Some years back this time of year was designated National Poetry Month. It's fitting that April, such a lovely name, might have come from that of Aphrodite, goddess of love and beauty, as far as the Greeks were concerned, in ancient times. Breeding, as it does, lilacs out of the cold, dead land, T. S. (Thos. Stearns) Eliot called April "the cruelest month" in his poem The Waste Land (1922, the year my dad was born). This very day, marks the anniversaries of the births of "Iron Chancellor,"Otto von Bismark (1815) that wily Prussian statesman; and musician Sergei Rachmaninoff, born in czarist Russia, 1873. But for me, for now, it's the first day of Nat'l Poetry Month, a time for rhyme.
A cranky, quirky, funny dame, a cronette, divided in demeanor between fizzy optimism and dispirited melancholy (I treat the latter with new projects, the latest being an early-18th century gentleman's coat that I sewed for myself out of a length of blue denim, decorated w/ brass buttons.) An entertaining speaker I am, to many a gym or library full of students, a fine writer about dead people and things historical, a middling harmonica player and illustrator of many a book, 40 or so & counting.