April they say, is the cruellest month–
actually that’s what T.S. Eliot
says, or wrote; he’s dead now, of course.
But he probably didn’t know that at some
point, his line would inspire someone
somewhere to declare April as our
National Poetry Month, which is only
cruel when you consider the poor
suckers who decide to write a poem
every day for the entire month or
the crazy mofo who decides to write two.
Every day. For a month. 30 days.
One begins to understand the sentiment.
Two thirds of the way: 40 poems down.
michael jarmer 