World Poetry Day was actually yesterday, but I thought we’d go ahead and keep the poetry party going with a post today! (See how I used alliteration there? That’s a poetic device.)

Some of my favorite poets are Wendell Berry, Ron Rash, Kathryn Stripling Byer, Marc Harshman, Louise McNeill, Archiblad MacLeish, W.B. Yeats . . . oh heck, why try to make such a list?

Marc Harshman is the current poet laureate of WV–CLICK for some of his work. Here’s just one line of his that positively sings to me, “. . . this ancient hillscape where no one has an anchor without a bloodline tested by rock and death’s inconveniences.”

You would do well to read a poem by any of the above. And if it’s too much trouble to look one up, here’s one of mine that was published in the Pisgah Review once upon a time:

HOW TO BURY A DOG     

First, let sorrow fill you ‘til
you have to break the earth—
have to dig a deep hole where
grief can go when it falls
like sweat and tears.

Pile the dirt high to one side,
shovels full of wishes, rich
and sticky, clay soil and humus.
Look out for rocks and roots.
Rocks sit heavy, block progress,
make it hard to swallow—best
toss them in the weeds and go on.

Roots are trickier, growing deep
and wide—when you pull, they
just keep coming, memory tied
to memory tied to longing.
Sometimes you have to cut
these off sharp, leave them buried.

Dig deep, make sure you give
grief plenty of room and square
the corners for clarity, know that
sadness has its edges, too.

Now the easy part is done.
You will think that you can bury
the sorrow that has been pouring
into this raw place, but
you are only planting, only
covering over the seeds of sadness.

Pat loose dirt down over your grief—
do not try to hide the obvious—
and spend some time examining
what you have done.

Place smooth, worn stones all around,
arrange them for long walks, naps,
rawhide bones and silky ears.
For muddy feet and rides in cars.
They will stay here for a long, long time.

If you have done your work well,
you will find sorrow’s winter crust
pierced by something like peace,
something like contentment.

And then one day, joy will push soft,
purple petals into the light.