Now I hope that special someone... or someone I don't yet realize is special... writes such an ode to me. I may be getting older but I still long for true love. And I refuse to grow up.

I wish more people knew about this side of him. Hence my blog posting, Garrison Keillor, My Won't-Be-Gone Companion:

http://open.salon.com/blog/elizabeth64

-Elizabeth Flint

Her , so near the Starnbergersee- where nearby there are many poets locked up in clinics and sanatoriums at this time of year I am reminded.

Nevermind that no one bothers to look into the Germanistik and the Wagner and ponderous history (Marie's big lie) to be found in "The Wasteland"

I am reminded of dead lillies shooting up and cherry blossoms dressed for Easter.

Of the misadventure of striking a young deer in the car at night.

Of a shining Danish knight/priest coming to Hrothgar's and Wealtheow's aid.

Of Aoleus finally blowing the Greeks' sails seaward.

Oh, the thought of what America would be like

Oh, the thought of what America would be like

Oh, the thought of what America would be like if the Classics had a wide circulation...

Oh, well it troubles my sleep.

Say you do manage to get the girl (Penelope, Daisy,Artimis, Cornmaiden, Kali... whichever girl)... she distracts you away from your beloved poetry in time- usually right away.

She grows disappointed with your new poetic disinclination-

leaves you for a full-time brooder.

She knows your jokes were better- your song more resonant.

But, heck, it's April. The new guy's got season tickets to the Open Air and a convertible Prius.

My father's favorite poem:

"Spring has sprung, the grass is ris'

I wonder where the birdies is."

Under this Linden, the minne shall find me.

Or is this really just a long dream?

Frisch weht der Wind der Heimat zu,

Mein Irisch (sic) Kind,

Wo weilest du?

I wait for a glimpse of bright sail on the hopeful horizon.

I wait beneath this Linden.

The minne cometh with that good sail.

Here it shall find me.

minnesinger5,

... still in exile near the Alps, collecting water bird feathers as they lap up to the shore.

We're reviving the old cliche that men invented civilization to impress women? While the women cleaned the latrines, I suppose.

Quite funny. I see one reader took you seriously, and fussed at you for describing civilization as men's attempt to impress women. There IS that, and I have written a joking poem or two in that vein myself.

You of course care about the poems you make fun of, or would not be able to allude to them so specifically and with such humor. T. S. Eliot as a "small dark cloud." Nice. He's one of my favorites, but quite apt.

I have learned this self-deprecating behavior about poetry, too. Have declared that the two things that most frighten Americans are math and poetry, both of which I love.

Only thing is, I AM a poet, and not the peut-etre type either (modern cognate, wannabe). A novelist, too, thank God, or I would get no respect at all. Poets get envy, but not respect, surely an unusual situation.

And while I am as ready as anyone to make fun of poetry, and have done a lot of that, I do get tired of tugging on the forelock. Yassuh, yassuh, all you peoples who hates poetry, yall sho does have it right, suh.

The fact is I have loved poetry with all my heart since I was sixteen. The real stuff is the finest thinking humans are capable of, the finest responses, the finest words. I grew up in Mississippi in the 60s, and one of the reasons I love poetry is that it spoke truth although the state lied.

I cannot imagine life without it, and I am proud of knowing it. Chaucer, Shakespeare, Marvell, Dickinson, Donne, Yeats, Wilbur, Frost, St. Vincent Millay, Robinson, and on and on.

People don't apologize for going to monster truck hauls. Why should a poet apologize?

You of course know exactly what you are doing. Thanks.

April is indeed the cruelest month...especially on the 15th.

...the MAIN reason, anyway!

Turned out pretty well, too.

When considering potential life mates:

Turn your romantic impulses into a poem, the best you can make it.

If you can't bring yourself to read it to her, cross that one off the list -- you know for sure she's not the one.

If you do read it and she breaks out in laughter, or her expression tells you she thinks you must be some sort of an intellectual or English major, or an even weirder type of nutcase, write her off too.

That should eliminate just about all of them.

But if you should find one who, upon the recitation of your ode, blushes or sighs and then melts into your arms, you will have discovered the true worth of poetry, the meaning of life, the existence of God and the answer to the question, "What's it all about."

Good luck to all.

Don

...read it in public- get a swirly. Everyone knows poets are either overwrought girls, homos (same difference!) or pretentious poseurs trying their damndest to use as many words as possible to hide the fact they have nothing to say. Well... not quite everyone, but what do they know anyway? I've gotten more "favors" from women with my guitar than I have with my poetry, but despite the fact that an awful lot of alleged poets live down to what most people think of 'em, poetry is a worthy endeavor both in and of itself, and I haven't totally struck out in the favors dept. either.

Find some poetry you like, people.

Right now techno is lame, poetry is lamer, but if you recite poetry to techno in the right way you are a rapper, a hip hopper etc, and you are doing the sexiest thang.

The best way to counteract this sad pop fact is to find a published book of poetry that you like. There are lots of them and you've a whole two weeks left to do it.