Here's to Poetry Month

by Canasta Jones

HERE's to Keats and Silverstein and William Carlos Williams:
red wheelbarrows are fine and good, but A-B-A-B wouldn't kill you.
T.S. Eliot: he, yes, smelly, yet took his tome to bat,
he wore white flannel trousers on the beach and authored ''Cats.''
Seuss is boss and Yeats is grand and 13 blackbirds, hand in hand,
O'er Wallace Stevens and Ezra's ground, and laying eggs in George's Sand,
and a shovel dug by Heaney's hand unearthed a great poetic plan.
And though I hate most any line put down in print by Gertrude Stein
I'm pleased that April — nay, I'm heartened — is dedicated to good May Sarton,
and profilic, tortured writers like she who've written poems down for me
with troches, feet, and rhyme and rhythm, I tip Ginsberg's fedora to 'em.
Dorothy Parker, hip and lithe, heard a fly buzz, so … she died.
And yes, I know she didn't write it, but flies kill everyone, why try fight it?
Instead just read a poem, 'k?, at least until the first of May.

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