Poetry Friday: Workshop

I pondered a post that would be penetrating and insightful, something about life and loss and what it means to live in a fallen world.

But, I'm just not up for that today.

I had a stressful week -- an interior kind of stress, nothing to worry about, really, just an off week, draining in its way. So, today, I want to blow away the cobwebs, open a window to spring weather, feel the sun on my face, and revel in Billy Collinsian goodness.

And, in a way, I am posting about what it means to live in a fallen world, because this poem is about workshops, and we all know that the wrong kind of workshop can be, ahem, its own kind of purgatory.

Workshop

by Billy Collins (a man I love to an embarrassing degree)

... Maybe it’s just me,

but the next stanza is where I start to have a problem.

I mean how can the evening bump into the stars?

And what’s an obbligato of snow?

Also, I roam the decaffeinated streets.

At that point I’m lost. I need help.

The other thing that throws me off,

and maybe this is just me,

is the way the scene keeps shifting around.

First, we’re in this big aerodrome

and the speaker is inspecting a row of dirigibles,

which makes me think this could be a dream.

Then he takes us into his garden,

the part with the dahlias and the coiling hose,

though that’s nice, the coiling hose,

but then I’m not sure where we’re supposed to be.

Read the whole poem here, at the Poetry Foundation.

The Poetry Friday round-up is at Live. Love. Explore!