I do hope you will join us on Saturday, April 21, 11 a.m. to 1 p.m. at the Beverly Public Library for the annual National Poetry Day reading.

I can’t remember how many years the NSPF has been holding this event, during which we invite the winners of the Naomi Cherkofsky contest to read, followed by an Open Mic. In any case, it is always a great time! We serve a few goodies to complement the very good poetry and friends who attend. So, I hope you’ll make sure to stop by.

But, it is a big weekend for poetry! The Massachusetts Poetry Festival begins Friday and goes through Sunday afternoon, in Salem, at a number of venues. Check out the link on this page to see what you might like to attend — so long as you are sure to come to Beverly, too!

Next year we might coordinate with the Poetry Festival folk and become part of that event (what do our members think?), or we might make sure to hold our reading on another weekend so that we can help animate National Poetry Month with lots of verse all month long.

If you can’t wait to the weekend this year, however, the Tin Box Poets are having their celebration on Thursday night, April 19, 6:30 to 8 p.m., at the Swampscott Public Library, 61 Burrill St.  Doors open at 6 p.m. for open mic sign ups. You can even do music, if you prefer, but bring your own instrument.

In the meantime, you can see all kinds of poetry online. For instance, there’s the Borzoi Reader Poem-A-Day, distributed by Knopf Poetry right to your e-mail during this very special month (http://us.mg6.mail.yahoo.com/neo/launch?reason=ignore&rs=1.

And, I will share a little poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay for your reading pleasure.

Spring

To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death
But what does that signify?
Not only under the ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.