I fully expect that nobody will sympathize with my distaste for the concept of national poetry month. After all, what is disagreeable about bringing poetry to the forefront, highlighting it, giving people a greater opportunity to engage with it, especially when you are a poet who desires a readership? And in truth, I can hardly explain the recoil I experience as April begins following the online whispers of national poetry month national poetry month national poetry month… Perhaps it is the fungus of cynicism which finds apathy in the center of so many when, on any given day, they are faced with poetry. National poetry month… is it an appeal? Like other day and month designations it activates the precarious tension of both raising awareness on the given subject and also, in legitimizing the subject in question within a given time frame–stationing it, and containing it within (the tupperware of) the bounds of the specific given time. And when April moves into May… is there room in the fridge?

People love poetry–as long as you shut the fuck up.

One month.

An allowance.

A consumable.

 

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