while it is still April


while it is still April

i will sing to you

of color and flight

and everything green

and growing.


i will sing

of crashing clouds

that thunder and splash

raining life upon

earth’s knowing.


while it is still April

i will sing of sun

and opening buds

through which the wind

comes blowing.


and in the end,

i will sing of hope

and love undying

which from His tomb

are flowing.

           – – –

April is National Poetry Month and, interestingly, while I was dreaming up this post, its title became the prompt for the poem. I welcome posts of any original poems you might wish to share in the comments, “while it is still April”.

17 thoughts on “while it is still April

  1. Paula

    Nice, Mary! Very nice.
    Poetry do not flow easily from my “innards”. You could probably explain the ‘whys’ of that better than I can…but if I come up with something I will most gladly share!

  2. mary Post author

    Hi Paula,
    Nice to hear from you. It is fine, of course, if you do not post a poem. But do not be too quick to assume that one isn’t waiting to be born within you…

    I would like to suggest that poetry doesn’t have to “flow” – sometimes it is jagged and bumpy. Nor is it always (or often) easy. Poems can appear in our minds suddenly complete – or they can be mined from our souls over a period of days or weeks.

    If you are not accustomed to writing poetry, it is likely that you are critical of any attempts you make. This often occurs because we expect ourselves to write “good” poetry and think that anything other than that is not worth doing.

    And “good” poetry is what we see poets write and our attempts seem so feeble. So give yourself permission to write a “bad” poem. Play with words. Let yourself express something. And share it only if you want to. 🙂

    Happy National Poetry Month to all!

  3. albert

    Those birds are sending notes
    Again to the new day. I hear hope
    In their songs, and excitement–

    The same feelings I imagine
    Rippled in the air when God
    first thought of a tree, and birds

    Of all kinds to put there for the world
    To watch and listen for each day
    That could be as new as this April

    morning. Thank you, God, for each
    unimportant thing that comes like breath,
    Like wings, all day long — Love’s songs.

  4. mary Post author

    Bravo! Thanks, Al.

    “for each unimportant thing that comes like breath, like wings, all day long” (I know I broke your line, but only out of laziness…) I love this part especially.

  5. albert Salsich

    Thank, Mary. Actually it reads, and should be read, that way–smoothly. (And now that I hear it again, it’s my favorite too.) It’s where the poem was meant to go, I think. But maybe it needed the circuitous trip to arrive there. And an invitation, which you so aptly and beautifully provided. Let’stand keep traveling, and singing, even after we pass April by!

  6. learningtobestill2016

    Thank you Mary and Albert! I love poetry and I try to red at least one poem a day.

    Here’s a poem that I read recently and especially liked.

    The Body
    By Marianne Boruch

    has its little hobbies. The lung
    likes its air best after supper,
    goes deeper there to trade up
    for oxygen, give everything else
    away. (And before supper, yes,
    during too, but there’s
    something about evening, that
    slow breath of the day noticed: oh good,
    still coming, still going … ) As for
    bones—femur, spine,
    the tribe of them in there—they harden
    with use. The body would like
    a small mile or two. Thank you.
    It would like it on a bike
    or a run. Or in the water. Blue.
    And food. A habit that involves
    a larger circumference where a garden’s
    involved, beer is brewed, cows
    wake the farmer with their fullness,
    a field surrenders its wheat, and wheat
    understands I will be crushed
    into flour and starry-dust
    the whole room, the baker
    sweating, opening a window
    to acknowledge such remarkable
    confetti. And the brain,
    locked in its strange
    dual citizenship, idles there in the body,
    neatly terraced and landscaped.
    Or left to ruin, such a brain,
    wild roses growing
    next to the sea. The body is
    gracious about that. Oh, their
    scent sometimes. Their
    tangle. In truth, in secret,
    the first thing
    in morning the eye longs to see.

  7. albert Salsich

    To learning . . . — I read “The Body” three times, taking a break in between. I’m getting used to her “different” style: rambling, chatty, surprising in parts, apparently disconnected in a grammatical sense, a mind making lists of impressions, imagining the body as something separate, alive in its own right. The image of an undisciplined brain as “wild roses growing / next to the sea” is quite striking, and the body is OK with that picture, in fact rather likes its romantic appeal — the mind (or imagination) as free spirit maybe?

    But I don’t see the connection yet with April’s last days. Interesting poem in its own right though, and perhaps the title/prompt is more general than I had though.I can see indirect references to spring (biking, swimming, gardening, cows ready to give birth or release milk, maybe even the wild roses) so probably it fits (if that’s important).

    Anyway, I enjoyed it’s challenges.

  8. mary Post author

    Al, great comments on the poem. Just to clarify, my invitation to post poems was not intended to limit writers to the springtime theme.

    So you reluctant poets…post away!

  9. learningtobestill2016

    Mary and Al – Glad you liked The Body. To be honest, I chose it almost at random from among poems that I like. You may want to read it out loud, if you haven’t already. You should also read your own poems out loud. Poetry is supposed to be read out loud. That is why I love The Grail translation of the Psalms. It was written to be read out loud,

  10. mary Post author

    Yes, I agree – reading poetry aloud is very worthwhile. I often read my own poems aloud when I am editing because the rhythm becomes more apparent and may not “sound” as I had intended. I also record some of my poems, trying to capture my preferred reading of them. They do not always come out the same!

    I just did a read-aloud with The Body and found that I liked it more when I read it aloud. Its rambling style was leading my eyes to want to skip over it quickly. When I read such poems aloud, I am forced to take in every word and play with its cadence and rhythm – in other words, to enter it more deeply.

  11. learningtobestill2016

    The Wall
    By Laura Kasischke

    One night from the other side
    of a motel wall made of nothing but
    sawdust and pink stuff, I

    listened as a man cried
    to someone on the telephone
    that all he wanted
    to do before he died
    was to come home.

    “I want to come home!”

    That night a man cried
    until I was ankle-deep in sleep,
    and then up to my neck, wading
    like a swimmer
    or like a suicide
    through the waves
    of him crying
    and into the deep

    as icebergs cracked into halves,
    as jellyfish, like thoughts, were
    passed secretly between people.

    And the seaweed, like
    the sinuous soft green hair
    of certain beauty queens,
    washed up by the sea.
    Except that we

    were in Utah, and one of us
    was weeping
    while the other one
    was sleeping, with

    nothing but a thin, dry
    wall between us.

  12. mary Post author

    Thanks, Learning…
    Wonderful (sad) imagery in this poem. Have you written anything of your own? (No pressure, just wondering, given your appreciation of interesting poems.)

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