I love poetry. Honestly. I love poetry. Whatever work of fiction/non-fiction sits at my bedside table there is almost always a companion of poetry lying next to it.
Poetry is good for walking.
You can read the stanzas in a rhythm as you walk. And when you glance up to watch your path, the mind can digest each phrase. These days I have zero time for this type of activity. And I can't take my books of poetry into a lap pool or on my road bike.
My favorite poem - and it has always been my favorite - comes from this man.
And at least once a week I find myself quietly whispering lines...
I grow old...I grow old...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing each to each.
I do not think they will sing to me.
Occasionally I read poetry to my children at bedtime (in between Harry Potter & Roald Dahl). They're not crazy about most of it - but I still manage to sneak it in every so often.
They will tolerate Ben Jonson and occasionally Edgar Allan Poe. They hate Keats. And they don't know it yet, but Shakespeare is coming...
In the meantime, they delight most in the prose of Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout and the one who cannot go to school today, named little Peggy Ann McKay.