Next week, April 26 is Poem in Your Pocket Day. I wrote this a few years ago and thought I’d remind everyone of the chance to participate this year:
The Academy of American Poets sent an email encouraging me to print a poem, carry it around, and share it with those I meet. How many people actually do this, I wonder. How many poets? I decide to experiment. I choose the first poem in Andrea Cohen’s new book, Furs Not Mine, since I want something short, accessible and punchy. I copy “The Committee Weighs In” on a sheet of lined yellow paper and put it in my pocket.
9:30—The guy who’s giving me an estimate to install solar panels pulls into the driveway and begins chatting with a neighbor walking her dog. I introduce myself to Larry and Pat. The dog, a fluffy white Chow, has a shaved right flank. It had been attacked by another dog, but doesn’t seem spooky or shy with people. I offer it my hand to sniff, then offer to read Pat a poem. She smiles. Afterwards she thanks me and walks on.
10:15—Larry is giving me the work estimate and teases that I’ll have to give him a $5000 cash deposit. OK, I’ll raise you one, I say, you have to listen to a poem. I read it, explaining its source. He looks serious. He says his wife is coping with the likelihood her mother will pass soon. He thought he might copy it for her but it was too sad. I agree. I say it’s more about the aftermath of loss than about what comes before. I recommend Jane Kenyon’s “Let Evening Come” for his wife. It will comfort her, I say. I write down the author and title and suggest that he Google it.
2:30—I’m learning to play golf. I’ve been learning for 3 years. I’ve played only once this season. I decide to drive myself to a local course that no one serious about the game would try. Golf is like rust. You grind, fix, and polish one area, then another needs work.
The pro shop’s empty. A sign directs me to the oak-veneer pub next door. Tables set, the bar gleams with anticipation. The only soul in sight, a woman behind the cash register, writes something I can’t see. I’ve forgotten my reading glasses so I can’t read her a poem.
4:00—On my way home I meet another neighbor at the grocery store. Again, no reading glasses, so no poem.
5:00—I return a call from my friend Denise, who invites me to the movies. We chat about interior decorating. I ask if I can read her “The Committee Weighs In.” This will be her first Mother’s Day without her mom. Sick and demented, her mother suffered far too long in the nursing home she tried to escape several times. We agree that in such cases death is a relief. She asks me to thank Andrea and tell her how much she enjoyed “The Committee.” And says I can read poetry to her any time.
9:10—My husband calls from a conference in San Diego. He’s about to go to dinner, so I don’t have time to read him the poem. This is my last interaction of the day. Oh, I forgot the woman next to the 13th hole grilling hot dogs on her back patio. She pointed to my ball, in the sand trap to the left of the green. I was too distracted to pull a poem from my pocket.
So—seven encounters and three readings, of which two were welcomed with enthusiasm. That’s—what, about 29%? Not a bad figure for random Americans asked to listen to a poem.