Ah, Pennyslvania. The second state (12/12/1787).
I'm still burned up from my Jersey days, when I'd drive to my cousin's house in the Philly suburbs and see this sign: "Welcome to Pennsylvania, America Starts Here." Excuse me? Are you dissin' my home state?
So, Pennsylvania, while I love the smell of chocolate in the air when I'm riding the coasters at Hershey Park, I am *not* surprised at your lack of a poet laureate.
And that whole thing about, "Every poet is our poet laureate?" Not buying it. That's as lazy as not looking out your window and noticing there is a WHOLE STATE between you and the Atlantic Ocean.
Samuel Hazo. Then you booted him. No explanation. No replacement. That's like breaking up with your first boyfriend and deciding to be celibate for the rest of your life.
And what's not to like? Here's a beautiful poem by Samuel Hazo -- former and only Poet Laureate of Pennsylvania. (You're going on my Wall of Shame, PA, you and your road sign.)
TO WAIT AS A WAY OF LIFE
Waiting to act is where the drama waits. Act, and it's over. Bad gospel for the overdoers of this world, but irrefuteable… Hamlet pensive is Hamlet at his truest. A cobra, coiled on its coils, is totally cobra. The mountain snow that keeps its avalanche a secret threatens the deadliest with white restraint. Never are brides more beautiful than in their veils. Sprinters at the starting blocks with all their muscles primed and flexed look equally supreme before defeat or victory undoes them.
Read the rest of the poem at Poetry Magazine.
Moving on... It's just a short drive to New Jersey
-- my home state. But it's not going to be a
pleasant visit. You thought the housewives
were bad? Get ready for "The Real Poets
of New Jersey."
Until we get there, please visit Book Aunt. She is hosting the
Poetry Friday round-up today.