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Help us close out National Poetry Month with a bang.

Academy of American Poets

April 26, 2011


National Poetry Month continues, and we're so close to our goal of raising $30,000 in 30 days. With your support, before National Poetry Month ends on April 30, we can do it. Your generosity can help us continue to bring poetry to the schools, promote poetry at events all across America, bring you a poem each day, and continue to expand programs for poetry lovers like you.

Before National Poetry Month ends — or, really, any time — take poetry with you by viewing highlights from our Poets Forum at www.poets.org/poetsforum, or sign up for our Poem-A-Day program, which sends daily poems by email all year.

And please, before you start browsing Poets.org, show your support for poetry with a donation to the Academy of American Poets. As an added incentive, we'll thank you with these free gifts:
• Donate $25 and receive a free download of W.S. Merwin recordings.
• Donate $50 and receive a free download of W.S. Merwin recordings and a Walt Whitman ruled notebook for your own poems.
• Donate $100 and receive a free download of W.S. Merwin recordings, a Walt Whitman ruled notebook for your own poems, and a copy of the innovative anthology Poem in Your Pocket for Young Poets.

Please click here to support National Poetry Month. And help us continue to spread and share the love of poetry to everyone.

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Would YOU Choose You? Inspiration by Linda Ellis

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[Poem of the week] SHE ON THE WAY TO MONK'S HILL



SHE ON THE WAY TO MONK'S HILL



She knows everyone on the way to Monk's Hill,
stops to ask for mangoes – they are growing everywhere
it's almost a crime to pay.

At the overflowing bridge, men wash pink-skinned sweet potatoes
while the river has steals a few,
she hollers hello and lets them know, tells me, they'll fetch them later.

Stopping for ginnip breeds nostalgia
of her childhood in Guyana –
plantain, sour-sop, breadfruit –
always free, from neighbours,

says her brother doesn't believe in apples;
he's never seen an apple tree, so doesn't trust the juice.
But her nephew, he eats strawberries in
banana cake and doesn't know the difference.

She careens through mud; a carefree cowboy, calling out the sights,
arms wrapped around her waist, I am a jockey without her reigns,
holding on to every word, bracing at every hurdle.



St. John's, Antigua, 30 May 2010   



© 2010, Blessing Musariri




Poem of the week
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Funny Poem of the Week by FunnyPoets.com

a href='http://www.funnypoets.com'>FunnyPoets.com Your funny poem of the week is:

Ringo Blues

Copyright; Graham Fredriksen
From his book 'Paradise Revisited'

He's bought himself a set of drums -
Seems that's the latest fad
For them with teenage craniums
Just to annoy their Dad.
So now it's straight into his room
When he gets home from school:
A raucous thunderous sonic boom -
Could make die dead rise from die tomb
...And those alive to fear their doom -
A racket dial is cruel;
An audio nightmare of gloom
As decibels and senses zoom,
My ears and I can now assume...
That Ringo's on his stool.

As drums resound and cymbals crash,
The airwaves saturate;
Bush poetry's a culture clash -
He says I'm out of date.
His hair is fifteen shades of blue...
He only wears what's cool...
He bangs away the evening through...
He says I wouldn't have a clue...
But oh!! that noise!! I'm tellin' you...
When Ringo's on his stool!!

With peace and quiet vanished now
From in our neighborhood,
I get no more milk from the cow,
The dog's left home for good,
The chooks have all stopped layin' eggs,
The goldfish left his pool,
The cat has even found his legs,
My home-made beer has turned to dregs.
Is that a tune ? - the question begs...
When Ringo's on his stool.

The ducks from on the billabong
Have all flown south for Spring;
No more we hear the magpie's song -
He's lost his urge to sing.
T.V.'s a relic of the past -
Those drums win every duel;
Not even ghetto-blasters blast
As loud or even half as fast...
While ear-drums flutter at half mast...
When Ringo's on his stool.

The Flick man has no need to call -
Our cockroaches have gone;
The termites that live in the wall -
They too are moving on.
It could well drive a man to drink...
But who am I to fool ?
I have already crossed that brink -
I cannot hear myself to think -
And oh...this week, his hair is pink...
That's Ringo on his stool.

So I thought I would be the bird
And grow myself some wings,
Until today...! got the word
That somehow changes things.
The music shop is on the phone:
This afternoon it comes -
An instrument that's all my own -
He need no longer play alone -
We'll form a band that's all home-grown
I'm flexing up my gums;
Though I'm tone-deaf as any stone,
I'll join the raucous monotone -
Me playing my new saxophone...
While Ringo...plays his drums.

Copyright; Graham Fredriksen

View more funny poems at FunnyPoets.com-1



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