poems for your pocket

I love poetry. I love small bits of magic. No wonder then that National Poem in your Pocket Day would appeal to me. Of course you can carry a poem in our pocket any old day, but when was the last time you did, just because?  Mmmhmmm. I couldn't think of one either. So, today, a bit of poetry magic.

I had a fantasy about six months ago that we would compile all of our very favorite poems - from Mary Oliver to Shel Silverstein - and host a poem party, preparing little packets to pass out to passersby around town. (Shoo! Did you catch all that alliteration?! Ani would be so proud.) Fast forward to this actual month and the life that happened between then and now, no poems ready to share. We could have just pretended to forget, but I was actually really wanting this, so let's just say we scaled it way back!  We just printed out poems in the public domain, got out the paper cutter, our fancy marbled paper and a glue stick.  We sent some along with Dan to work, and with Eliza to her dress rehearsal for her dance concert.  This evening, Ani and I spent an hour walking around town, surprising people mowing their lawns, students taking a break from studying and a few neighbors, with poems.

I am so glad we did.  Ani is not one to want to talk to strangers. She still practices ordering in restaurants before we go, because she doesn't want to embarrass herself (Yes, this is the amazing narrator, but it's true! She has a shy side for sure), but she wanted to carry a pouch of poems, and she handed almost all of them out, her smile and her confidence growing with the length of her stride. "I think that person was really surprised. Maybe they've never had someone give them something nice like that before! I think this is making people really happy."

Please - a poem for your pocket?

The Moment - by Marie Howe

Oh, the coming-out-of-nowhere moment

when,      nothing

happens

no what-have-I-to-do-today list


maybe half a moment

the rush of traffic stops.

The whir of I should be, I should be, I should be

slows to silence,

the white cotton curtains hanging still.