April is National Poetry Month--Poems for April 8, 2008

In Memory of Dori Anderson
1938-2008

Ukiah Library National Poetry Month Poem of the Day April 8, 2008

How to Change a Frog into a Prince

Anna Denise

Start with the underwear. Sit him down.

Hopping on one leg may stir unpleasant memories.

If he gets his tights on, even backwards, praise him.

Fingers, formerly webbed, struggle over buttons.

Arms and legs, lengthened out of proportion, wait,

as you do, for the rest of him to catch up.

This body, so recently reformed, reclaimed,

still carries the marks of its time as a frog. Be gentle.

Avoid the words awkward and gawky.

Do not use tadpole as a term of endearment.

His body, like his clothing, may seem one size too big.

Relax. There’s time enough for crowns. He’ll grow into it.

Willits Library National Poetry Month Poem of the Day April 8, 2008

Naomi Shihab Nye

STAYING CLOSE

On your tree surprised lemons

wore small caps of snow.

The bowl of steaming lentils

opened its wide mouth as we sat and sat,

stitching the seam of talk,

till the man with the rug from Baghdad arrived

rolling out its long length inside your door.

It was orange. It looked happy.

He had just come overland with a bundle of rugs.

When you kissed him good-bye on both cheeks

I wanted to kiss him too,

not for our offhand greeting,

or his deep eyes like furry animals

curled into lairs for the winter,

but for each doorway in Baghdad

with a rug in front of it

and humans moving in and out.

Poetry for April 6

Art from the Sedona AZ Library

Eliza's choice

Eating Poetry
Mark Strand

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.

The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.

The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.

Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.

She does not understand,
when I get on my knees and lick her hand.
She screams.

I am a new man.
I snarl at her and bark.
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.

Donna's choice

Willits Library National Poetry Month Poem of the Day for April 6, 2007

Naomi Shihab Nye

STAYING CLOSE

On your tree surprised lemons

wore small caps of snow.

The bowl of steaming lentils

opened its wide mouth as we sat and sat,

stitching the seam of talk,

till the man with the rug from Baghdad arrived

rolling out its long length inside your door.

It was orange. It looked happy.

He had just come overland with a bundle of rugs.

When you kissed him good-bye on both cheeks

I wanted to kiss him too,

not for our offhand greeting,

or his deep eyes like furry animals

curled into lairs for the winter,

but for each doorway in Baghdad

with a rug in front of it

and humans moving in and out.