Introduction by Ted Kooser: Stuart Dybek was born in Chicago, where there are at least a couple of hundred hotels a poet might stroll past, looking up at the windows. Here's a poem from his book, Streets in Their Own Ink, from Farrar, Strauss and Giroux.

Sometimes they are the only thing beautiful

about a hotel.

Like transients,

come winter they have a way of disappearing,

disguised as dirty light,

limp beside a puttied pane.

Then some April afternoon

a roomer jacks a window open,

 a breeze intrudes,

resuscitates memory,

and suddenly they want to fly,

while men,

looking up from the street,

are deceived a moment

into thinking

a girl in an upper story

is waving.

American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska, Lincoln. Poem copyright ©2004 by Stuart Dybek, “Curtains,” (Streets in Their Own Ink, Farrar, Strauss and Giroux, 2004. Poem reprinted by permission of Stuart Dybek and the publisher. Introduction copyright ©2016 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction’s author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts.

Introduction by Ted Kooser: Marge Saiser, who lives in Nebraska, is a fine and a very lucky poet. With the passing of each year her poems have gotten stronger and deeper. That's an enviable direction for a writer. This poem was published in The Briar Cliff Review and it looks back wisely and wistfully over a rich life. Saiser's most recent book is The Woman in the Moon from the Backwaters Press.

Weren’t We Beautiful

growing into ourselves

earnest and funny we were

angels of some kind, smiling visitors

the light we lived in was gorgeous

we looked up and into the camera

the ordinary things we did with our hands

or how we turned and walked

or looked back we lifted the child

spooned food into his mouth

the camera held it, stayed it

there we are in our lives as if

we had all time

as if we would stand in that room

and wear that shirt those glasses

as if that light

without end

would shine on us

and from us.

American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska, Lincoln. Poem copyright ©2018 by Marjorie Saiser, "Weren't We Beautiful," from The Briar Cliff Review, (Vol. 30, 2018). Poem reprinted by permission of Marjorie Saiser and the publisher. Introduction copyright ©2019 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction’s author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts.

Since my romantic youth, I’ve had an interest in poetry. My fantastic creative writing teacher, Marie Tollstrup, taught us to read and write poetry, and a love for the form has stayed with me. I’m not truly “educated” about poetry—but I know what I like! April is National Poetry Month, so what better time to rekindle my love affair with poetry?

Many people are intimidated by poetry, think they don’t like it, or don’t understand it. But if you enjoy listening to music with words, you enjoy poetry! At least one form of it.

If you’d like to explore poetry, here are a few simple ways you might enjoy dipping into this art form:

I’ve been enjoying The Slowdown podcast, by Tracy K. Smith, the current U.S. Poet Laureate. During each short (six minutes or less!) episode, Smith “delivers a different way to see the world—through poetry.” Listen while you drink your morning coffee or tea. Smith’s voice is lovely and soothing, and I love how she weaves together everyday life experiences and poems.

I’m going to check out from my library at least one of the Everyman’s Library Pocket Poets editions. Aren’t they beautiful? 

This is a good explanation of haiku, with examples. (I love haiku!)  

Poetry apps are also a good and quick way to get a bite-sized taste of poetry. You can read, write, or listen to poetry on your phone! See Book Riot’s list of poetry apps here. These were the most intriguing to me:

Poemhunter (Android and iOS) has a library of 1.4 million poems.

Wings—Poems & Poets for the Love of Poetry. Unfortunately for me, Wings doesn’t have an Android version, because it looks like fun. You can read poetry, read about poetry, combine your own photos with poems, etc. 

For Haiku lovers, check out THF Haiku, The Haiku Foundation’s portable library of haiku. 

Hear poetry read by great actors by downloading The Poetry Hour (iOS).

Read previous Catching Happiness posts on National Poetry Month:

Take One Before Bed

Why Read Poetry?

10 Ways to Celebrate National Poetry Month

Painless Poetry

I’m sorry to say I’ve gotten away from reading poetry on a regular basis, so I appreciate the reminder of National Poetry Month. I know I have an unread book or two of poetry somewhere on my shelves, and, of course, the library beckons. Reading (and sometimes writing) poetry brings me pleasure, and I encourage you to give it a try if it’s something you’d like to explore. During the month of April, I’ll share a few poems on Fridays, too.

P.S. If you enjoyed the Action for Happiness Mindful March calendar, click here for Active April! 

Introduction by Ted Kooser: John Foy is a poet living in New York whose book, Night Vision, published by St. Augustine’s Press, was the winner of The New Criterion Poetry Prize. I especially like this leisurely, conversational account of a walk in the woods that just at the end lifts its eyes and looks into a deeper place beyond the particulars.

Woods

I took the dog and went to walk

in the auditorium of the woods,

but not to get away from things.

It was our habit, that was all,

a thing we did on summer days,

and much there was to listen to.

A slight wind came and went

in three birches by the pond.

A crow uphill was going on

about the black life it led,

and a brown creeper went creeping up

a brown trunk methodically

with no record of ever having

been understood by anyone.

A woodpecker was working out

a deep hole from the sound of it

in a stand of dead trees up there.

And then a jay, much put upon,

complained about some treachery

it may or may not have endured,

though most are liars anyway.

The farther in, the quieter,

till only the snapping of a stick

broke the silence we were in.

The dog stood still and looked at me,

the woods by then already dark.

Much later, on the porch at night,

I heard the owl, an eldritch thing.

The dog, still with me, heard it too,

a call that came from where we’d been,

and where we would not be again.

American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska, Lincoln. Poem copyright ©2016 by John Foy, “Woods,” from Night Vision, (St. Augustine's Press, 2016). Poem reprinted by permission of John Foy and the publisher. Introduction copyright 2018 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction’s author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts.

Pterzian at English Wikipedia via Wikimedia Commons

Introduction by Ted Kooser: I can identify most of the birds that live in my part of Nebraska, but I can't tell one warbler from the next. But Kevin Cole, in his new book, Late Summer Plums, from Scurfpea Publishing, has identified a warbler for us. The archives of this column, at www.americanlifeinpoetry.org, has another of Cole's poems, about watching a deer cross the Missouri. Kevin Cole lives in South Dakota.

The Audubon warblers keep the time of their coming,

Arriving on stillness of a storm,

Their breast and backs as dark as low bruised banks of cloud,

Rumps and throats as yellow as blooms of buckwheat.

They throng this evening in the newly-leaved

Tender-tipped canopies nervously weaving

Through the catkins like frantic prophets

Bearing some divine prophecy of the coming spring.

I wait, hoping for nothing too grave:

News of ruinous lands, of cutting and swarming locusts,

Of withering vines and empty granaries,

Of fasting, weeping, and rending of garments.

No, I wait for lighter fare:

Perhaps a promise that the green heron will nest

On the west end of the slough and that the ironweed

And wood lily will once again together bloom.

This would be an ample prophecy for another year—

This and a promise to keep the time of their coming.

American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska, Lincoln. Poem copyright ©2016 by Kevin L. Cole, “Audubon Warblers,” from Late Summer Plums, (Scurfpea Publishing, 2016). Poem reprinted by permission of Kevin L. Cole and the publisher. Introduction copyright ©2017 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction’s author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts.

Photo by Hannah Busing on Unsplash

Introduction by Ted Kooser: It seems that love poems have a better chance of being passed around from person to person than other poems, and here’s one by Richard M. Berlin, who lives in the Berkshire hills of western Massachusetts, that we’d like to pass along to you.

Einstein’s happiest moment

occurred when he realized

a falling man falling

beside a falling apple

could also be described

as an apple and a man at rest

while the world falls around them.

And my happiest moment

occurred when I realized

you were falling for me,

right down to the core, and the rest,

relatively speaking, has flown past

faster than the speed of light.

American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska, Lincoln. Poem copyright ©2011 by Richard M. Berlin from his most recent book of poems, Secret Wounds, BkMk Press, 2011. Poem reprinted by permission of Richard M. Berlin and the publisher. Introduction copyright 2012 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction’s author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts.

Introduction by Ted Kooser: This is the sixth poem we've published by Peter Everwine, which testifies to how much I admire his writing. How fine it is when a memory arrives from the past to surprise us into happiness. Everwine lives in California, and his most recent book is Listening Long and Late from the University of Pittsburgh Press.

We walked at the edge of the sea, the dog,

still young then, running ahead of us.

Few people. Gulls. A flock of pelicans

circled beyond the swells, then closed

their wings and dropped head-long

into the dazzle of light and sea. You clapped

your hands; the day grew brilliant.

Later we sat at a small table

with wine and food that tasted of the sea.

A perfect day, we said to one another,

so that even when the day ended

and the lights of houses among the hills

came on like a scattering of embers,

we watched it leave without regret.

That night, easing myself toward sleep,

I thought how blindly we stumble ahead

with such hope, a light flares briefly—Ah, Happiness!

then we turn and go on our way again.

But happiness, too, goes on its way,

and years from where we were, I lie awake

in the dark and suddenly it returns—

that day by the sea, that happiness,

though it is not the same happiness,

not the same darkness.

American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska, Lincoln. Poem copyright ©2016 by Peter Everwine, “The Day,” from New Letters, (Vol 83, no. 1, 2016-17). Poem reprinted by permission of Peter Everwine and the publisher. Introduction copyright ©2018 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction’s author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts.

Introduction by Ted Kooser: Sit for an hour in any national airport and you’ll see how each of us differs from others in a million ways, and of course that includes not only our physical appearances but our perceptions and opinions. Here’s a poem by Ada Limón, who lives in Kentucky, about difference and the difficulty of resolution.

What It Looks Like To Us and the Words We Use

All these great barns out here in the outskirts,

black creosote boards knee-deep in the bluegrass.

They look so beautifully abandoned, even in use.

You say they look like arks after the sea’s

dried up, I say they look like pirate ships,

and I think of that walk in the valley where

J said, You don’t believe in God? And I said,

No. I believe in this connection we all have

to nature, to each other, to the universe.

And she said, Yeah, God. And how we stood there,

low beasts among the white oaks, Spanish moss,

and spider webs, obsidian shards stuck in our pockets,

woodpecker flurry, and I refused to call it so.

So instead, we looked up at the unruly sky,

its clouds in simple animal shapes we could name

though we knew they were really just clouds—

disorderly, and marvelous, and ours.

Photo by Sven Scheuermeier on Unsplash

Introduction by Ted Kooser: Several years ago I published a children’s book about a bag in the wind, so it’s no wonder I love this poem by April Lindner, who lives in Pennsylvania. Once you start noticing these windblown bags, you see them everywhere. Her most recent book is This Bed Our Bodies Shaped (Able Muse Press, 2012).

Carried Away

One rainy night we sat in traffic

and, overtired in back, you saw

a wind-whipped grocery bag afloat

beyond the clutch of jagged branches,

swept by gusts and whirled in eddies.

A sudden downdraft swooped it earthward,

where it danced till with a whoosh

a current luffed it past the power lines.

Disowned by gravity, small ghost

not yet snagged by twiggy fingers,

it couldn’t reach the earth. Thin-skinned,

it pulsed, translucent jellyfish.

You wept and pled to be let out

into the dark and slanted rain,

somehow to save that desolate thing.

The light turned green and still you begged,

Go back, go back, on its behalf,

caught and held, bossed and tossed

by a will much greater than its own.

American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska, Lincoln. Poem copyright ©2010 by April Lindner, “Carried Away,” (The Hudson Review, Vol. LXIII, no. 1, Spring 2010). Poem reprinted by permission of April Lindner and the publisher. Introduction copyright ©2015 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction’s author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts.

Introduction by Ted Kooser: Lois Parker Edstrom, a retired nurse, lives on Whidbey Island, off the coast of Washington, and her 2016 book Night Beyond Black, from MoonPath Press, has many accessible and moving poems. Here's just one example.

She said she had always wanted to do it;

throw away dirty dishes rather than wash them

and she did, after breakfast, toss the blue, green,

orange, and yellow Fiestaware into the trash.

Transferring from New York to Germany

with her husband and children,

the movers coming that day, she chucked the dishes

in among the banana peels, egg shells, coffee grounds,

bits of bacon, paper towels and called it good.

What she could not know is that a young mother

in that very town received a much needed set

of tableware when her husband returned

home from work that evening. Bright dishes

that showed up chipped and grubby

like old friends with egg on their faces.

I climbed the roll of hay to watch the heron

in the pond. He waded a few steps out,

then back, thrusting his beak under water,

pulling it up empty, but only once.

Later I walked the roads for miles, certain

he’d be there when I returned. How is it for him,

day after day, his brittle legs rising

from warm green scum, his graceful neck curled,

damp in the bright heat? It’s a dull world.

Every day, the same roads, the sky,

the dust, the barn caving into itself,

the tin roof twisted and scattered in the yard.

Again, the bank covered with oxeye daisy

that turns to spiderwort, to chicory,

and at last to goldenrod. Each year, the birds—

thick in the air and darting in wild numbers—

grow quiet, the grasses thin, the light leaves

earlier each day. The heron stood

stone-still on my spot when I returned.

And then, his wings burst open, lifting the steel-

blue rhythm of his body into flight.

I touched the warm hay. Hoping for a trace

of his wild smell, I cupped my hands over

my face: nothing but the heat of fields

and skin. It wasn’t long before the world

began to breathe the beat of ordinary hours,

stretching out again beneath the sky.

American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska, Lincoln. Poem copyright ©2006 by Tara Bray, and reprinted from her most recent book of poems, “Mistaken for Song,” Persea Books, Inc., 2009, by permission of the publisher. Introduction copyright © 2010 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction’s author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts.