April is National Poetry Month, which is pretty meaningful for Florida. We’ve had quite a few Rhymin’ Simons use Florida as either a muse or a haven or both.
The visiting poets included Sidney Lanier, who in 1875 wrote a tourism-promoting guidebook to the state while on the payroll of the state’s major railroad; Robert Frost, who named his winter home here “Pencil Pines” and wrote a poem by that name; and Wallace Stevens, who loved Key West even after Ernest Hemingway cleaned his clock in a fight. (I am partial to Stevens because one of his poems is titled O Florida, Venereal Soil.)
Florida has a gracious plenty of poets living and working here now, including Campbell McGrath, who won a MacArthur “genius grant” for his work; Yolanda Franklin, whose book Blood Vinyls includes an imagined dialogue with Zora Neale Hurston; and Richard Blanco, who not only read one of his poems at President Obama’s inaugural but is also a licensed civil engineer. I guess constructing a stanza is not unlike constructing a bridge.
I can see why Florida produces so much poetry. I often turn to poetry when trying to express my feelings toward my native state — and, in particular, the form known as “haiku.” For instance:
Sunrise: humid, hot
Road rage incident gone wrong
Ran over myself
Getting stuck in a snarl of cars and trucks gives me plenty of time to compose a Florida poem, as well as a good subject:
Traffic on I-4
Backed up like a bad toilet
Where’s Disney’s FastPass?
The latest legal maneuvers from the case involving the owner of the New England Patriots and efforts to suppress the video of his visits to the Orchids of Asia Day Spa inspired this one:
Some Kraft-y lawyers
Cry foul over Sunshine Law
Exposing dark deeds
I encourage everyone in Florida to give poetry a whirl. Read the news out of Tallahassee about how lawmakers want to change the rules to make it harder to get a citizen petition on the ballot and see how inspiring it can be:
Here in Florida
Legislators squeal in fright
When voters take charge
Or you can just give vent to the range of feelings that Florida gives us on a regular basis:
Roseate spoonbill soars high
Need my machete
Why haiku, you ask? Hey, have you ever tried to find a rhyme for “Sopchoppy”?