March comes in like a lion, goes out like a lamb, right? Or is that April? Depends on where you live and what climate change is doing to move your local weather patterns. Although Shakespeare made the ides of March famous in "Julius Caesar" every month has its ides; per Merriam-Webster the ides was the 15th of March, May, July, or October (the four original 31-day months) or the 13th day of any other month in the ancient Roman calendar
March is also the month in which you may celebrate World Poetry Day on March 21, established by UNESCO in 1999.
Many of the poems I found were from the 19th century. I prefer contemporary poetry so I'm not including the ones with the galloping beat and the occasional forced rhyme.
This first poem is about a very particular March, one unlike any other before it in my lifetime and one I hope not to find echoed in a future month.
"Things That Are Changed—March 2020" by Kimiko Hahn
Empty jar: I think to grow beansprouts and look into ordering seeds. Back ordered until May 1.
"March 1st" by Larry Schug
A radio weather caster warns his listeners
that tonight will be winter’s coldest,
though spring lurks like a shy suitor,
paralyzed with uncertainty,
shivering on the steps
outside his loved one’s door.
"Dear March—Come in—(1320)" by Emily Dickinson
I got your Letter, and the Birds—
The Maples never knew that you were coming—
I declare - how Red their Faces grew—
"We Like March" by Emily Dickinson
We like March, his shoes are purple.
He is new and high;
Makes he mud for Dog and Peddler,
Makes he forests dry.
"Not Ideas About the Thing But the Thing Itself" by Wallace Stevens
The sun was rising at six,
No longer a battered panache above snow . . .
"March Thought" by Hilda Conkling
(this is the entire poem)
I am waiting for the flowers
To come back:
I am alone,
But I can wait for the birds.
"Mid-March" by Mary Ricketson
Surprise is the rule when spring makes promises
and promises are made to break.
"Snowbound, March" by Alice N. Persons
Tomorrow will bring the hard labor of plows,
of shoveling walks, snowblowing a path for the oil man,
the too-familiar weariness
of all that Sisyphean work
but for these few hours there is a kind of peace
in the mostly silent streets,
"March" by Linda Lee Konichek
A few bewildered blades of new grass
Poke through this wet cover, unsure
Of such a cold white-rain world.
…still there is a softness in the morning air...
"Sprung" by Yash Seyedbagheri
now rich mud of March
pokes through
streams meandering with cheerful indolence
no need to slink straight through snow
and charcoal nights are replaced
by the lush lavender
evening chill—but not coldness
"Revival" by Luci Shaw
March. I am beginning
to anticipate a thaw. Early mornings
the earth, old unbeliever, is still crusted with frost
"Late March" by Richard Schiffman
Again the trees remembered
to make leaves.
In the forest of their recollection
many birds returned
singing.
A Year of Poems
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