Today is Poem in Your Pocket Day! Started by the Academy of American Poets, this special day celebrates all things poetry and encourages people to select a favorite poem and carry it with them (in their pocket, of course) throughout the day. You can share the physical poem with others or share it on Twitter with the hashtag #pocketpoem. The Academy of American Poets has more great ideas for how you can get involved (and a wealth of poem suggestions) on their website.
So, I asked our team to share their favorite poems — see below for what I think is a gorgeous, well-rounded list. Tell us, what's your favorite poem? Share it here!
Me: "Given" by Joanna Klink.
Morgan: "Spring Azures" by Mary Oliver. Here's an excerpt:
In spring the blue azures bow down
at the edges of shallow puddles
to drink the black rain water.
Then they rise and float away into the fields.
Alex: "Invitation" by Shel Silverstein.
Emma: "There's a certain Slant of light (258)" by Emily Dickinson
Brittany: "Ode to the Bagel" (There is an excellent story behind this choice: Britt had this poem, which is an ode to bagels, her favorite food, written for her at a wedding.)
Ode to the Bagel
Oh, what a thing, to have lived a life
Without your fresh baked tenderness
In my hands and then my teeth. Oh,
How I never mind the garlic breath
That remains or the seeds in my teeth.
Every bit of you left with me, bagel,
Just leave me hungering
To have more
Of you
To fill my
Need.
Lia: "Grand Central" by Billy Collins. (You may recognize this if you've been on a New York subway car recently.)
Kristen: "The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost. (You must listen to Frost reading this aloud.)
Anne: "Appalachian Altibajos" by Michaela Coplen. (Michaela is a National Student Poet!)
Appalachian Altibajos
If you asked me for a translation,
I would point to the horizon as it dips and swells
in its effort to steady the sky.
I would pronounce it in the rustling of the mountains,
heads bowed for all that dies in us,
as they bury their weariness
in the comfort of the valley’s waiting arms.
I would spell it in the upward winding of trails
that lace themselves into the ground
and the tautness of trees
swaying between stability and circumstance.
I would call it “noun”:
as in the way the wind opens your chest and crucifies you
even as the earth pulls your heart
down to her stomach.
When you asked me for it in a sentence,
I would show you where I stood—
afraid that I would fall and afraid that I would jump and afraid that I
wouldn’t—
and tell you how
I felt the words climbing the steepness of my rocky soul,
but feared the reverberating reality of sound.
And when at last you turned away,
I would whisper to the hills
te amo te amo te amo.
