2025 Poem in Your Pocket Day!

Skip down to the poem if you already know the rules of the game. If not, and you want to know more about Poem in Your Pocket Day works, here are the instructions:

1. Find a copy of your favorite poem...or one that tickles you fancy today...or one that actually fits in your pocket. Finding in on your phone is okay, but it's always more human if you have transcribed it yourself and fold it up and put it in your pocket.

2. Carry your chosen poem around all day, and share it with people. Don't forget to share with me!

3. Soak in the awesomeness that is poetry!

4. Check my Instagram (@joeaveragewriter) or Facebook for the video of this year's poem!

If you want even more fun, check out the poem in your pocket label on the right-hand side of this blog. Who knows? You might find something else of worth.

"The Monet Conundrum" by Billy Collins

Is every one of these poems

different from the others

he asked himself,

as the rain quieted down,

or are they all the same poem,

haystack after haystack

at different times of day,

different shadows and shades of hay?

I'd love to see which poems you carried around today. Please share with me.

P.S. I shared this poem with one of my education classes and none of the students knew who Monet was!

Celebrating Poem in Your Pocket 2023!

This has been a year of stress--apparently so much that my blood pressure has gone up. Never had that before. Oh, well. One things that I always try to do when things get a little crazy is to take the advice of one of my favorite Transcendentalists, Henry David Thoreau: "Simplify! Simplify! Simplify! (See also Walden.)

Under that vein, I was delighted to read Billy Collins's new collection of short poems Table Music. And that is where I discovered my #PocketPoem for this year:

"The Student"

She made asterisks

next to passages she liked,

little stars that kept shining

after she closed the book.

If you want to celebrate the small things in life, please do. Share here. Share with real people. Share everywhere. (It gets really interesting when you share with strangers in public places.) Here's how to play:

1. Find a copy of your favorite poem...or one that tickles you fancy today...or one that actually fits in your pocket. Finding in on your phone is okay, but it's always more human if you have transcribed it yourself and fold it up and put it in your pocket.

2. Carry your chosen poem around all day, and share it with people. Don't forget to share with me!

3. Soak in the awesomeness that is poetry!

4. Check my Instagram (@joeaveragewriter), Twitter (@joeavgwriter), or Facebook for the video of this year's poem!

If you want even more fun, check out the poem in your pocket label on the right-hand side of this blog. Who knows? You might find something else of worth.

Celebrating That Which Has Lost Its Meaning (or Why I Like Phil Kaye's Poems)

 

Watch the video first.

 I first discovered Phil Kaye when I saw a video of him performing “An Origin Story” with Sarah Kay (no relation) back in 2012. I immediately started bingeing other videos he produced, my favorite being “Repetition”—simple enough for junior high geeks to understand, deep enough for them to ponder and connect with. Every so often, I recycle it as a scribble prompt. Earlier this week, I used it again for my Comp II class at BU. For those of you who don’t know, students are allowed to write anything they want after the prompt is shared. This time, every single student who shared his or her writing discussed the ideas of the poem (and none of them are English majors!) and how they interpreted the poetic device of repetition and the word choice. It was a beautiful moment. Here are my thoughts from those few minutes of writing, only edited for punctuation and spelling. The rest still hovers in a first-draft state. Keep in mind I wrote this before the students shared their writing and their thoughts:

 Using Phil Kaye’s “Repetition” was definitely the right choice. It created, as far as I can observe, a pensive mood in the classroom. Maybe it struck a chord or two today.

 I think that it’s poignant that the overuse of an action or a word or phrase can take away its importance or significance if you let it. However, human beings tend to take for granted the small, repeated instances of our lives. And that’s one of the reasons my poetic heroes include Phil Kaye, Sarah Kay, Ted Kooser (recently read in more depth), and Billy Collins. Each one of them takes something mundane—a setting or a situation--and makes the moment extraordinary, something worth celebrating.

 Each time I read one of their poems, my mind recalls when I taught Ben Mikaelsen’s Touching Spirit Bear to seventh graders. The hardest concept to help my students connect with was Garvey’s advice about the hot dog. (If you haven’t read it, take an hour to devour it. Reading it aloud with a reluctant teenage boy is even better.) In short, life is not a meal, its only purpose to refuel your body. It is something to relish (pun intended), something to celebrate, to enjoy, savor, and appreciate. Most importantly, it is something to share. (Draw your own connections here.)

I suppose that’s another reason why I write—to share the celebrations and the setbacks of life—the small repeated moments that most might overlook. I love to others (and myself) find meaning in the mundane.

Maybe I can turn this into a 2021 resolution of sorts.

 

Searching and Digging for Meaning (Poem in Your Pocket Day 2017)

(borrowed from https://apps.carleton.edu/humanities/events/poem2017/)

It's been a while since I've posted, but I couldn't miss Poem in Your Pocket Day. It's been a nice tradition to start (and perpetuate) here at my school, something that several faculty members look forward to...as long as they remember to do it, that is.

This year, my mind has been all over the place--metaphorically, not literally, as too many of my students overuse. And I've pondered until I was weak and weary, not over forgotten lore but philosophies and core beliefs and deep educational mumbo jumbo like that, a little to do with writing, but more do to with thinking and what I believe, and where my loyalties lie. It might have something to do with completing the doctoral degree and facing new chapters in my life, but it could also have been the enchiladas I had on Tuesday. Regardless of the cause, I've had rumblings.

Regardless, this year, I chose two poems, as I could not settle on one, both with a common strand: small simple details. I've written about the importance of the small and simple before, but it's come back to me again. So, here are two poems by Billy Collins:

“Searching” by Billy Collins

I recall someone once admitting
that all he remembered of Anna Karenina
was something about a picnic basket,

and now, after consuming a book
devoted to the subject of Barcelona--
its people, its history, its complex architecture--

all I remember is the mention
of an albino gorilla, the inhabitant of a park
where the Citadel of the Bourbons once stood.

The sheer paleness of him looms over
all the notable names and dates
as the evening strollers stop before him

and point to show their children.
These locals called him Snowflake,
and here he has been mentioned again in print

in the hope of keeping his pallid flame alive
and helping him, despite his name, to endure
in this poem, where he has found another cage.

Oh, Snowflake,
I had no interest in the capital of Catalonia--
its people, its history, its complex architecture--

no, you were the reason
I kept my light on late into the night,
turning all those pages, searching for you everywhere.


...and here's the second one:

“Digging” by Billy Collins

It seems whenever I dig in the woods

on the slope behind this house

I unearth some object from the past—

a shard of crockery or a bottle with its stopper missing,

sometimes a piece of metal, maybe handled

by the dairy farmer who built this house

over a century and a half ago

as civil war waged unabated to the south.

So it’s never a surprise

when the shovel-tip hits a rusted bolt,

or a glass knob from a drawer—

little hands waving from the past.

And today, it’s a buried toy,

a little car with a dent in the roof

and enough flecks of paint to tell it was blue.

Shrouded in a towel, the body of our cat

lies nearby on the ground where I settled her

in the mottled light of the summer trees,

and I still have to widen the hole

and deepen it for her by at least another foot,

but not before I stop for a moment

with the once-blue car idling in my palm,

to imagine the boy who grew up here

and to see that two of the crusted wheels still spin.

I'm trying to get my students to notice the smaller things, the details, for they are often the overlooked important moments/situations/people in our lives. There is a joy in the small and simple things of life--those moments when you ponder and savor the connections with life, with the world, with ourselves, and with God.

I know this ramble is choppy, but so is my mind right now.

For previous poems that occupied my pocket, check the label on the right-hand side.

Inspired by a Solitary Dining Experience

“Almost” (Bluebird Café, Logan, Utah, July 18, 2016)

I sat alone

At an almost-polished, almost-clean

wooden table

that almost matched the others,

almost creating symmetry

under a curious electric chandelier with strategically missing bulbs,

and watched the lone server work harder

to move his thumbs, sitting at the bar,

than he did to bring my roll and butter without a knife,

my soup—almost better than colored

water and squelchy vegetables,

to refill my almost big enough water glass—

Ordinary yet meticulous details of almost-decent service

That only Billy Collins might notice or mention.

In his honor, I almost got the trout.

But after a private chuckle involving an old man

eating alone in a Chinese restaurant,

I ended up

with a less-well-than-medium sirloin,

semi-sweet and sour chicken, and almost-mashed potatoes

with congealed brown gravy—almost flavored to compliment an

almost-brilliantly odd dinner combination.

Stirring the poetry in my mind

More deliberately than the ice in my almost-empty glass,

I mused: There might be

some subtle symbolism in my almost-pleasant supper…

or perhaps there was a hidden meaning

in the clogged pepper shaker,

the historic building partially restored to glory--almost,

or the couple sitting side-by-side

staring down at their menus instead

of gazing into each other’s eyes

across the table.

Maybe the universe was hinting,

with the sky’s attempt to rain for a moment

before it gave up, sputtering,

that my experience dining alone

was almost worth paying attention.

Perhaps it was the fresh vanilla cream soda,

perfectly timed to conclude my solitary repast,

Foam clinging to the last few ice cubes,

refusing to be consumed or to blow away….

Then I left, by way of the almost-quaint candy

counter, where I almost stopped, almost left

more than an appropriate tip,

and wondered

…if I was the one a bit little off.

(Photo by Luis Arguelles)

     I was in Logan, Utah, at a workshop working on my dissertation for three days. However, my family wasn’t with me, all my friends from the area were out of town on vacation, and so I asked via social media for dinner recommendations. I wanted something local—no chain restaurants, and nowhere I had already sampled. The majority of the reviews came back saying the Bluebird was the best place to go. However, I must note, that those recommendations all came from people who hadn’t been in town for a decade or so. I came to learn that the café had been sold and placed under different management a few times. And so…what used to be glorious was not…at least in my experience. The restaurant still clung to former glory. As I sat waiting, three Billy Collins poems ("Dining Alone," "The Fish," and "Old Man Eating Alone in a Chinese Restaurant") swam in my head, and I recognized the moment for what is was, and the seeds to this poem were planted. Hopefully, for their sake, I just caught the establishment on a bad night. The following night I went to Angie’s. That was simply amazing—no “almost” about it.

My Trouble with Poetry

(Taken from http://theodysseyonline.com/montclair-state/easy-steps-overcome-writers-block/335202)

Lately, I’ve been reading Billy Collins’ Aimless Love, a collection of new and selected poems. Thumbing through, a poem or two a day, I came across one of my old friends: “The Trouble with Poetry” from the collection of the same title (2005). The trouble with poetry, I re-realized, is exactly what Mr. Collins says it is—it urges me to write poetry. It doesn’t have to be, nor will it ever be in most cases, good poetry. I haven’t really written a decent poem for a while. Some of you may question whether I’ve ever written a decent poem, but I digress. Last week I attended a literacy conference, which included a smattering of sessions on poetry, performance, and instruction by educator poets Georgia Heard and Brod Bagert. Interacting with them just sprayed lighter fluid onto my ardor to write poetry.

However, and I must add this however in here, the trouble with writing poetry for me right now is time. I have no time to watch out any window. Even across the hall from my classroom, the broad glass panes streaked with bird droppings and hard water stains fail to call to me. I have no time to invite the muses over for tea or for a cup o’ Joe or Jack or whatever it is they’re drinking these days. No dainties or doilies or even paper napkins holding store brand excuses for cookies and flavored sugar water in slightly smashed Styrofoam cups either.

Several weeks ago, Miss Lee, one of our math teachers, asked if I would write some examples of Pi-ku—a poem where each line corresponds syllables (or letters or words) with digits of pi—for “Pi(e) Day” last Monday (March 14). I jumped at the chance when she proposed the idea, but I couldn’t even eke out a semi-intelligent 3-1-4 poem by the deadline, let alone the twenty digits she initially asked for.

So this morning, I am making time in class, after reading the Collins poem aloud a few times with my students, to write about trouble. They are writing about the trouble with waking up first period, the trouble with Mr. Anson’s English class, the trouble with social media, the trouble with Donald Trump, and the trouble with girls. And I am writing about the trouble with poetry.

However, during the few precious minutes I steal each period, after attendance is taken and before students share their writing, I have not been able to complete any of the poems previously begun over past months. The ideas in my head repeatedly hit the snooze and demand “five more minutes” before waking. I’ve managed to stir up few scraps, a few images that remain clogged in my brain and resurface just often enough to remind me that the trap needs to be emptied, or at minimum, the filter needs to be changed.

Images of a cemetery with fall leaves and lichen creeping over the sandstone, along with an incomplete tribute to my father appear, as do words of a semi-formed piece pre-titled “Death Sucks,” which is a phrase I stole directly from Chris Thompson—to be perfectly honest for a moment—my friend and colleague whose ramblings about the run-ins with the reaper I jotted down and carried with me in a side pocket of my suit coat as I participated in more funerals in the past ten months than I have in a lifetime.

Maybe, if I ramble long enough, the tip of my pencil will burst into a little flame as I sit here in the metaphoric dark.

Not Your Typical Day

There’s something about reflecting on a solitary day in our lives and observing how it has affected those that come after it. Billy Collins describes in his poem “Days” (Sailing Alone Around the Room, 57) how one day balances precariously on the preceding one. I like the visual metaphor of the “impossible tower of dishes entertainers used to build on stage” used to illustrate the dependence of one day on the previous.  So I asked my students to think about one particular day in their lives, one that stands out to them—either because it was amazing and they’d like to relive it exactly the way it was, or perhaps one that they’d like to do over like a judgment call of playground four-square—and to see analyze how that solitary day affect those that followed.

                I remember in high school or up at Ricks College when I would attempt to construct perfect day scenarios depending on what I was going to do, or the company I would spend the day with. However, more often than not, those days never really turned out. Sometimes they were better than expected, but usually none ever lived up to its expectation. These fabricated days, I realize, were the product of my imagination, a construct, if you will, of my subconscious, of what I thought I wanted; and I think that they didn’t materialize due to unrealistic expectations. These dreams were just the “children of an idle brain, begot of nothing but vain fantasy” (Romeo andJuliet, I, iv, 106-107). I spent too much time procrastinating my homework or trying to wax poetic in the frigid Idaho air to really think straight about my life’s direction. I don’t think I knew what I wanted or who I was really; hence the ineptness on my part to solidify a perfect day. And–perhaps, just maybe, my definition of perfect didn’t really exist. I’m sure if I gave it much thought now, it would be much different than it was over twenty years ago.

                One particular day has wandered in and out of my thoughts this morning. It followed me into the shower, rode in the passenger seat on the drive to work, and it keeps poking me in the eye as I thrum the keyboard, hitting the backspace key more often than any other as I try to capture the entire essence of this piece of my history.

                The date was January 2, 1998, the day before I was scheduled to leave southern Spain after twenty-two months and head back to the United States. I was headed back to my country, but not to the home I knew in Illinois. While I was in Andalucía, my dad changed occupations and moved to Utah. But because Dad had been in the military, I was used to moving to different places, and Utah wasn’t going to be too much different; we had vacationed there many times; Mom’s family lived in and around the Ogden area.

                That morning after a quick breakfast of a pastry and a Coke, I boarded a chartered bus and rode the winding carretera for two and a half hours between Granada and Málaga, seeing parts of the country I hadn’t yet experienced. With most of the towns we passed through still hung over from New Year celebrations, I was able to ponder the natural world that swelled around the silent concrete cities and even more motionless remote pueblos without much human interruption.

The grandeur of the countryside overwhelmed me. I knew the mountains that would greet me the next day dwarfed these rolling hills, but the ruggedness and majesty of Sierra Nevada still gave me reason to ponder the universe, the power of their Creator, and my small significance in the grand scheme of life. I passed Roman aqueducts, forgotten to time and progress, and I thought of all the evidences of civilization’s march I had personally seen in my lifetime: Stonehenge, Native American burial mounds, coliseums, medieval European castles and cathedrals, Japanese warlord treasures and temples, to name a few. History unfolded some of its secrets in my silent reverie on the mostly empty bus, head leaning against the hard, cold glass.

                Alone, I was able to ponder the last two years of my own personal history and the effects my existence might mean to Sevilla and its surrounding pueblos, Andújar and Jaén, Jerez de la Frontera, and Granada. The people and the land had changed me—of that I was sure—but had I made a difference? A myriad of faces and places passed through my subconscious until we pulled into the central bus terminal in Málaga.

                From there, I met up with six other missionaries who were headed home. We bought a few last-minute souvenirs, grabbed lunch, and caught the train to Fuéngirola, where the mission office was, and where Presidente López awaited our arrival for a final interview. The train brought us to the station earlier than we had anticipated, and left us with time to kill. Some sat and waited. I was restless and wandered the nearby streets, switching companions every so often—Bremner, McClaws, Tito, Moulton. No matter who I meandered with, though, the conversation was the same: what the future might hold.

                I had been accepted to Brigham Young University for the spring term, so I had a few months to kill before school. Other than that, I had no clue what my future held. And I think that scared me most of all. My whole life to that point had a direction and a plan, more or less: graduate from high school, earn an two-year degree, go on a mission, go back to school. After that remained a mystery. Trudging the semi-deserted streets of the older, non-beach neighborhoods of Fuéngirola during mediodía gave ample opportunity to ponder countless possibilities for my imminent life.

Everything went well during the interview—received some great advice from a great man, some of which I might divulge at a later time. If I concentrate hard enough, I can still retrieve from memory the amazing dinner of arroz con pollo, bread, salad, and olives and cheese. The after-dinner devotional was overshadowed by the arrival of Bremner’s parents. They were there to pick him up and tour the mission while the rest of us were headed out via plane at 5:00 the next morning. I was happy for him, but felt a little out of place. My reunion with family would have to wait.

Perhaps the most vivid memory I have of that reflective day, though, occurred after the events of the day had calmed down, and we were close to turning in for the night. The Hermanas had already gone to bed, Bremner had left with his family, and it was just the four of us—Tito, McClaws, Moulton, and me, chilling on the edge of the Lopez’s pool on that warmer than normal January night. The lights of the house and most of the surrounding neighborhood were extinguished, and the stars showed off their brilliance across the heavens. The Milky Way drew a little closer if only to enhance the ethereal atmosphere. And honestly, my thoughts were not of this earth. I silently pondered the eternities as the other three discussed their future yet again: girls, school, work, but mostly girls they hoped were still around and available when they got home. I didn’t point out the fact that those girls would need to be interested in them, too; I left them to discover that important detail.

I remember in the quiet of that night, looking up, and knowing, without doubt, that a chapter of my life was coming to a close. A grander design was in motion, and God needed me to move on. Many struggle after returning from proselytizing for two years, but I knew that I would make the adjustment smoothly. I was comforted. I felt love—a pure love—for the people I was with, the people whom I served, the people waiting for me a hemisphere away. I smiled despite myself and my uncertainty regarding the future. I knew that I was going to be okay.

Sooner than I wished, the other poolside conversation came over to stand next to me at the edge of the patio, which overlooked an extensive olive grove. “How ‘bout you, Anson?” someone asked. “What do you think? How long ‘til you get married?”

“Wha…?” That caught me off guard.

They all started yammering at once, totally throwing off the groove of my introspective solace. I think there was a little bragging, a little teasing, almost like normal guy stuff. I don’t know who said what, but bets were placed for each of us settling down within one year, two years, never. I remember saying out loud that I would just work until I started school, maybe see about a girlfriend after fall semester started. I figured that at the earliest I would be married in about two and a half years, about the time I wanted to graduate. After I chimed in with my half-hearted comments, the conversation droned on without me, mostly regarding Tito and his self-proclaimed lady-killing skills. (You should have seen him trying to flirt with Hermana Young the next day in the airport. Yeah, not so smooth. I guess he was out of practice.)

The crazy part is that I recall immediately after those words escaped my lips, I had an overwhelming sensation that I knew I was lying. Marriage wasn’t several years down the road; I was going to start my own family within the year. I just knew it. That was what He had in mind for me. I knew it, and God knew it, and I knew that He knew I had come to that understanding right there at the edge of the patio, covered swimming pool behind me, the universe as a witness above me. And maybe the craziest part of the whole deal was that I was perfectly okay with that. I felt a peace knowing that whatever lay ahead, part of the plan was set in motion.

I lay awake the rest of the night, the thought of who my wife would be haunting me. Did I already know her? Would we meet after I got home? It chased me the next day as we ran through the airports of Málaga, Madrid, JFK in New York, Detroit, St. Louis, and finally Salt Lake City (the closest major airport to where my family resided).

The reflections of that day definitely affected the rest of my life. To unfold the rest of the story briefly, I had already met Amy back in January of 1996. I ran into her again only a week after I got home. I was down on campus gathering registration information and happened to run into her in the library (where I had no business being yet). I invited her to hear my homecoming address the next Sunday. We went out for the first time a week later on a double date with my friends Eric and Marisa, who both served with me in Spain. Amy and I became engaged a couple months later and were married on July 14, 1998—only six months after my poolside revelation. Over seventeen years and five kids later, things are only getting better.

So, do our days stack precariously atop one another, Mr. Collins? Absolutely. I just keep stacking and keep balancing, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

And Here's More Evidence

Yesterday I wrote, or rather, rambled for a while regarding learning how to write one skill at a time, and how I am really a conglomeration of all the lessons I've learned before. Not two minutes after I had posted and reposted 27 times because the formatting was off (I'm still not happy about it), I picked up my newly-acquired Horoscopes for the Dead by Billy Collins and read "Memorizing 'The Sun Rising' by John Donne."

“Memorizing ‘The Sun Rising’ by John Donne” by Billy Collins

Every reader loves the way he tells off

the sun, shouting buy old fool

into the English skies even though they

were likely cloudy on that seventeenth-century morning.

And it’s a pleasure to spend this sunny day

pacing the carpet and repeating the words,

feeling the syllables lock into rows

until I can stand and declare,

the book held close by my side,

that hours days, and months are but the rags of time.

But after a few steps into stanza number two,

wherein the sun is blinded by his mistress’s eyes,

I can feel the first one begin to fade

like sky-written letters on a windy day.

And by the time I have taken in the third,

the second is likewise gone, a blown-out candle now,

a wavering line of acrid smoke.

So it’s not until I leave the house

and walk three times around this hidden lake

that the poem begins to show

any interest in walking by my side.

Then, after my circling,

better than the courteous dominion

of her being all states and him all princes,

better than love’s power to shrink

the wide world to the size of a bedchamber,

and better even than the compression

of all that into the rooms of these three stanzas

is how, after hours stepping up down the poem,

testing the plank of every line,

it goes with me now, contracted into a little spot within.

Instant validation.

I think now about how horrible I am about memorizing bits and pieces, especially extended texts, and how usually once I have something down, another chunk of knowledge gives my mind the slip.

Most of the time, memorizing facts or formulas or French verb conjugations is like a Boy Scout learning his knots. He repeat over and over again, "drilling and killing," but despite his best efforts, the information still does not hold fast. The synapses fire long enough to pass off the requirement or the quiz, but then the skill disappears, forever into the dark void between his ears, or so it appears. Hope is not lost, my friends; not for you, not for the scout. At least, not yet. If you internalize the knowledge, be it stanza or sheepshank, grammar rule or game design, and actually use it, that tidbit of knowledge becomes a part of you, ready to creep to the surface in a contemplative stroll across the field, or it may pop out when you desperately have to secure your tent during a downpour. Eventually, it has the potential to become wisdom through experience.

It's not automatic, of course; you must work at retrieval of stored knowledge. It takes practice listening to that inner self. And you must practice! introspect.

You never know how or when the miscellanea lodged in your gray matter will be of use (or distraction). How often do song lyrics come to the forefront of your thoughts when you are alone, or psyching yourself up for the interview, or whatever? What do you do with them? Dance? Ponder life, the universe, and everything? Ignore that buzzing sound in your skull and grunt like a Neanderthal? Recognize it as a part of who you are?

So, I guess what I'm saying is that we, as human beings, need to cram as much learning into our brains as we can. And then we need to wedge in some more, even if it seems like we might lose other dear memories and ideas. They're still there; you just have to mine for them sometimes.

Again, let me assuage your fears, those who fear attracting zombies with those overstuffed brains. Don't worry. You have nothing to fear. In the moment, something that you supposedly learned back in Boy Scouts will help you survive.

Poem in Your Pocket Day

Today, in the midst of the swirling mayhem that is my professional life, I need to pause and remind everyone that tomorrow (April 18, 2013) is Poem in Your Pocket Day.  I'm calling you all out to participate.  Here is how you play:

1. Find a copy of your favorite poem.  It does not have to be one that you wrote yourself.  It might even be better if it isn't (no offense intended to most of you).  It could be inspirational, mood-revealing, whimsical, whatever.  Yes, I know that's tough for some of you (and geeks like me), but just pick one.  Last Thursday, I read with my seventh graders from X.J. and Dorothy M. Kennedy's Knock at a Star: A Child's Introduction to Poetry that one thing that a poem can do is make you smile.  Choose a poem that will make you smile.

2. Carry a physical copy of the poem on your person all day long.

3. Take out your poem frequently and read it.  This will give you that little chuckle or kick in the pants or reality check that you need to get through the day.

4. Share your poem with your colleagues, friends, family...anyone who will take the time to listen.

5. Notice how poetry makes the world a better place.  Poems help make you smile, tell stories, send messages, share feelings, understand people and the world around you, and maybe most importantly, they start you wondering (Kennedy and Kennedy, 1999).

Last year my poem was Naomi Shihab Nye's "Valentine for Ernest Mann."  This year I'm packing  "Forgetfulness" by Billy Collins.  I'm including it at the end of this post for those who may not be familiar with it.  It strikes a chord with how I've been viewing myself lately.

I'm curious as to what poems you will be carrying tomorrow (or in retrospect if you don't remember in time).  Even if you don't participate in this awesome celebration of poetry, leave a comment about what poem you have chosen or would have chosen.  Share with me (and the world).  I promise not to mock you.

“Forgetfulness” (by Billy Collins)

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.