We’re moving again—riding bikes, cleaning up dooryards and backyards, flying kites, strolling on beaches, and walking downtown—and the daffodils are shouting, “Warmer days are coming!” On the first of April, my husband and I were walking through Bath’s City Park, the green space surrounding Patten Free Library, and we discovered poetry in motion, the library’s clever celebration of National Poetry Month. Scattered on the soon-to-be green grass of
Library Park, there were more than a dozen kelly-green signs, bearing the verses of beloved American poets. Thrilled to see poetry set free, I ran from sign to sign, reading “April Rain Song” by Langston Hughes, “First Fig” by Edna St. Vincent Millay, “Fog Moves In” by Gary Lawless, and “All Right” by Alice May Douglas (Bath, 1865-1943). Like a fool on the hill, I smiled and laughed and searched for more, feeling the energy of poets near and far.
Sometimes, when I read a poem, I feel the urge to hum, a true sign of happiness; and one of my go-to songs is “Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head.” Of course, I can’t hum that tune without thinking of B. J. Thomas singing it on the radio and watching Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, the 1969 western starring Paul Newman, Robert Redford, and Katharine Ross. Ross played the role of Etta Place, the beautiful school teacher who rode with Butch Cassidy on a bicycle built for one.
In 1970, a sweet and happy tune about raindrops was a long shot to win an Oscar for best original song, but it did. At a time when the United States was reeling from the shock of three assassinations—JFK, MLK, and RFK—as well as the escalation of the Vietnam War, the rise of LSD, Flower Power, and violent protests, no one expected a song that evoked the quaintness of the end of the nineteenth century to become an overnight sensation, but it did. The music and lyrics of Burt Bacharach and Hal David—poetry in motion—helped a nation endure the worst of times.
On April 17, 2021, the Wall Street Journal printed the sixth stanza of Walt Whitman’s poem “Song of Myself” next to his portrait at forty-two-years old as part of an essay by Mark Edmundson called, “Walt Whitman Knew About American Democracy.” When I saw it, I paused, then I read the article and the verses twice. The theme is timeless. In 1855, when Whitman was in his late thirties, he wrote a volume of poetry, Leaves of Grass. “Song of Myself” is part of that collection; in it, he uses the pronoun I in a cosmic way, and he uses grass as a metaphor for democracy.
A child said What is the grass? Fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he.
I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.
Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose?
Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation.
Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same,
I receive them the same.
Mark Edmundson’s essay reveals the beauty and power of poetry; Whitman’s metaphor for democracy still rings true. Many blades of grass can merge to be one. Poets are brilliant teachers. They know how to simplify.
If you’re near and have the time, visit City Park before the first of May. Read the verses of Robert Frost, Emily Dickinson, Rachel Field, and others on the grass. In Bath, the poets have left the library; they’re outside and ready to play. But if you’re away right now, don’t despair. Wander in to your favorite bookstore or reading room, and find a poet that speaks to you, like Ginny Freeman (
Skywriter), or Sarah Carlson (
In the Currents of Quiet). Maine celebrates poetry every season of the year. Its beauty is everlasting. If you don’t believe me, I have a friend, who lives in Bath, and she’ll convince you. Since last spring, when COVID-19 cancelled social gatherings and forced us to stay at least six-feet apart, Joanne Marco has written a poem every week and posted it online for her friends who used to gather on Friday nights for a glass of wine. On April 2, 2021, she posted Poem #55:
That sunny sky keeps teasing me |
| Beatrix Potter, TM (Mr. McGregor's Garden) |
With blue that covers all I see
As crocus pop their colored heads
The signs of spring wash out my dreads.
Soft rain will soon turn browns to green
As trees and grass await the scene
The smell of freshly dark turned soil
Will welcome planting and lawn toil.
The flowers, herbs and bushes wait
For friends and neighbors at my gate
Fresh pansies, lavender and thyme
All complete that glass of wine!
With Joanne’s poetry in mind, I have no doubt that we will gather again. And like Whitman’s grass, the one and the many will merge.
