First, the opening lines from Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, here translated from the medieval to the modern.
When April with his showers sweet with fruit
The drought of March has pierced unto the root
and the second poet, none other than T.S. Eliot, who deplores March in these two lines
April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of dead land...
|Teodoro S. Gruhl|
Kerry asks us to take on one of these two opposing opinions about the month of April, and write a poem about April as we see it, or as we choose to see it this weekend — we are free to present our own opinions or to side with one of these poets for today's poem.
For most of my life, I would have agreed with Chaucer. April on the west coast of British Columbia is a glorious time of year.
Now, however, I live on the Canadian prairie, where April is considered part of winter, and no planting is done until after mid-May, so I will have to go with T.S. Eliot this weekend.
April is the cruelest month indeed
with sunshine but no flowers, and no seed
can be planted out of doors, but only in
greenhouses, or heated rooms within
the tight controlled climates of our lives.
The beekeeper hears no stirring in his hives,
while kids and calves and others take a chance
leaving the warmth of mother's womb to dance
upon the freezing, frozen prairie ground.
Kay Davies, March 30, 2013