If you’re planning to throw your golf clubs in the car and head out for a round of 18 holes it may not mean much to you that April is Poetry Month. You may still be smarting from your Supreme Court Justice nomination that lost steam due to that little limerick you recited at the company New Year’s Eve party back in 1989 which has been used to make you appear to be a sexist jerk, so your interest in poetry and the word “Nantucket” has dimmed. Well, you’re not alone.
Poetry, when read aloud, has been proved over and over again to break up a gathering. Many police departments, to avoid the cost of pepper spray and water cannons, are now issuing their officers bull horns containing the recorded works of Robert Frost and Walt Whitman. Poe, that moody figure of literature, is considered by law enforcement to be a God send for Halloween crowd dispersal. SWAT teams may start carrying the entire works of Maya Angelou.
Then what is the message of poetry month? It’s not that we should read about flaxen hair or the shadow of emotions as clouds in our coffee---no, but that we should write a poem ourselves and watch it work it’s power over the hearts of women.
Back when our bare-chested hairy legged ancestors smelled of bear grease and smoke, lived in caves and slept on animal hides, men were considered unattractive by women. Fighting with spears and rocks had left unsightly blemishes and open wounds and sometimes changed good bass singers into sopranos. Guys sat around camp fires stitching themselves back together with cat gut, telling war stories that projected calloused indifference while deep down they ached to be loved for who they were.
Men wanted women to show an interest in a fellow for his inner self rather than ambush another tribe and eviscerate and hack asunder other warriors and drag the women away by their hair screaming and sobbing. There had to be a better way to date a person, especially since you, the winner with bleeding gashes, was no longer interested in sex, what with your massive loss of blood.
Then Christians appeared and sought to put aside carnal pleasure but it made them irritable and moody and they hung out in gangs of twelve, wrote a lot of epistles and went to Spain and conducted inquisitions—anything to pass the time. And they prayed for women. Literally.
Men longed to find something appealing that would make a woman throw herself into a suitor’s embrace and prevent terrorized screaming. Also, whips and thumb screws appealed to only a very small group of women with unique tastes.
And so poetry was found with it’s soothing cadence and delicate encouragement of desires. Poetry beckons us to “seize the day” and so you should write your own poem. Tell her you adore her and you long to take her in your arms, smell her hair and kiss her smooth soft throat. Be original and forget Shakespeare and roses are red violets are blue stuff and don’t steal glances at the sports channel while you try to write.
Do not send your poem by e-mail, postal delivery or text messaging. Write it down by hand on a clean piece of paper and hand it to her yourself. You want to be there, standing close, just behind her shoulder when she reads it and be ready for the quick embrace and passionate kiss.
Robert Frost said “Love is an irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired” and that my friend is what usually gets the girl.
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