Poet's Day, as near as I can figure, is a made-up holiday that exists only in the pages of the Quality Paperback Book Club's annual calender/day planner.
But so what? That shouldn't stop you from celebrating Poet's Day to the fullest when it comes around every March 1st.
There are plenty of ways to celebrate Poet's Day.
Reading and writing poetry would be only the most obvious examples.
Why not write out Poet's Day cards and send them to all your friends and acquaintances? Or put up an evergreen tree in your livingroom, decorating it with poetry-themed ornaments and garlands.
Don't forget to buy Poet's Day gifts for your loved ones.
Personally, I celebrated the last Poet's Day by eating breakfast at my local poet house.
A poet house, you'll find, is just like a pancake house, but with better coffee.
There, I heard Lewis Carroll as he ordered the seafood omelet with extra oysters.
"We cannot do with more than four," his server responded.
"To give a hand to each.
" Carroll frowned, and when his omelet came, he complained that the lobster was baked too brown.
"I must sugar my hair," he said in frustration.
Then he had the server take away the omelet and bring the soup of the evening, beautiful soup, instead.
George Gordon, Lord Byron said that he wasn't hungry, but I caught him staring at Emily Dickinson's waffles.
Dickinson led the poets in saying grace in the name of the butterfly, and of the birds, and of the breeze, amen.
She washed down her waffles with the sherry which the guest leaves.
Allen Ginsburg let me have a bite of his kosher Zen New Jersey nowhere, howling as he sipped his hot matzo ball soup.
Meanwhile, Lawrence Ferlinghetti ate a good deal of spaghetti.
Along came Adrienne Rich, who ordered strong black coffee.
It came nestled sensuously between the waitress's breasts.
Langston Hughes had the raisin toast in the sun, but said that it was too dry.
Edgar Allan Poe had the toast as well.
His came with cognac and three red roses.
When asked if he wanted a side of bacon with that, Poe said, "Nevermore.
" When the check came, Poe was nowhere to be found.
Oscar Wilde went wild when served his Oscar Meyer wiener.
Robert Frost stopped by to watch the powdered sugar fall on my french toast, but he couldn't stay.
"I have promises to keep," he said.
"And miles to go before I sleep.
" William Shakespeare ordered the turkey dinner and made much ado about stuffing.
But all was as he liked it in the end.
He washed down his meal with a winter's ale.
It was impossible to tell what Robert Pinsky ordered as an entree, but for dessert, he had Basho, banana pudding.
(This is my original work, first published in the literary webzine Wild Violet, in the Sept.
2007 issue.
If you don't get the Robert Pinsky reference, you obviously haven't been watching The Simpsons!)
But so what? That shouldn't stop you from celebrating Poet's Day to the fullest when it comes around every March 1st.
There are plenty of ways to celebrate Poet's Day.
Reading and writing poetry would be only the most obvious examples.
Why not write out Poet's Day cards and send them to all your friends and acquaintances? Or put up an evergreen tree in your livingroom, decorating it with poetry-themed ornaments and garlands.
Don't forget to buy Poet's Day gifts for your loved ones.
Personally, I celebrated the last Poet's Day by eating breakfast at my local poet house.
A poet house, you'll find, is just like a pancake house, but with better coffee.
There, I heard Lewis Carroll as he ordered the seafood omelet with extra oysters.
"We cannot do with more than four," his server responded.
"To give a hand to each.
" Carroll frowned, and when his omelet came, he complained that the lobster was baked too brown.
"I must sugar my hair," he said in frustration.
Then he had the server take away the omelet and bring the soup of the evening, beautiful soup, instead.
George Gordon, Lord Byron said that he wasn't hungry, but I caught him staring at Emily Dickinson's waffles.
Dickinson led the poets in saying grace in the name of the butterfly, and of the birds, and of the breeze, amen.
She washed down her waffles with the sherry which the guest leaves.
Allen Ginsburg let me have a bite of his kosher Zen New Jersey nowhere, howling as he sipped his hot matzo ball soup.
Meanwhile, Lawrence Ferlinghetti ate a good deal of spaghetti.
Along came Adrienne Rich, who ordered strong black coffee.
It came nestled sensuously between the waitress's breasts.
Langston Hughes had the raisin toast in the sun, but said that it was too dry.
Edgar Allan Poe had the toast as well.
His came with cognac and three red roses.
When asked if he wanted a side of bacon with that, Poe said, "Nevermore.
" When the check came, Poe was nowhere to be found.
Oscar Wilde went wild when served his Oscar Meyer wiener.
Robert Frost stopped by to watch the powdered sugar fall on my french toast, but he couldn't stay.
"I have promises to keep," he said.
"And miles to go before I sleep.
" William Shakespeare ordered the turkey dinner and made much ado about stuffing.
But all was as he liked it in the end.
He washed down his meal with a winter's ale.
It was impossible to tell what Robert Pinsky ordered as an entree, but for dessert, he had Basho, banana pudding.
(This is my original work, first published in the literary webzine Wild Violet, in the Sept.
2007 issue.
If you don't get the Robert Pinsky reference, you obviously haven't been watching The Simpsons!)
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