon's scene? In the restaurant? And then at the curb? I've loved this poem since I stumbled across it five or six years ago. But now that I watch my own son (whose hairline isn't quite receding yet) growing a little faster than I want him to, now I think I get it.

And on that note, I'd like to leave you with one more of the Coach's poems.

Continuous Tumbling
by Coach

The boy dances for no reason.
Smiling, forcing laughter for fun, toe-headed like a picture.
But he’s real.
Bouncing and swaying, isn’t that move advanced?
Genius.
Picking nose is like a double back flip.
Eating cheerios too.
Pincer grasp with olympic precision.
That’s the boy. The boy. My boy.

I know some of ya'll are accomplished poets. (Amy, I'm looking at you.) So come on, let's share some poetry.

*Names have been changed.