By: Jessie Carty Posted on
Courtesy of the Academy of American Poets
Courtesy of The Academy of American Poets

To celebrate National Poetry Month, Germ invites you to do as contributing poet Jessie Carty does in this video and tell us why poetry matters to you. Simply leave your responses in the comments below. Or, if you like, send us a video where you recite (or read) your favorite poem!

To search for poems to read and share with others this month, visit the website of The Academy of American Poets at www.poets.org.

“The Land of Counterpane” by Robert Louis Stevenson

 

When I was sick and lay a-bed,

I had two pillows at my head,

And all my toys beside me lay

To keep me happy all the day.

 

And sometimes for an hour or so

I watched my leaden soldiers go,

With different uniforms and drills,

Among the bed-clothes, through the hills;

 

And sometimes sent my ships in fleets

All up and down among the sheets;

Or brought my trees and houses out,

And planted cities all about.

 

I was the giant great and still

That sits upon the pillow-hill,

And sees before him, dale and plain,

The pleasant land of counterpane.

 

Categories: Lit, Lit Poetry Tags: , , , ,

4 Replies to “Poetry Matters by Jessie Carty”

  2. There are so many, but this poem changed everything for me as a poem writer.

    Testy Pony
    by Zachary Schomburg

    I am given a pony for my birthday, but it is the wrong kind of pony. It is the kind of pony that won’t listen. It is testy. When I ask it to go left, it goes right. When I ask it to run, it sleeps on its side in the tall grass. So when I ask it to jump us over the river into the field I have never before been, I have every reason to believe it will fail, that we will be swept down the river to our deaths. It is a fate for which I am prepared. The blame of our death will rest with the testy pony, and with that, I will be remembered with reverence, and the pony will be remembered with great anger. But with me on its back, the testy pony rears and approaches the river with unfettered bravery. Its leap is glorious. It clears the river with ease, not even getting its pony hooves wet. And then there we are on the other side of the river, the sun going down, the pony circling, looking for something to eat in the dirt. Real trust is to do so in the face of clear doubt, and to trust is to love. This is my failure, and for that I cannot be forgiven.

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