The History Teacher by Billy Collins

Trying to protect his students' innocence
he told them the Ice Age was really just
the Chilly Age, a period of a million years
when everyone had to wear sweaters.

And the Stone Age became the Gravel Age,
named after the long driveways of the time.

The Spanish Inquisition was nothing more
than an outbreak of questions such as
"How far is it from here to Madrid?"
"What do you call the matador's hat?"

The War of the Roses took place in a garden,
and the Enola Gay dropped one tiny atom
on Japan.

The children would leave his classroom
for the playground to torment the weak
and the smart,
mussing up their hair and breaking their glasses,

while he gathered up his notes and walked home
past flower beds and white picket fences,
wondering if they would believe that soldiers
in the Boer War told long, rambling stories
designed to make the enemy nod off.

From an ugly memory emerges a day for poetry

 You know how the oddest memories can pop into your mind?

This morning I was trying to ignore the horrible, awful, disgusting news all over Facebook and, instead, trying to read and enjoy the Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays posts while seeking out the art I know I can find posted by Marion McMahon Stanley, hoping for some photography posted by Jill Jasuta, a new poem posted by David Chaudoir, and enjoying seeing what books my pal Lesa Holstine might be chatting about and hopping over to my daily must-read from Connie Schultz.

Howsomeever . . .

One of these odd memories found its way into my mind.

A few years ago during the annual flurry of Christmas posts I stupidly allowed myself to get into a conversation concerning what we should/could say instead of "Merry Christmas" in order not to hurt someone's feelings.

Wow.  Did it backfire.

It ended with this guy calling me a racist and blocking me. 

But what about MY feelings? 

Not to worry.

I wasn't crushed.  I wasn't all that crazy about him, truth be told.  But other people - people I like lots - were mutual friends and in those early days of Facebook when we "friended" people without much thought, friending a friend of a friend of a friend was what we did.  That's now a regret <sigh>.

He is a part of the crime fiction community.  Or, I guess he still is - he may be dead now for all I know.  But I wish the memory had not popped up.  I'm thinking it must have happened because this season sadly seems to be filled with more ugliness than usual.

What.  Ever.

I decided to move along.

Specifically to poetry.

More specifically to Billy Collins.

And for no specific rhyme nor reason, here's a poem.

Some Days

Some days I put the people in their places at the table,
bend their legs at the knees,
if they come with that feature,
and fix them into the tiny wooden chairs.

All afternoon they face one another,
the man in the brown suit,
the woman in the blue dress,
perfectly motionless, perfectly behaved.

But other days, I am the one
who is lifted up by the ribs, 
then lowered into the dining room of a dollhouse
to sit with the others at the long table.

Very funny,
but how would you like it
if you never knew from one day to the next 
if you were going to spend it

striding around like a vivid god,
your shoulders in the clouds, 
or sitting down there amidst the wallpaper,
staring straight ahead with your little plastic face?

             - - - Billy Collins

STILL not my birthday . . .

 

But i did buy myself a pretty new red dress. ❤

(i am not as old as Cheerios).

Cheerios by Billy Collins

One bright morning in a restaurant in Chicago

as I waited for my eggs and toast,

I opened the Tribune only to discover

that I was the same age as Cheerios.

Indeed, I was a few months older than Cheerios

for today, the newspaper announced,

was the seventieth birthday of Cheerios

whereas mine had occurred earlier in the year.

Already I could hear them whispering

behind my stooped and threadbare back,

Why that dude’s older than Cheerios

the way they used to say

Why that’s as old as the hills,

only the hills are much older than Cheerios

or any American breakfast cereal,

and more noble and enduring are the hills,

I surmised as a bar of sunlight illuminated my orange juice.

Source: Poetry (September 2012)

Some days you get what you need . . .

 

So.

Did we lift our glasses in a toast to the judge, the jury, the Manhattan DA and the American justice system just after 5:00 p.m. the afternoon of May 30, 2024.

Damn right we did.

Drank a little, smiled a little, even danced a little, while watching MSNBC.

Because that guy is a criminal, a crook, a thug, a racist and a rapist.   And a felon.  A convicted felon.

A disgrace.

(Feel free to enter your own word of choice:  _________________________________ )

And dangerous to our country.

It took only minutes for the headlines to start shouting the news

And then came memes, and political cartoons, and the political columnists having their say.

And I participated.  

Watched the interviews and applauded.  

Shouted "Oh, hell yeah," at the TV.

Posted and shared more than my share of vitriol and contempt in regard to a man who deserves every insult, curse, gesture, and stream of invective thrown his way.

But still, even with a celebratory glass of bubbly in hand, there was sadness.  So much sadness for this country.  

Those 12 brave men and women were in agreement regarding all 34 counts.  

I wish I could tell each of them how much I appreciate them and what they did.

But.

As you well know, we have some very tough days ahead.

The Republican party has lost its collective heart and soul along with its spine.  This is NOT our parents' Grand Old Party.

And we know for sure that the Supreme Court won't be any help in the days ahead, quite the opposite. (Yet another huge concern that needs tackling).

It's up to us.

And I am hopeful.

But.

You all know all of of this.  I am preaching to the choir.

Once again, I forgot one of my goals in writing this post (imagine that).

Where I was going with all this before all my detours was to say that after hitting a wall today and needing to back away from the disgust of seeing that monster's face and reading the garbage he spews and exhausting myself by reacting, a little bit of serendipity found its way into my path.

In the words of The Great Rolling Stones . . .

"You can’t always get what you want

But if try sometimes, you just might find

You get what you need,

You get what you need."

Yes.

Poetry is, for me, an escape.

An entirely different sort of escape than immersing myself in a novel.

And it was just what my tired old self needed today.

And, thanks to NetGalley, I have been able to put my mind at rest, and my heart in a soft place to focus on the joy of the words of Billy Collins.

And was able to remember that, by golly, Life is good.

Description from NetGalley

From the former Poet Laureate of the United States and New York Times bestselling author of Aimless Love comes a wondrous new collection of poems focused on the joys and mysteries of daily life.

"[Billy] Collins remains the most companionable of poetic companions." —The New York Times

In this collection of sixty new poems, Billy Collins writes about the beauties and ironies of everyday experience. A poem is best, he feels, when it begins in clarity but ends with a whiff of mystery. In Water, Water, Collins combines his vigilant attention and respect for the peripheral to create moments of delight. Common and uncommon events are captured here with equal fascination, be it a cat leaning to drink from a swimming pool, a nurse calling a name in a waiting room, or an astronaut reciting Emily Dickinson from outer space. With his trademark lyrical informality, Collins asks us to slow down and glimpse the elevated in the ordinary, the odd in the familiar. It’s no surprise that The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal both call Collins one of America’s favorite poets.

The Monet Conundrum

Is every one of these poems
different from the others
he asked himself,
as the rain quieted down,

or are they all the same poem,
haystack after haystack
at different times of day,
different shadows and shades of hay?

May serendipity do the same for you.  ❤

In the meantime . . .

A Toast

Litany

You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine...
-Jacques Crickillon

You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine.

 - - Billy Collins

The Names by Billy Collins

 

Yesterday, I lay awake in the palm of the night.

A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze,

And when I saw the silver glaze on the windows,

I started with A, with Ackerman, as it happened,

Then Baxter and Calabro,

Davis and Eberling, names falling into place

As droplets fell through the dark.

Names printed on the ceiling of the night.

Names slipping around a watery bend.

Twenty-six willows on the banks of a stream.

In the morning, I walked out barefoot

Among thousands of flowers

Heavy with dew like the eyes of tears,

And each had a name --

Fiori inscribed on a yellow petal

Then Gonzalez and Han, Ishikawa and Jenkins.

Names written in the air

And stitched into the cloth of the day.

A name under a photograph taped to a mailbox.

Monogram on a torn shirt,

I see you spelled out on storefront windows

And on the bright unfurled awnings of this city.

I say the syllables as I turn a corner --

Kelly and Lee,

Medina, Nardella, and O'Connor.

When I peer into the woods,

I see a thick tangle where letters are hidden

As in a puzzle concocted for children.

Parker and Quigley in the twigs of an ash,

Rizzo, Schubert, Torres, and Upton,

Secrets in the boughs of an ancient maple.

Names written in the pale sky.

Names rising in the updraft amid buildings.

Names silent in stone

Or cried out behind a door.

Names blown over the earth and out to sea.

In the evening -- weakening light, the last swallows.

A boy on a lake lifts his oars.

A woman by a window puts a match to a candle,

And the names are outlined on the rose clouds --

Vanacore and Wallace,

(let X stand, if it can, for the ones unfound)

Then Young and Ziminsky, the final jolt of Z.

Names etched on the head of a pin.

One name spanning a bridge, another undergoing a tunnel.

A blue name needled into the skin.

Names of citizens, workers, mothers and fathers,

The bright-eyed daughter, the quick son.

Alphabet of names in a green field.

Names in the small tracks of birds.

Names lifted from a hat

Or balanced on the tip of the tongue.

Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of memory.

So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart.

*This poem is dedicated to the victims of September 11 and to their survivors.

Today BY BILLY COLLINS

 

If ever there were a spring day so perfect,

so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze

that it made you want to throw

open all the windows in the house

and unlatch the door to the canary's cage,

indeed, rip the little door from its jamb,

a day when the cool brick paths

and the garden bursting with peonies

seemed so etched in sunlight

that you felt like taking

a hammer to the glass paperweight

on the living room end table,

releasing the inhabitants

from their snow-covered cottage

so they could walk out,

holding hands and squinting

into this larger dome of blue and white,

well, today is just that kind of day.

Building with Its Face Blown Off by Billy Collins

How suddenly the private

is revealed in a bombed-out city,

how the blue and white striped wallpaper

of a second-storey bedroom is now

exposed to the lightly falling snow

as if the room had answered the explosion

wearing only its striped pyjamas.

Some neighbours and soldiers

poke around in the rubble below

and stare up at the hanging staircase,

the portrait of a grandfather,

a door dangling from a single hinge.

And the bathroom looks almost embarrassed

by its uncovered ochre walls,

the twisted mess of its plumbing,

the sink sinking to its knees,

the ripped shower curtain,

the torn goldfish trailing bubbles.

It’s like a dollhouse view

as if a child on its knees could reach in

and pick up the bureau, straighten a picture.

Or it might be a room on a stage

in a play with no characters,

no dialogue or audience,

no beginning, middle and end –

just the broken furniture in the street,

a shoe among the cinder blocks

a light snow still falling

on a distant steeple, and people

crossing a bridge that still stands.

And beyond that – crows in a tree,

the statue of a leader on a horse,

and clouds that look like smoke,

and even farther on, in another country

on a blanket under a shade tree,

a man pouring wine into two glasses

and a woman sliding out

the wooden pegs of a wicker hamper

filled with bread, cheese and several kinds of olives.

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,
schools and libraries buried, the post office lost
under the noiseless drift,
the paths of trains softly blocked,
the world fallen under this falling.

In a while I will put on some boots
and step out like someone walking in water,
and the dog will porpoise through the drifts,
and I will shake a laden branch,
sending a cold shower down on us both.

But for now I am a willing prisoner in this house,
a sympathizer with the anarchic cause of snow.
I will make a pot of tea
and listen to the plastic radio on the counter,
as glad as anyone to hear the news

that the Kiddie Corner School is closed,
the Ding-Dong School, closed,
the All Aboard Children's School, closed,
the Hi-Ho Nursery School, closed,
along with - some will be delighted to hear -

the Toadstool School, the Little School,
Little Sparrows Nursery School,
Little Stars Pre-School, Peas-and-Carrots Day School,
the Tom Thumb Child Center, all closed,
and - clap your hands - the Peanuts Play School.

So this is where the children hide all day,
These are the nests where they letter and draw,
where they put on their bright miniature jackets,
all darting and climbing and sliding,
all but the few girls whispering by the fence.

And now I am listening hard
in the grandiose silence of the snow,
trying to hear what those three girls are plotting,
what riot is afoot,
which small queen is about to be brought down.

New Year's Day by Billy Collins

Everyone has two birthdays

according to the English essayist Charles Lamb,

the day you were born and New Year’s Day—

a droll observation to mull over

as I wait for the tea water to boil in a kitchen

that is being transformed by the morning light

into one of those brilliant rooms of Matisse.

“No one ever regarded the First of January

with indifference,” writes Lamb,

for unlike Groundhog Day or the feast of the Annunciation,

New Year’s marks nothing but the pure passage of time,

I realized, as I lowered a tin diving bell

of tea leaves into a little ocean of roiling water.

I like to regard my own birthday

as the joyous anniversary of my existence,

probably because I was, and remain

to this day in late December, an only child.

And as an only child—

a tea-sipping, toast-nibbling only child

in a bright, colorful room—

I would welcome an extra birthday,

one more opportunity to stop what we are doing

for a moment and celebrate my presence here on earth.

And would it not also be a small consolation

to us all for having to face a death-day, too,

an X drawn through a number

in a square on some kitchen calendar of the future,

the day when each of us is thrown off the train of time

by a burly, heartless conductor

as it roars through the months and years,

party hats, candles, confetti, and horoscopes

billowing up in the turbulent storm of its wake.

from the book, "Ballistics," © Random House 2008

Cheerios

One bright morning in a restaurant in Chicago
as I waited for my eggs and toast,
I opened the Tribune only to discover
that I was the same age as Cheerios.


Indeed, I was a few months older than Cheerios
for today, the newspaper announced,
was the seventieth birthday of Cheerios
whereas mine had occurred earlier in the year.

Already I could hear them whispering
behind my stooped and threadbare back,
Why that dude’s older than Cheerios
the way they used to say

Why that’s as old as the hills,
only the hills are much older than Cheerios
or any American breakfast cereal,
and more noble and enduring are the hills,

I surmised as a bar of sunlight illuminated my orange juice.

       

BY BILLY COLLINS