Another day, another poem? Today I feel rather Sisyphean about it. Is it a curse or a blessing to write? Soon enough April will dawn on us and that always brings to mind Eliot’s lines:
April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering 5
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Isn’t it easier to be forgetful? To not put in any effort or the minimal effort? Whereas spring asks that we awaken from slumber. See the parallel here?
And is that why National Poetry Writing Month falls in April? We’re seasonal creatures. Life is seasonal. We cycle back. We repeat. Write a poem that has something repetitious or seasonal about it.