Poetry Friday: "Trying to Write a Dog Poem in a House with Two Cats" by Billy Collins

Four years ago this week, we adopted Maisy from the animal shelter. 

She was basically a pre-schooler: 

Tiny Maisy

Now, of course, she has matured and become a responsible adult: 

The work is never done

In honor of four years with this near-perfect tabby (and with a tip of the hat to her admirable work ethic), I'm dedicating this week's Poetry Friday post to her. 

To Maisy! {clink!} 

To Billy Collins! {clink!} 

To cat poetry! {clink, clink!} 

Trying to Write a Dog Poem in a House with Two Cats
by Billy Collins

From a couch
littered with throw pillows

they are staring at me
and my open notebook,

and even though their tails
are not twitching

and their secret inboard
motors are not audible,

I know they are assuming
in unison

that I am writing
yet another dog poem

....

(Read the rest here, at Poets.org.) 

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The Poetry Friday round-up this week is being hosted by marvelous Molly at Nix the comfort zone. 

Poetry Friday: "Days" by Philip Larkin

I've taken some days off from the blog (not that I spend that many days on the blog...) but I'm back. I've been busy with some writing — a couple of stories for little kiddos are out on submission, and I'm working on a picture book manuscript. (In some ways, writing my 30,000+ word non-fiction books for grown-ups was so much easier than writing a picture book. Not that I would have said so at the time, when I wrote them under deadlines, right?) 

The intricate maneuvering required for any kind of writing — placing precisely the right words into carefully allotted spaces — is a mad skill. One day you feel like you've mastered it. Two days later, you wonder why anyone ever trusted you with a pen or a keyboard. 

Philip Larkin nailed the skill when he wrote this ten-line poem. I wonder if two days later he thought it was all a dumpster fire? 

Days
by Philip Larkin

What are days for?
Days are where we live.
They come, they wake us
Time and time over.

....

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

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The rare and wonderful Ruth is hosting Poetry Friday at There is no such thing as a God-forsaken town. 

Photo courtesy of Pixabay.

Poetry Friday: "On Days Like This" by Rudy Francisco

from Button Poetry 

My youngest daughter introduced me to Rudy Francisco.
And I ask you: What would we do without daughters? 
Without poets?
Without the beauty of the spoken word? 

"Being human is difficult. 

Being a good human is even harder. 

But it's still something I would like to accomplish." 

~ Rudy Francisco 

Here's Rudy Francisco, sharing "On Days Like This":   

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Jill Dailey has the Poetry Friday round-up today. 

Poetry Friday: "I love you. I'm glad I exist." (Wendy Cope's "The Orange")

The Orange
by Wendy Cope 

At lunchtime I bought a huge orange –
The size of it made us all laugh.
I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave –
They got quarters and I had a half.

And that orange, it made me so happy,
As ordinary things often do

....

(Read the last few lines and/or hear the poem read aloud here.) 

Wendy Cope talks (only a wee bit) about the origins of the poem here. 

and now I want the pin.

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The Poetry Friday round-up is being hosted this week by Michelle Kogan. 

Photo courtesy of Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: "A Dangerous Adventure" by James Tate

I was cleaning out files yesterday and found a typed copy of James Tate's poem, "A Dangerous Adventure." I had forgotten about this poem, and that's astonishing because who could forget a poem that begins:

The woman I love is typing in a nearby room.

Clippity clippity clippity clippity, then silence.

Today I went hunting for it online because now it had to be my Poetry Friday pick. (He had me at clippity.) It was a bit of a scavenger hunt, with my first search result landing on a page that told me this: 

Wait. Full Poem Text Available at ...  Jama's blog?! Perfect. I headed over there. 

The post from Jama, written in 2009, began like this: 

Ummm, if it hadn't already been obvious that I needed to share the Tate poem, this coincidence clinched it. I mean, really, friends. Marvel with me. I randomly stumble on a poem in my files, follow a bread crumb trail, am led to a Poetry Friday friend's post — FROM 2009  — that specifically refers back to a post of mine ... and to TODAY'S POETRY FRIDAY HOST, TRICIA (yes, I'm screaming) and I'm NOT gonna share about it? 

Well, of course I am. 

And at the same time, please marvel with me at the beauty and endurance of this Poetry Friday community. I've been on this ride with you all for nearly twenty years. We post, we read, we share, we comment, we forget who-posted-what-or-when and it's all good because it's all about poetry and friends. The people of Poetry Friday are typing in nearby rooms — clippity, clippity, clippity, clippity — and I love every single one of you. 

A Dangerous Adventure 

by James Tate 

The woman I love is typing in a nearby room.

Clippity clippity clippity clippity, then silence.

She’s thinking, like a jaguar, or a dagger.

Words but more than words. Currents, hairpin

turns. It’s scary but exciting. It’s like dancing

on a precipice or sleeping under a waterfall.

She doesn’t know the way home but she’s running

and leaping over chasms in the earth, and she’s singing too,

in a foreign language she’s never heard spoken.

But the melody is one I’ve known all my life.

....

(Read the rest here, at Jama's blog, and kindly applaud 

her husband Len for his forever-support of a wife 

who types in a nearby room.) 

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The Poetry Friday round-up this week is being hosted (of course) by Tricia at The Miss Rumphius Effect.

Photo courtesy of Pixabay.

Poetry Friday: A.E. Stallings

This poem struck me because it touches on two things I've thought about high school: 

1. Those days so far removed from the person I am now that they may as well have occurred in the Mesozoic Era. 

2. There are white-hot memories I can call up in a matter of seconds. 

Life, it seems, is a series of eras, periods, and ages that are constantly shifting, rearranging, being integrated, and viewed anew. 

This is such a good poem, and the final line is a killer.  

Written on the eve of my 20th high school reunion, 

which I was not able to attend

by A.E. Stallings 

    For the Briarcliff High School class of 1986


Just what I needed,
Just when the dreams had almost totally receded,

The dreams of roles for which I learned no lines and knew no cues,
Dreams of pop quizzes with no pants on and no shoes,

Just when I understood I was no longer among
Those ephemeral immortals, the gauche and pitiable young,

Suddenly come phone calls, messages sift out of the air
To ask who will be there:

Names I haven't given a thought to in a score
(A score!) of years, and names I used to think about but don't much anymore,

And those I think of all the time and yet
Have lost somehow like keys to doors I've closed, and some I have tried to forget—

....

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

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The Poetry Friday round-up is hosted this week by Buffy Silverman.

Photo courtesy of elizabethaferry at Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: Get a word in Edgewise with Linda Mitchell

 I didn't get a poetry post done this week, so how about a few words on writing? 

“Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.” ― William Wordsworth

“Tears are words that need to be written.” ― Paulo Coelho

“If there's a book that you want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it.” 

― Toni Morrison

“You have to write the book that wants to be written. And if the book will be too difficult for grown-ups, then you write it for children.” 

― Madeleine L'Engle

“Learn the rules like a pro, so you can break them like an artist.” ― Picasso

“Write what should not be forgotten.” ― Isabel Allende

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Visit Linda Mitchell at Another Word Edgewise for the Poetry Friday round-up this week. 

Photo courtesy of Tama66 at Pixabay.

Poetry Friday: "Dharma" by Billy Collins

 

Photo courtesy of Tati Hilabi, Pixabay. 

Monday morning, while walking and listening to Sad Boy Noah Kahan, I met the handsomest boy, who wasn't sad at all. I asked his person what his name was. Jake! It was Jake. A perfect name for a lumbering, retriever-y, labradorian-kinda guy with a thick, coppery coat and sprays of gray on his aging, distinguished cheeks. Jake and I immediately became best friends. I'd invite Jake over to spend some time together, but I didn't catch his last name, and it would be awkward to invite him and ignore his person (which I would totally do.) 

Who was walking Jake anyway? A man, a woman? A robot? Who knows, who cares? My relationship is solely with Jake, who made me think of "Dharma" by Billy Collins. I think Jake would like this poem, good, handsome, not-sad boy that he is. 

{Postscript: Do I need to get another dog?} 

{{Post-postscript: Maisy would say no, no. Most definitely, decidedly not. Do not mess around with her current lifestyle.}} 

Dharma 

by Billy Collins 

The way the dog trots out the front door

every morning

without a hat or an umbrella,

without any money

or the keys to her dog house

never fails to fill the saucer of my heart

with milky admiration.

Who provides a finer example

of a life without encumbrance—

Thoreau in his curtainless hut

with a single plate, a single spoon?

Ghandi with his staff and his holy diapers?

Off she goes into the material world

with nothing but her brown coat

and her modest blue collar,

....

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

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The Poetry Friday round-up this week is being hosted by Mona Voelkel. 

Poetry Friday: “As You Wish.”

Okay, so this isn’t exactly a Poetry Friday post. 

It’s a, “Guess what my daughters and I did last Friday?” post. 

And it’s a, “Let’s talk about the magic and poetry of a perfect movie” post.

I know you’ve heard of The Princess Bride. 

And you’ve heard of Cary Elwes, who dashingly played the dashing and devoted Westley in that Rob Reiner* masterpiece. 

Perhaps you’ve even heard that ten years ago, Elwes wrote a book (As You Wish) and that he sometimes tours to promote it. The show is called “An Inconceivable Evening” and it opens with a showing of the movie. The audience is then treated to an hour-+-ish of storytelling from Elwes (in conversation with a moderator.) 

So, once upon a time (last Friday) three beautiful maidens (my daughters) and a queen (me) agreed that four women who’ve had crushes** on Cary/Westley for as long as any of them can remember should indubitably journey to the land of giants, pirates, princesses, and Mandy Patinkin. (Oh, if only he’d been there in person too, my joy would have been complete!) 

It was an evening of charming stories, laughter, delight, and — ohmygosh, I didn’t know I would tear up and cry so much! — affection and emotion. I’ve loved A Princess Bride for decades. I’ve loved sharing it with my daughters. I’ve loved saying, "Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.” I’ve loved incessantly talking, thinking about, and rewatching a film that, at its heart, embodies true love in all its forms. 

So, when I first asked my girls if they wanted to accompany me to a belated birthday celebration involving all of the above, imagine my joy when their response was: 

“As you wish.”

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The Poetry Friday round-up this week is being hosted by Carol Labuzzetta 

at The Apples in My Orchard. 

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*May that dear man, that compassionate soul, rest in peace. 

**Speaking of crushes, my main crush, the one I have on the man I married, endures. 

The other day, I was being (at least I thought) difficult. I later texted Atticus to say, 

“I’m sorry I’m so hard to live with.”

 

“You’re not hard to live with,” he returned, “and you’d be impossible to live without.” 

What a storybook story response. (Cary/Westley who?!) 

We’ve not been without our fireswamps over the years, 

but we’ve had fun storming the castle. 

Poetry Friday: “Spring is like a perhaps hand” by e.e. cummings

It’s been a busy week and although I did write a handful of new poems (thanks, April Halprin Wayland, for a delightfully productive class on Wednesday!), they aren’t ready to see the light of day. So, instead, I give you … 

… Another spring poem! 

This one is from the incomparably weird and sometimes wonderful e.e. cummings: 

Spring is like a perhaps hand

by e.e. cummings 

Spring is like a perhaps hand
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere)arranging
a window,into which people look(while
people stare arranging and changing placing

carefully there a strange
thing and a known thing here)and

changing everything carefully

…. (Read the rest here, at Poets.org.)

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The Poetry Friday round-up this week is being hosted by the lovely and talented Cathy Stenquist. 

Photo courtesy of Pixabay.