I know we occasionally had poetry inflicted upon us at primary school, and remember encountering it in an altogether more positive way at junior high level. At about the same time I took to writing (really awful) verse as I assume many adolescent's still do. It wasn't until the first term of A level English when we studied Keats that I really began to understand the pleasure to be had from reading poetry though, or to get an inkling of the power that can be stored in a few well chosen words.
It's a pleasure that lasts.
I'm sharing Jen Hadfield's The Moult' to celebrate the day, it, and more can be found Here
Stay out of the sun:
we can all see you. Stop picking fights
above your weight. We've this high
golden bowl of heather and moss
company of whaups and cries and
mutters in the wind; the long
draught of islands
and blinding sea.
Shelter in the hoodoos and pluck
your fur - fine smelt caught on heather
and shining reeds -
ruing it as I do, this flying
gleaming floss snatched back
and spent by the wind.
Freeze when the sunlight hits you
you're not invisible. Scratch off
your dreamcoat of silver money.
Rest downwind in the sun. Run
double-jointed when the valley dims.
from Byssus (Picador, 2014)