Poetry Friday: "Tension" by Billy Collins (via George Bilgere)

Last week I shared a poem by one of my favorite poets, George Bilgere, and mentioned a place you should surely visit: Poetry Town. Poetry Town is Bilgere's daily newsletter in which he shares a poem he loves, but wouldn't it be lovely if Poetry Town were a real place? I would move there immediately. 

Would Bilgere be the mayor, or would he share mayoral duties with Billy Collins (whose poem he shared in the August 9 edition of his newsletter and which I'm sharing below)? What would the population of Poetry Town be, and could just anyone live there? Self-proclaimed poets or published poets only? Non-poets who love to read and hear poetry? Or would Poetry Town be a place in which every business sported a poetic name, every billboard bore a sonnet? Restaurants could revamp their menus, rhyming roasted with toasted, grilled with chilled, and tea with glee. We could all speak in rhyme all the time. 

We could — oops. Suddenly, I've realized that I've gotten distracted. Suddenly, I need to redirect you to today's poem because this is, after all, a Poetry Friday post, not a city planning meeting. Suddenly, I need to use the word suddenly excessively, because Billy Collins does and I'm a sucker for anything Billy Collins does. 

And so, suddenly, I give you the Bilgere-picked, Collins-written bit of pure delight, "Tension." 

May it bring you sudden enjoyment. 

Tension
by Billy Collins

“Never use the word suddenly just to
create tension.” ––Writing Fiction


Suddenly, you were planting some yellow petunias
outside in the garden,

and suddenly I was in the study

looking up the word oligarchy for the thirty-seventh time.

When suddenly, without warning,
you planted the last petunia in the flat,
and I suddenly closed the dictionary
now that I was reminded of that vile form of governance.

A moment later, we found ourselves
standing suddenly in the kitchen

....

(Read the rest here, at Bilgere's Poetry Town Newsletter.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

Susan Thomsen has the Poetry Friday round-up this week at Chicken Spaghetti. 

(Photo courtesy of Pixabay.) 

Poetry Friday: Tabatha Wrote Me a Poem

Tabatha Yeatts knows how much I love Billy Collins.

Tabatha got my name in the Summer Poem Swap last year and wrote me a poem — a glorious poem — about a discussion with Imaginary Billy Collins.

Imaginary Billy Collins! 

Tabatha gets me.

Thank you, Tabatha, for getting me. Thank you for making me cry a little bit when I read this beautiful piece, when I realized you wrote it for me, that it's mine, and I get to keep this gem and sit down with Imaginary Billy (and you) any time I want to.

Imaginary Billy and Real Tabatha are treasures.

Imaginary Billy and I Discuss the Founding Documents

for Karen

by Tabatha Yeatts 

Did you know that Timothy Matlack

is the clerk who transcribed

the Declaration of Independence?

I ask Imaginary Billy Collins,

who is reading the paper

on the sofa across from me.

Imaginary Billy is polite enough

to put down his newspaper

and he looks at me over his glasses,

He did a lovely job of it,

he says. The title is especially attractive,

with all those flourishes.

I know, I say. People had better

handwriting then. Billy hmms in agreement

and goes back to his paper. I wait

until he finishes his article and say,

Did you know that every year 

more than a million people come to

the National Archives Building to see it?

Billy raises an eyebrow and says,

I didn't know, but I'm not surprised.

I see it every year, in my dreams,

but not everyone has my imagination.

I'm sitting there thinking about

the million and one people who see it every year

as Billy returns to his reading.

I am nervous about interrupting him again

but I do anyway.

Did you know that the Declaration

and the Bill of Rights and the Constitution

are sealed in titanium casement

filled with argon gas?

And they are kept 22 feet underground

when they're not on display?

And the ink is measured every day

to make sure it isn't fading?

Oh, I do that, Billy says,

finally putting his newspaper down. 

With my copy, the one I visit.

Except it's not 22 feet underground

exactly. I keep it in 22 places. 

I keep the Preamble in my mouth,

and I tucked the first amendment

into my fingers so it's there while I'm writing.

I put some of the other amendments

in my shoes so I can figure out

where I'm going. I tend to ramble, 

you know.

I'm not sure whether it is more polite

to agree with him or disagree

so I make a noncommittal head bobble,

which he seems to approve of.

Where do you keep it?

he asks me.

I feel like it's been camping out

in my tear ducts, I say,

wishing I had a better answer.

But he nods, like that's a 

fine answer anyway. 

As long as the ink isn't fading, he says.

It's not, I say. 

~~~~~~~~~~

We're Going to Walden for the roundup this week. Thanks for hosting, Tara! 

Poetry Friday: Billy Collins again (not because I forgot, but because he deserves it)

It's Billy Collins again. 

I could lie and say that I forgot I shared a Billy Collins poem last week, but that's not true. I just can't get enough of Billy Collins (that's always been true). 

So, not because I've forgotten, but rather because I love "Forgetfulness" (and can relate), here it is: 

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.

(Read the rest here, at Poets.org.) 

And as long as we're on the subject of fading memories, we might need this today too: 

            

~~~~~~~~~~

 Don't forget to visit Linda Baie, who has the roundup at TeacherDance. 

Poetry Friday: "Days" by Billy Collins

It's been far too long since I shared anything by Billy Collins. It's time, people, it's time! Days are precious and every day without Billy Collins is a day with a hole in it. 

I love the way this poem delicately walks the line between gratitude and sheer, existential terror. 

And, in case you didn't know, here's a thing you should know: 

Billy Collins does "The Poetry Broadcast" every day on Facebook. 

Days
by Billy Collins

Each one is a gift, no doubt,
mysteriously placed in your waking hand
or set upon your forehead
moments before you open your eyes.

....

Through the calm eye of the window

everything is in its place 

but so precariously 

this day might be resting somehow 

on the one before it, 

all the days of the past stacked high

like the impossible tower of dishes 

entertainers used to build on stage. 

(Read the whole thing here, at The Poetry Foundation.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

 Elisabeth has the round-up at Unexpected Intersections. 

Billy Friday

Photo courtesy of: Marcelo Noah, of D.G. Wills Books, 
and WikiMedia Commons. 

Heidi Mordhorst, this week's Poetry Friday host, is having an all-Billy Birthday Extravaganza. It's a Collins-fest, an All-Billy-All-The-Time post, a Billy Collins Friday...Huzzah!

Heidi encouraged everyone to post a favorite Collins poem. Of course, it's impossible to choose just one favorite Collins poem. I am practically paralyzed by the proposal. I was going to share that painfully cute little boy reciting "Litany" because that's definitely one of my favorites. But Heidi had the same great idea (do go listen to him), so I am on to something else. Should I choose "Marginalia"? "Passengers"? "Today"? What about "Aimless Love"? Or maybe "Books." What about "Morning"? I love that one so much.

(Don't make me choose!)

Deep breath.

Okay, so, this one is not necessarily my favorite Billy Collins poem. Really, naming a favorite would be akin to saying I have a favorite child, just impossible. But I love this poem almost as much as I love my three favorite children. (That's hyperbole, by the way, for anyone scandalized by the idea that I love a poem as much as I love my offspring. Hyperbole is one of my favorite words -- don't ask me, though, to choose just one favorite word.)

I think I forgot what the point of this post was.

What was it? Oh, yes.

"Forgetfulness."

I had forgotten how much I love it.

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.
....

(Read the whole thing here, at Poets.org.)

~~~~~

Visit Heidi for loads of Collinsesque goodness.

Poetry Friday: On Turning Ten with Billy Collins

I've been thinking about my children this week.

"Oh, (snort!) really, Karen? There's a new one. How novel! How original!"

Oh, stop.

Granted, I talk about them a lot. As if, you know, they're my life or something. Weeeell, yeah.

Not that "they're my life" in the way I used to scorn, the way I used to think would be a total abdication of my Self and a complete submersion of anything that was truly "me," truly "other," truly important. I used to think that women who ordered their worlds around their children were lost and sad. But now that I have these three incredible human beings in my life, I see that I was lost and sad before they were a part of it. They have enriched my life beyond measure, and that's a pretty good reason to order my world around them for the eighteen or so years I'll get to have them. And when they're gone, my world will not fall apart, as I used to think worlds did for stay-at-home mothers with empty nests. No, I will not suddenly find that I submerged my identity for their sake. No, I will be richer -- I will have a different, and better identity -- for having spent time with them. And I'll be grateful for lives well-lived. Theirs and mine.

What started this whole train of thought?

It might have started with Ramona and Betsy, a couple of days ago. I was sitting on my bed, writing. Ramona came, tentatively, into the room, with a stricken look on her face. Tears were imminent.

"What's the matter, sweetie?" I asked, as she climbed onto the bed and curled up next to me.

She looked mournfully into my eyes and then bravely shared her sorrow: "Betsy doesn't believe in fairies anymore!" she blurted out, and began to sob.

Oh, my. That is a blow for one so young. Her own sister, too. How did this happen?

It must have been that time I looked away for ten minutes. And when I looked back, my Betsy had been growing up. So. Betsy has banished fairies from her life. That's bound to happen sometime after the age of ten, I suppose. And Betsy's nearly a couple of years past that marker. But, I miss my nine-year-olds of days gone by. I now have two former nine-year-olds, and I miss the magic of that age, you know? The charmed existence of one who is intoxicated by a world ripe with imagined possibilities and enchanted creatures around every corner.

And so, when I found this poem, a few tears welled up. Billy Collins doesn't usually make me do that. He usually makes me laugh, or want to buy him a cup of coffee, or run to Atticus and say, "Listen to this one!" But, upon reading "On Turning Ten" I just wanted to hold my children and heal all the wounds that will come their way.

About this poem, Billy Collins said:

that he’s never written the perfect poem. But there’s one, “On Turning Ten,” that comes the closest to being perfect.
...
“I wrote this as a comic satire on the habit of poets to take themselves very seriously on their birthdays when those birthdays can be divided by ten,” says Collins.

“There are a lot of poems written about being 30 and 40 and 50. And I thought let's have fun with this and write a poem about turning ten.”
...
“But as I wrote the poem, the poem kind of got away from me,” adds Collins. “And I started to get into the kind of seriousness of this young 10- year-old dealing with mortality for the first time.”

(Read the whole article and interview here.)

from On Turning Ten:

You tell me it is too early to be looking back,
but that is because you have forgotten
the perfect simplicity of being one
and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.
But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.
At four I was an Arabian wizard.
I could make myself invisible
by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.
At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince.
...
It seems only yesterday I used to believe
There was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me I would shine.

(Read the whole poem here, at Billy-Collins.com)

The poem still works on that delightful satirical level. I love it for that. And I love it for what it became, too. (And I love anyone who gives children credit for being real human beings rather than just messy little creatures who need to grow up.)

And, just as I smile and sympathetically nod at the boy in this poem, I can both laugh and cry at Ramona's sorrow over a sister who no longer believes in fairies. It's sweetly amusing, but that doesn't mean it isn't lamentable. It is.

It is.

Wounds will come. Children will know them as such long before they can articulate why it hurts so much. And so I will continue to order my world around these lovely people -- fairy believers and fairy scoffers both -- to help salve wounds, share laughter and, with grace and help, remind them that one day we'll reach that place where, truly, no matter what, every day, when we are cut, we will shine.

**********
Sarah at Just Another Day of Catholic Pondering is hosting the Poetry Friday roundup today.

Poetry Friday: Billy Collins

Given that last week I tossed Billy Collins aside like a cat book in favor of T.S. Eliot, I feel obligated to return to him this week and let him know how much I love him.

I am also experiencing a newfound appreciation for Collins' poem "Morning." During Advent, Atticus and I put a new resolution into place: we're getting up at 5 a.m. (not every day, but several days a week) to get workouts done before the rest of the day kicks in.

This is, ahem, not a cakewalk for a night owl. (Here's the last time I posted about night owls, Billy, and me.) Yeah, yeah, I usually get up at 6 a.m., so it's not that much earlier. But hey, this new routine involves not only less sleep (one of my favorite activities) it also requires movement and energy for something other than lifting a coffee cup. This is a challenge, people.

And yet, I find there are several things I like about it. First, it's delightful not to have "WORKOUT" hanging over my head all day, a gloomy cloud I don't have time for. Second, when I've gotten up at 5, exercised, had breakfast, consumed eight a couple of cups of coffee, and checked some chores off my list, I find myself bursting into my daughters' room, chirping annoyingly cheerful things, such as, "Time to get up! I've been up for three hours and I feel great! I'm wide awake and happy and you should be, too!"

Their reaction? Not so much.

Tough luck, girls.

I may not be a true morning person in the Collins mold, but I have been seen lately buzzing around the house at unnaturally early times.

Thanks, Billy. You're your own kind of powerhouse. And I'm betting Eliot was a night owl.

Morning 
by Billy Collins


Why do we bother with the rest of the day,
the swale of the afternoon,
the sudden dip into evening,

then night with his notorious perfumes,
his many-pointed stars?

This is the best—
throwing off the light covers,
feet on the cold floor,
and buzzing around the house on espresso—

(Read the rest of the poem, here at The Writer's Almanac.) 

The Poetry Friday round up is at No Water River. 

Poetry Friday: Billy Collins, W.B. Yeats, MRIs, and Knowing Poems by Heart

I picked up Light the Dark: Writers on Creativity, Inspiration, and the Artistic Process last night and skipped straight to the Billy Collins contribution, "Into the Deep Heart's Core." I decided on the spot that I must (yes, must, because what if I need an MRI someday?) memorize "The Lake Isle of Innisfree."

Don't fret. This isn't a medical post, and I don't need an MRI —you'll get the MRI reference when you read the piece. And, happily, I can send you directly to that piece, because the book grew out of Joe Fassler's "By Heart" series in The Atlantic, and you can find the Billy Collins piece here.

A few shimmering gems:

It’s a powerful, unexpected statement of a simple sentiment: I want to go somewhere better than where I am.

Poetry’s kind of a mixture of the clear and the mysterious. It’s very important to know when to be which: what to be clear about and what to leave mysterious.

And yet I think poetry is as important today as it’s ever been, despite its diminished public stature. Its uses become obvious when you read it. Poetry privileges subjectivity. It foregrounds the interior life of the writer, who is trying to draw in a reader. And it gets readers into contact with their own subjective life. This is valuable, especially now.

And of course, listen to Yeats read "The Lake Isle of Innisfree."


Arise and go now, and read Billy Collins on the joy of memorization.

And memorize something. Because you never know when you're going to be in a "very high-tech coffin," in need of a beautiful and useful distraction.


The Lake Isle of Innisfree
William Butler Yeats

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee;
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

~~~~~~~~~~

The inimitable and amazing Jama Rattigan has the round-up this week at Alphabet Soup. 

Forgetfulness, by Billy Collins (Or, I Almost Forgot It Was Poetry Friday)

My memory is a frightening thing these days. I used to have an excellent memory. When I was younger, when I was single, when I was newly in the workplace, newly married, my memory was formidable. There was so much less to keep track of in those days. Fewer people, fewer responsibilities, and no meal plans, only take-out.

The other day, in response to a friend's question about Halloween, I proceeded to talk about the evening as if he had no idea what'd gone on at our house. In fact, he had stood in my dining room and I had snapped pictures of his children -- Harry Potter, a ninja, Anna, and an owl -- before they went trick-or-treating.

My memory is a frightening thing these days. (Did I say that already?)

"Come read this poem by Billy Collins," I just now said to Atticus.

"Another one?" he asked.

"Did I already have you read a Billy Collins poem this morning?"


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.
....

(Read the whole thing here, at Poets.org.)

~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round up is at Write. Sketch. Repeat. 

(Photo courtesy of FreeImages.com.) 

Poetry Friday: Billy Collins and John O'Donnell

I was in the mood for some Billy Collins so I went in search of my hero. 

I found him at the New York Times, talking to Cheryl Strayed. 

He mentioned a poem called "When," by John O'Donnell, 

so obviously I now have to share that with you. 

So, what was going to be a Billy Collins post is still 

a Billy Collins post, but now it's Billy+. 

Plus a little heart-wrenching, but that's Poetry Friday in a pandemic. 

(The transcript of the interview is here.)

When

by John O'Donnell

And when this ends we will emerge, shyly

and then all at once, dazed, longhaired as we embrace

loved ones the shadow spared, and weep for those

it gathered in its shroud. A kind of rapture, this longed-for 

....

(Read the rest here.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

Carol Varsalona is hosting the round-up at Beyond LiteracyLink. 

Poetry Friday: Ramona and Billy Collins

Ramona started a new poetry program for herself this semester. She came to me on Sunday, with a homemade dry-erase board* (which is so pretty that I want her to make one for me!) and this is what it said:

She gave me the instructions for her assignment (or is it my assignment?): 

I am to choose one poem per day, and write the title on the board. I can tell her, generally, where in the house she might find the book, but then she has to hunt it down, read the poem, and then we will discuss it. 

Okay. So. It started off well. I chose a poem for her for Monday. Billy Collins. Nice start, eh? But then she was hit with her Cold-n-Cough 2.0, and the rest of the week went a little downhill from there. (Technically, we were "starting school" this week, but you know how that can go during cold/flu season....) 

Anyway, I promise to do better next week, once Ramona is better, and I'm better (I seem to have picked up her sore throat, which is not the best timing, given that I have a two-hour, live radio interview tomorrow.) But in the meantime, here is the first pick for Ramona's new poetry program. This is from Billy Collins's  Sailing Alone Around the Room: 

Snow

by Billy Collins 

I cannot help noticing how this slow Monk solo 

seems to go somehow

with the snow

that is coming down this morning, 

how the notes and the spaces accompany 

its easy falling 

(I can't find the poem in its entirety online, so just click through to the link, click "Look Inside" and enter "snow" in the search box. It's on page 105.) 

The Poetry Friday round up today is at Mainely Write. 

~~~~~~~~~~

*Ramona is cursed to have me for a mom. She is so crafty and artistic, so busy creating something new all the time, that it's hard to believe she is my flesh and blood. But I remember those nine months of carrying her, so I'm quite sure she's mine, and that makes her the living proof (one of three incredible living proofs) that I, too, can create something extraordinary.

Poetry Friday

Because words matter.

Because I love Billy Collins.

Here's today's CollinsFest:

Billy Collins on How to Read a Poem Out Loud.

An interview with Billy Collins, at Highlights Parents, about Sharing Poetry with Children.

Billy Collins talking to Noah Adams on NPR.

from his poem, Thesaurus:

I can see my own copy up on a high shelf.
I rarely open it, because I know there is no
such thing as a synonym and because I get nervous
around people who always assemble with their own kind,
forming clubs and nailing signs to closed front doors
while others huddle alone in the dark streets.

I would rather see words out on their own, away
from their families and the warehouse of Roget,
wandering the world where they sometimes fall
in love with a completely different word ....


The round-up this week is at Read. Imagine. Talk.

Poetry Friday: Billy Collins

Because it's January (and I'm already tired of snow on the ground.)

Because Billy Collins makes me happy. (You need only combine the words "Billy" and "Collins" and I will smile stupidly.)

Because this little guy (whom I first discovered about four and a half years ago) makes me laugh every time I listen to him.

Because poetry is magic.

Litany
by Billy Collins

(More of his recitations here.)

The Poetry Friday round up is Reading to the Core. 

If you don't love Billy Collins, I don't think we can be friends.

Okay, no, not really.

I have plenty of friends who do not share my love of Billy Collins, or even my love of poetry.

But, honestly, if you can read this poem and not be the slightest bit moved by Billy's (I get to call him Billy because I've blogged about him excessively), powers of observation and endearing existential angst, well, then, I just don't think we can spend Poetry Friday together.


Passengers
by Billy Collins

At the gate, I sit in a row of blue seats
with the possible company of my death,
this sprawling miscellany of people—
carry-on bags and paperbacks—
that could be gathered in a flash
into a band of pilgrims on the last open road.
Not that I think
if our plane crumpled into a mountain
we would all ascend together,
...

It's just that the way that man has his briefcase
so carefully arranged,
the way that girl is cooling her tea,
and the flow of the comb that woman
passes through her daughter's hair ...

(Read the whole poem here, at The Writer's Almanac.)

~~~~~~~~~~

Check out the round up today at Check It Out.

Poetry Friday: Creatures, by Billy Collins

Today's pick is for my daughters: for Anne-with-an-e, who at age 3 (and with the imagination of a poet) often saw faces in the whorling woodgrain of the doors in our house.

I was a sympathetic audience for her fears -- like Anne and Billy Collins in today's poem Creatures, the faces looked to me like something melting and Norwegian from Edvard Munch.

And today's pick is for Betsy, too, who did not react as Billy, Anne and I did.  Rather, Betsy has always seen sunny images in woodgrain -- smiling faces, kittens, and the like. She has the imagination of a poet, too.  Just a happier and less disturbed poet. 

Creatures

by Billy Collins

Hamlet noticed them in the shapes of clouds,

but I saw them in the furniture of childhood,

creatures trapped under surfaces of wood,

one submerged in a polished sideboard,

one frowning from a chair-back,

another howling from my mother’s silent bureau,

locked in the grain of maple, frozen in oak.

I would see these presences, too,

in a swirling pattern of wallpaper

or in the various greens of a porcelain lamp,

each looking so melancholy, so damned,

some peering out at me as if they knew

all the secrets of a secretive boy.

(Read the rest here.) 

The Poetry Friday round up is at Liz in Ink.

Poetry Friday: Snow Day, by Billy Collins

I love the lacy, drapey patterns the winds gave us. 

Though for us, it was more than a day; it was a snow week. We went to sleep Sunday night, wondering if we'd actually be hit with the predicted blizzard. A "revolution of snow" later (fourteen inches), we had our answer. School canceled for Atticus (for three days!) college classes canceled for Betsy, library closed for Anne-with-an-e, and Green Gables Homeschool? Shut down tight for Ramona and me. 

Like my beloved Billy Collins, we were willing prisoners in our house. The dog indeed "porpoised through the drifts" and obviously, as the sun rose on today, Poetry Friday, there was only one poem I could turn to. 

Snow Day
by Billy Collins

Today we woke up to a revolution of snow, 
its white flag waving over everything,
the landscape vanished,
not a single mouse to punctuate the blankness, 
and beyond these windows

the government buildings smothered,

(Read the rest here, at The Poetry Foundation.)

~~~~~

The round up today is at Beyond LiteracyLink. 

Poetry Friday: "Days" by Billy Collins

Just a bit of poignant beauty from Billy Collins today. 

Days

by Billy Collins 

Each one is a gift, no doubt, 

mysteriously placed in your waking hand 

or set upon your forehead 

moments before you open your eyes. 

Today begins cold and bright, 

the ground heavy with snow 

and the thick masonry of ice, 

the sun glinting off the turrets of clouds. 

Through the calm eye of the window 

everything is in its place 

but so precariously 

this day might be resting somehow 

on the one before it, 

....

(Read the rest here, at the Poetry Foundation.) 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up is being hosted this week by the inimitable Tanita Davis. 

Photo courtesy of Nico Becker at Pexels. 

Poetry Friday: Sort of Like Going Fishing With Billy Collins

The poem is called "Fishing on the Susquehanna in July" and although it's August here (but it's August everywhere, isn't it?) it still feels like July, calendar divisions and page-turns being the arbitrary things that they are. Tis soupy and sultry, the days calling out for iced drinks and air conditioning and sprinklers and flopping on furniture while whining about the weather.

Seems the quintessential time to try to "manufacture the sensation of fishing on the Susquehanna" with beloved Billy Collins, while sitting in a cool, quiet room.

Fishing on the Susquehanna in July
by Billy Collins

I have never been fishing on the Susquehanna
or on any river for that matter
to be perfectly honest.

Not in July or any month
have I had the pleasure--if it is a pleasure--
of fishing on the Susquehanna.

I am more likely to be found
in a quiet room like this one--


(Read the rest of the poem here, at Poets.org.)

~~~~~

The round up this week is at On the Way to Somewhere.

Poetry Friday: Marginalia, by Billy Collins

Are you a marginalia type? Or a notes-in-a-separate-notebook reader? Do you use post-its? Do you dog-ear? What do you think of book darts? (Thanks, Anne Bogel, these might change my life.) Do you leave your own books in pristine condition, but enjoy eavesdropping on the marginalia of others, via a heavily used book?

Whoever you are, whatever you read, however you scribble, Billy Collins gets it.

Marginalia
by Billy Collins

Sometimes the notes are ferocious,
skirmishes against the author
raging along the borders of every page
in tiny black script.
If I could just get my hands on you,
Kierkegaard or Conor Cruise O'Brien,
they seem to say,
....
(Read the rest here, at the Poetry Foundation.)

~~~~~

Carol Varsalona has the round up this week at Beyond LiteracyLink.

Poetry Friday: “Old Man Eating Alone in a Chinese Restaurant” by Billy Collins (and other thoughts on aging)

Last week, Tabatha, who happens to be the host of today’s Poetry Friday round-up, mentioned the poem she once wrote for me during a Summer Poem Swap. She touched and delighted me with “Imaginary Billy and I Discuss the Founding Documents.” And since I’m always delighted by the charming Mr. Collins, and since I’m working my way through one of his books for my morning poetry reading, it's only fitting that I share another bit of Billy for this week’s post. 

This one makes me think about how much we get wrong about “old people.” The older I get, the more I see (and experience for myself) the way we lump people of a certain age into a supposedly homogenous group. Elderly. Aged. Retired. Senior citizen. 

From my own experience of getting older, I know that “old people” are just people. People who have been on the planet for a particular amount of time. People who are funny, interesting, boring, grumpy, effervescent, insightful, ignorant, and all manner of wide-ranging personalities. They are people whose bodies keep surprising and betraying them, and believe me, they don’t like it anymore than anyone else does. (Not that I’d know this from personal experience, except, yes, I know this from personal experience.) In August of 2022, when we adopted our kitty, Maisy, the young woman at the animal shelter said, “And since you are over 60, you get the ‘elderly discount’ on the adoption fee.” This is me in 2022: 

And this was my expression when she told me I was elderly: 

I hadn’t felt that old since 2008, when Ramona was five years old and I shared this blog post: 

Anyway. 

I’ll grant you that my hair has gotten grayer in the last three years (what is with that hair at our temples?!) since that visit to the animal shelter, though I still don’t dye it as I’ve always thought coloring it would be too much trouble. But I still don’t feel elderly. I’m like the old man in the Chinese restaurant that Charming Billy introduces us to in this poem. For the most part, I’m livin’ my best life. 

Old Man Eating Alone in a Chinese Restaurant
by Billy Collins 

I am glad I resisted the temptation,
if it was a temptation when I was young,
to write a poem about an old man
eating alone at a corner table in a Chinese restaurant.

I would have gotten it all wrong
thinking: the poor bastard, not a friend in the world
and with only a book for a companion.
He'll probably pay the bill out of a change purse.

So glad I waited all these decades
to record how hot and sour the hot and sour
soup is here at Chang's this afternoon
and how cold the Chinese beer in a frosted glass.

….

(Read the rest here, at The Poetry Foundation.)

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Visit Tabatha at The Opposite of Indifference for the full round-up of poetic goodness this week.