celebrating World Poetry Day and other good things

Well, imagine that. In a world filled with celebrations of Twinkie Day and Hug Your Bestfriend Day, and National Cheese Ball Day, today happens to have a few special commemorations.

It’s World Down Syndrome Day, which in the scope of things that are important, well, I’d place this ahead of the rest. I’d rather hug a kid, with or without Down Syndrome, than, for example, hug a tree (it also happens to be International Day of Forests and the Tree – how’s that for a name?).

Anyway, as I was saying, I’d rather hug a kid — and it will be a great day indeed, when all we see is a kid, a person, without any qualifiers at all, whether it’s the color of his skin, or the language he speaks, or the number of chromosomes she has, or all, or neither. A little bit of education goes a long way. I know.

So, on this day, celebrating people, trees, and poems, I invite you to read some of my poetry. It’s all out there…just select the blog category to the right of this post. So easy: choose POEMS.

Cuz it’s World Poetry Day. So I’ll leave you with a wonderful poem by Edith Sitwell, a better poet than I’ll ever be, and perfect for a Friday in Lent:

Still Falls the Rain

Still falls the Rain—
Dark as the world of man, black as our loss—
Blind as the nineteen hundred and forty nails
Upon the Cross.

Still falls the Rain
With a sound like the pulse of the heart that is changed to the hammer-beat
In the Potter’s Field, and the sound of the impious feet

On the Tomb:
Still falls the Rain

In the Field of Blood where the small hopes breed and the human brain
Nurtures its greed, that worm with the brow of Cain.

Still falls the Rain
At the feet of the Starved Man hung upon the Cross.
Christ that each day, each night, nails there, have mercy on us—
On Dives and on Lazarus:
Under the Rain the sore and the gold are as one.

Still falls the Rain—
Still falls the Blood from the Starved Man’s wounded Side:
He bears in His Heart all wounds,—those of the light that died,
The last faint spark
In the self-murdered heart, the wounds of the sad uncomprehending dark,
The wounds of the baited bear—
The blind and weeping bear whom the keepers beat
On his helpless flesh… the tears of the hunted hare.

Still falls the Rain—
Then— O Ile leape up to my God: who pulles me doune—
See, see where Christ’s blood streames in the firmament:
It flows from the Brow we nailed upon the tree

Deep to the dying, to the thirsting heart
That holds the fires of the world,—dark-smirched with pain
As Caesar’s laurel crown.

Then sounds the voice of One who like the heart of man
Was once a child who among beasts has lain—
“Still do I love, still shed my innocent light, my Blood, for thee.”