But I still have a rhyming dictionary on my book shelf

An outfit called the Academy of American Poets has designated April as National Poetry Month. Their goal, of course, is greater appreciation of poetry, but they are obviously doing a lousy job since this is the 15th year for it, and I never heard about it until today.

I like poetry. One might even say I love it.  My tastes are extremely eclectic, but Robert Frost is probably my favorite poet. I also like Sarah Teasdale and Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Dorothy Parker and e. e. cummings and Gwendolyn Brooks, and who doesn't love Keats and Tennyson?

Like most moody youngsters, I wrote poetry too, starting in high school. I kept at it until I was in my late twenties, whereupon I gave up trying to write serious poetry, although I continue to this day to write doggerel whenever the spirit moves me.

A number of years ago I came across this plastic file box in which I keep keepsakes, and it contained a folder crammed with pieces of paper -- typing paper, notebook paper, stationery, foolscap -- that had been typed or written or scribbled upon and which represented my entire poetic oeuvre. Among the dozens of "serious" poems there was one that was really very good (though I say it myself), and one or two that weren't too bad. The rest was junk.

I must have sensed at some level I was creating garbage, which is why I quit doing it.  There is nothing worse than bad poetry that takes itself seriously.

I have heard that the shortest poem in English is entitled "Fleas" and goes like this:

Adam
Had 'em.

I hope that's not true.  Or maybe Adam was a dog.