April ain’t the cruelest month.
In his famous, infamous, and heavily footnoted poem “The Wasteland,” which is as dense as a fame-whore anyone who “stars” on The Real World, T.S. Eliot wrote:
April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
When you live in Western New York, while you probably love snow (as opposed to corn) as high as a elephant’s eye, you also, you know, get a bit stir crazy, and pine for Spring like an undergrad on spring-break pines for a fifth of tequila. So to us, April is one of the finest months.
April is also National Poetry Month, and as a poet, I like to share the best of the best of the best with others. So, in the spirit of the month, in the spirit of art that breeds progress, in the spirit of temperatures cracking 50 degrees, we’ll be sharing a reader-friendly poem for each of the next five Mondays.
Why Monday? Because it’s the cruelest day.
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