IT' S POETRY MONTH

                   Poets of every age have penned verses about April, the first full month of spring.
                   Geoffrey Chaucer began "The Canterbury Tales ---- and thus the whole of modern English poetry ---- with a classic description of the season:
                   "Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote,
                     The drought of March hath perced to the roote,
                     And bathed every veyne in swich licour
                     Of which virtu engendred is the flour....."
                   If you read it out loud, it still sort of makes sense, even after 600 years.
                   For the American Walt Whitman, April became the month "when lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd," a time of mourning that will forever remind him of the assassination of Abraham Lincoln.
                   And for that pinch-faced fusspot T.S. Eliot, April was the cruelest month, rekindling hopes that, he thought, would only come to nothing.
                   How appropriate, then, that in 1996 the Academy of American Poets named April National Poetry Month.
                   The purpose of the observance, according to the academy website, http://www.poets.org/, is to "celebrate poetry and its vital place in American culture." 
                    Like Black History Month in Feburary and Women's History Month in March, National Poetry month draws special attention to something that should never be forgotten in the first place.
                   Poetry today lies at the bottom of the literary heap.  In terms of books sold, shelf space and regular readers, it lags far behind fiction, which itself lags far behind biography, memoirs and self-help.
                   The reasons are not hard to find.  The diction can be difficult, the meanings obscure, and, let's face it, there is something un-American about an art form that exists for its own sake and demands to be read slowly.  We Americans like speed and conventience, and we want our literature to be like our movies ---- uplifting, edifying, funny or violent.  It's got to teach us something, or provide entertainment, and it is surprising to think that at one time, poetry did perform these functions: in Elizabethan times, Shakespeare's iambic pentameter packed the house while purveying lessons in English history.  Poe's "Raven" was a national sensation.
                   No poem that is not set to a pop or rap beat would achieve similar status these days, given the competition of TV and Youtube.  Indeed, the very word "poetry" carries a whiff of stuffy classrooms and dusty library shelves.
                   Nevertheless, verse continues to occupy an important, if neglected, region of the soul.  We still turn to poetry at critical moments to express our deepest sentiments.  W,H. Auden's "Stop All the Clocks" became a staple at memorial services a few years ago after it appeared in the motion picture "Four Weddings and a Funeral," and Shakespeare"s most romantic sonnets still grace many a wedding.
                   The Academy of Poets is correct: America has produced many poets of international stature ---- more even, perhaps, than novelists ---- and they have written something to suit every taste.  From the sweeping grandeur of Whitman to the quirky, off-kilter rhythms of Ogden Nash to the disorienting associations of John Ashbery, this country has given everyone something to appreciate.
                   So April, when the lilacs are blooming and the sweet showers pierce the drought of March, mixing memory and desire, is the right time to dip once again into that old high school anthology, or explore the 811 section of your public library.
                   Read a poem.
                   Better yet, memorize one.