It feels ridiculous and urgent to celebrate National Poetry Month this year. It’s easy to see why it feels frivolous. A pandemic is happening. Our lives have shifted in the month or so in ways we did not see coming. To whom should I extol the virtues of poetry when so many of us are worried about our families, health, jobs, security, and sense of well-being? Who am I to tell you to read Creeley, Bishop, Crane, Dorsey, and Parker when you don’t know if your job is going to be there tomorrow?
In a bit of playacting, and not knowing what to name this literary magazine, I have been talking largely about shelter for over a year. I did not think I ever would have to shelter in place.
It feels important to celebrate poetry this year. I was rereading Amy Hempel the other day, and in her latest story collection she writes when you feel the danger coming, try singing to it. I don’t want to prattle on about poetry being a shelter anymore. I want to lay in blankets and blankets and get very fat on baked goods. But I will try to sing to it.
Can we sing together? It will feel urgent and ridiculous, but so does telling people you’ve known for years you love them.
So this is my love letter, in my own elliptical fashion. It’s not where I thought this would end up, but, well, we have made it this far.
