Poetry is finer and more philosophical than history; for poetry expresses the universal, and history only the particular.
~ Aristotle

April is National Poetry Month. These designations that focus on certain things for certain months always boggles my mind. Black History Month. Women’s History Month. It seems we ought to be aware and in celebration of both black history and the history of women all the time, every month. And as far as I am concerned, every month, every day is a time to be in awe of poetry and those who struggle to write it. 

Poetry is the beautiful collection of a very few words that can tell a story. A good poem can make us cry or laugh and sometimes all in the reading of a few, short lines. Poetry makes us feel in ways long paragraphs cannot. Poetry expresses our love, our longing, our devotion, our hopes, our dreams, our failures, what haunts us and what fills us with sacred knowing. 

As someone who existed for a long time in a profession that is often given to using too many words, for too long, the gift of poetry cuts through all the banter and brings the hearer to a stripping away of all that is unnecessary. The talent of the poet is in the choosing, the careful choosing of just the right combination of words that create phrases we can remember perhaps for a very long time. And poetry is often the words that rides the lift and fall of a tune in a song that lodges itself in our heart and stays there till our last breath.

Many Thursdays I make my way to the Landmark Center in downtown St. Paul to the Schubert Club’s noon concert series. This respite in the middle of an ordinary day never fails to lift my often downcast spirit especially on a day like today when the snow is flying and the wind cuts through my refusal to add another layer. Today’s concert featured the choir ComMUSICation, a group of singers of various ages whose mission is to ‘amplify young people’s voices and cultivate skills for success through equitable access to music, collaboration, and opportunity.’ Today’s performance featured these young people singing with professional singers from MPLS (imPulse). The music was luscious and seeing one young girl given the opportunity to conduct the singers and doing so with such precision and grace gave this former music teacher a very full heart. 

The final piece of music sung by the choir was a musical setting of the poet Naomi Shihab Nye’s poem ‘One Boy Told Me’ set to music by composer Timothy Takach. One of the young women introduced the song and, after saying the title, beamed: “I just love this poem!” This poem is really a compilation of phrases spoken by Naomi’s son as he was growing up. She had kept a notebook of all his statements…something many parents think they will do and never actually get around to doing. I had heard her tell this story at a workshop I had attended. To hear the poem set to music was thrilling. 

On this gray, April Day with snow spitting onto the daffodils that are trying desperately to push their way into the world, I am thankful for poetry. I celebrate its creation every day but especially today. And I celebrate the musicians who can take the poetry and make it sing. 

Happy Poetry Month!

One Boy Told Me by Naomi Shihab Nye

Music lives inside my legs.
It’s coming out when I talk.

I’m going to send my valentines
to people you don’t even know.

Oatmeal cookies make my throat gallop.

Grown-ups keep their feet on the ground
when they swing. I hate that.

Look at those 2 o’s with a smash in the middle—
that spells good-bye.

Don’t ever say “purpose” again,
let’s throw the word out.

Don’t talk big to me.
I’m carrying my box of faces.
If I want to change faces I will.

Yesterday faded
but tomorrow’s in BOLDFACE..

When I grow up my old names
will live in the house
where we live now.
I’ll come and visit them.

Only one of my eyes is tired.
The other eye and my body aren’t.

Is it true all metal was liquid first?
Does that mean if we bought our car earlier
they could have served it
in a cup?

There’s a stopper in my arm
that’s not going to let me grow any bigger.
I’ll be like this always, small.

And I will be deep water too.
Wait. Just wait. How deep is the river?
Would it cover the tallest man with his hands in the air?

Your head is a souvenir.

When you were in New York I could see you
in real life walking in my mind.

I’ll invite a bee to live in your shoe.
What if you found your shoe
full of honey?

What if the clock said 6:92
instead of 6:30? Would you be scared?

My tongue is the car wash
for the spoon.

Can noodles swim?

My toes are dictionaries.
Do you need any words?

From now on I’ll only drink white milk
on January 26.

What does minus mean?
I never want to minus you.

Just think—no one has ever seen
inside this peanut before!

It is hard being a person.

I do and don’t love you—
isn’t that happiness?

To hear Naomi Shihab Nye read the poem: