April is National Poetry Month

I love April, even if it’s the “cruelest month” (I mean, it’s true).

I love seeing life spring up again- I love flowers- I love being able to read outside again. (Hate the allergies tho)

April also happens to be National Poetry Month. So I thought, in our state of social isolation, what better time to share with you some of my favorite poems? Poems about nature that inspire you to think about the world.

Poetry that moves me out of my winter stupor.

Wild Geese – Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

Nothing Gold Can Stay- Robert Frost

Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

Kosmos- Walt Whitman

Who includes diversity and is Nature,
Who is the amplitude of the earth, and the coarseness and sexuality of the earth, and the great charity of the earth and the equilibrium also,
Who has not look’d forth from the windows the eyes for nothing, or whose brain held audience with messengers for nothing,
Who contains believers and disbelievers, who is the most majestic lover,
Who holds duly his or her triune proportion of realism, spiritualism, and of the æsthetic or intellectual,
Who having consider’d the body finds all its organs and parts good,
Who, out of the theory of the earth and of his or her body understands by subtle analogies all other theories,
The theory of a city, a poem, and of the large politics of these States;
Who believes not only in our globe with its sun and moon, but in other globes with their suns and moons,
Who, constructing the house of himself or herself, not for a day but for all time, sees races, eras, dates, generations,
The past, the future, dwelling there, like space, inseparable together.

South- Natasha Trethewey

Homo sapiens is the only species
to suffer psychological exile.
        —E. O. Wilson
 I returned to a stand of pines,
                            bone-thin phalanx

flanking the roadside, tangle
                            of understory—a dialectic of dark

and light—and magnolias blossoming
                            like afterthought: each flower

a surrender, white flags draped
                            among the branches. I returned

to land’s end, the swath of coast
                            clear cut and buried in sand:

mangrove, live oak, gulfweed
                            razed and replaced by thin palms—

palmettos—symbols of victory
                            or defiance, over and over

marking this vanquished land. I returned
                            to a field of cotton, hallowed ground—

as slave legend goes—each boll
                            holding the ghosts of generations:

those who measured their days
                            by the heft of sacks and lengths

of rows, whose sweat flecked the cotton plants
                            still sewn into our clothes.

I returned to a country battlefield
                            where colored troops fought and died—

Port Hudson where their bodies swelled
                            and blackened beneath the sun—unburied

until earth’s green sheet pulled over them,
                            unmarked by any headstones.

Where the roads, buildings, and monuments
                            are named to honor the Confederacy,

where that old flag still hangs, I return
                            to Mississippi, state that made a crime

of me—mulatto, half-breed—native
                            in my native land, this place they’ll bury me.

Published by BrandieKnits

I am a reader of many beautiful things, a fantastic knitter and a lover of wine. I love writing stories. I am a daydreamer and very neurotic, but my husband married me anyway. Bless that man. Really, I am just a girl who finally figured out what she wants in life.

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