Posts Tagged ‘Billy Collins’
Cindy on February 13th, 2011
Then all the moments of the past began to line up behind that moment.” — Billy Collins
One of the things I admire most about poet Billy Collins is the way he mines the ordinary for beauty, then renders a work of art. In “This Much I Do Remember,” he recalls a tender moment that most couples can relate to: the leisurely hour at the dinner table after a good meal has been shared. Given the way he depicts the woman in the poem, I’m guessing she’s his wife of many years.
I can’t help but fight tears every time I read it. It underscores the familiar comfort of a longtime relationship, reminding me of my own marriage. With Valentine’s Day on the horizon, I’m reminded, too, that true love can’t be fully expressed (or measured) in gifts of jewelry or flowers or expensive chocolates. It’s all about the quality of the everyday moments we share. Wishing you all a happy Valentines Day! — CL
This Much I Do Remember
By Billy Collins
It was after dinner.
You were talking to me across the table
about something or other,
a greyhound you had seen that day
or a song you liked,
and I was looking past you
over your bare shoulder
at the three oranges lying
on the kitchen counter
next to the small electric bean grinder,
which was also orange,
and the orange and white cruets for vinegar and oil.
All of which converged
into a random still life,
so fastened together by the hasp of color,
and so fixed behind the animated
foreground of your
talking and smiling,
gesturing and pouring wine,
and the camber of your shoulders
that I could feel it being painted within me,
brushed on the wall of my skull,
while the tone of your voice
lifted and fell in its flight,
and the three oranges
remained fixed on the counter
the way the stars are said
to be fixed in the universe.
Then all the moments of the past
began to line up behind that moment
and all the moments to come
assembled in front of it in a long row,
giving me reason to believe
that this was a moment I had rescued
from the millions that rush out of sight
into a darkness behind the eyes.
Even after I have forgotten what year it is,
my middle name,
and the meaning of money,
I will still carry in my pocket
the small coin of that moment,
minted in the kingdom
that we pace through every day.
–From Picnic, Lightning, by Billy Collins, University of Pittsburgh Press; 1998–
Cindy on November 8th, 2010
No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.” — Billy Collins
I’m often amazed at how a particular poem (or a memoir or a novel) can shimmer with new meaning when you reread it years later. I first read Billy Collins’ “Forgetfulness” in Questions About Angels more than 10 years ago. While I found it amusing, it didn’t really hit me where I lived at the time.
This week, while thumbing through Collins’ anthology, Sailing Alone Around the Room, the poem found me again. This time, my heart jumped as I read the line, “one by one, the memories you used to harbor decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain….” Of course, I thought immediately of my mother’s struggle with dementia, and her sudden inability to access key dates and events — the year her mother died; the city where she was born; the time she was hit by a car in a parking lot.
My middle-aged friends and I often laugh nervously about the fact that we sometimes walk into a room and forget what we’re looking for. Or how we can’t recall the name of a film classic we’ve always loved. Occasional slips of memory are fodder for menopausal humor, yet we’re all secretly haunted by the unnerving possibility of losing information and memories we treasure. Likewise, this poem is laced with Collins’ trademark wit, but ends on a wistful note. — CL
Forgetfulness
By Billy Collins
The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,
as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.
Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,
something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.
Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.
It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.
No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.
– Collage detail from an altered book by Cindy La Ferle –
Cindy on April 7th, 2010
Whenever anyone reads his words the writer is there. He lives in his readers.” — William S. Burroughs
Creative writing teachers often preach: “Write for yourself” and “Write what you know.” Good advice, yes. Still, most of us hope to build a readership. We write to make a connection with others.
Working as a weekly newspaper columnist, I was lucky enough to acquire a built-in audience — a strange and wonderful relationship. Most of my readers lived in my community, so I couldn’t hide behind a desk for long. I’d bump into them in the produce aisle at the grocery store or in line at the post office. Or in church on Sunday. Some would pull me aside to discuss what I’d written in the paper; others e-mailed or wrote letters to express their own thoughts on the topic of the week.
Billy Collins has addressed several of his poems to his readers, proving that he’s ever-mindful of our presence, even though we don’t live in the same town. He makes us ponder the complex relationship between writer and reader. In the funny, wistful poem below, Collins also reminds us that it’s the poet’s duty to “notice” the humblest details and to weave even the most ordinary experience into a piece of writing. Are you the poet — or the reader? – CL
YOU, READER
By Billy Collins
I wonder how you are going to feel
when you find out
that I wrote this instead of you.
that it was I who got up early
to sit in the kitchen
and mention with a pen
the rain-soaked windows,
the ivy wallpaper,
and the goldfish circling in its bowl.
Go ahead and turn aside,
bite your lip and tear out the page,
but, listen — it was just a matter of time
before one of us happened
to notice the unlit candles
and the clock humming on the wall.
Plus, nothing happened that morning –
a song on the radio,
a car whistling along the road outside –
and I was only thinking
about the shakers of salt and pepper
that were standing side by side on a place mat.
I wondered if they had become friends
after all these years
or if they were still strangers to one another
like you and I
who manage to be known and unknown
to each other at the same time –
me at this table with a bowl of pears,
you leaning in a doorway somewhere
near some blue hydrangeas, reading this.
– Reprinted from The Trouble with Poetry: And Other Poems, by Billy Collins (Random House); 2005. –
– Photo detail from “Reading” (a mixed-media collage) by Cindy La Ferle –
APRIL IS NATIONAL POETRY MONTH. If you enjoyed this poem and want to read more, check out the archives in my weekly “Poems to Inspire” series under “Categories” at right.
Cindy on February 3rd, 2010
The more you clean, the more brilliant your writing will be.” — Billy Collins
Last week I shared Jane Hirshfield’s “The Poet” (about a writer at her desk), and in the comment section we all compared notes on where we do our own creative projects.
Writers are inherently messy — in a good way. We save scraps of paper scribbled with notes and ideas. We collect more pens and blank journals than we’ll ever use. And when we’re in the middle of editing an article or composing a poem, we litter and trash our workspace. But I’m not convinced that’s what Billy Collins is talking about in the poem below.
It’s open to interpretation, of course, but I like to think Collins is playing with the idea of clearing the mind to make room for fresh ideas. Each time I begin a new project or assignment, for example, I need to push past my fears, self-imposed limits, and creative road blocks.
Or maybe Collins is talking about writing rituals — the small acts we must perform (procrastination?) before we can lift our “yellow pencil.” What do you think? In any event, I think you’ll agree that Collins has both a wicked sense of humor and a knack for spotting the beauty in the ordinary. –CL
ADVICE TO WRITERS
By Billy Collins
Even if it keeps you up all night,
wash down the walls and scrub the floor
of your study before composing a syllable.
Clean the place as if the Pope were on his way.
Spotlessness is the niece of inspiration.
The more you clean, the more brilliant
your writing will be, so do not hesitate to take
to the open fields to scour the undersides
of rocks or swab in the dark forest
upper branches, nests full of eggs.
When you find your way back home
and stow the sponges and brushes under the sink,
you will behold in the light of dawn
the immaculate altar of your desk,
a clean surface in the middle of a clean world.
From a small vase, sparkling blue, lift
a yellow pencil, the sharpest of the bouquet,
and cover pages with tiny sentences
like long rows of devoted ants that followed you in from the woods.
–Reprinted from The Apple That Astonished Paris, by Billy Collins (The University of Arkansas Press); 1988
– Top photo “Blue Glass” (copyrighted) by Cindy La Ferle –
Cindy on November 19th, 2008
“Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.” — Carl Sandburg
There’s an article on sidewalk poetry this week in the Christian Science Monitor. Permanently stamped on city sidewalks, poetry is part of a new public arts project in St. Paul, Minn. This thrills me no end, since I’ve always thought poetry should be a part of everyday life — not reserved for lofty occasions like funerals or retirement parties or 50th birthday bashes.
Poetry inspired me early on. A quirky only child, I spent a fair amount of time reading alone in my pale blue bedroom or in a wooden playhouse in my backyard. I wasn’t entirely antisocial, but found many of my best friends in a parallel universe of words occupying a small bookshelf in my closet. And while I never considered myself a poet, I composed silly limericks while the neighborhood kids played dodge ball.
I like to encourage everyone to make a habit of reading poetry. Reading a poem a day will change the way you look at your world, and if you happen to be a writer, it will enhance your own work. Start with accessible contemporary poets like Mary Oliver, Jane Kenyon, and David Whyte. They’re easy to digest — but soulful and satisfying.
And you if like your poetry with a twist, try Billy Collins.
Collins (also an only child) served as Poet Laurete of the United States from 2001 to 2003. He just published another fabulous poetry collection, Ballistics, which will appeal to even the most incorrigible cynic who claims to dislike poetry. Like his legions of devoted fans, I admire how Collins illuminates the truth in the smallest details of ordinary life. And many of his poems are laugh-out-loud funny. Can you tell how much I love this guy? Here’s one of my new favorites:
Evasive Maneuvers
By Billy Collins
I grew up hiding from the other children.
I would break off from the pack on its patrol of streets every Saturday
and end up alone behind a hedge
or down a dim hallway in a strange basement.
No one ever came looking for me,
which only added to the excitement.
I used to hide from adults, too,
mostly behind my mother’s long coat
or her floral dress depending on the season.
I tried to learn how to walk
between my father’s steps while he walked
like the trick poodle I had seen on television.
And I hid behind books,
usually one of the volumes of the encyclopedia
that was kept behind the glass in a bookcase,
the letters of the alphabet in gold.
Before I knew how to read,
I sat in an armchair in the living room
and turned the pages, without a clue
about the worlds that were pressed
between D and F, M and O, W and Z.
Maybe this explains why
I looked out the bedroom window
first thing this morning
at the heavy trees, low gray clouds,
and said the word gastropod out loud,
and having no idea what it meant,
went downstairs and looked it up
then hid in the woods from my wife and our dog.
–from Ballistics, copyright 2008 by Billy Collins; Random House
One of the things I admire most about poet Billy Collins is the way he mines the ordinary for beauty, then renders a work of art. In “This Much I Do Remember,” he recalls a tender moment that most couples can relate to: the leisurely hour at the dinner table after a good meal has been shared. Given the way he depicts the woman in the poem, I’m guessing she’s his wife of many years.
