If I did have to choose only one poem to call a favorite, Forgetfulness by Billy Collins would be one of the top tenat least. Yes, I know that's bad math but it's common knowledge that the poetry kids aren't as keen on Math class as they are Language Arts.
I have memory issues - short term, long term and those that refuse to drown. Not many months ago, I picked up a book by Anne Tyler and got half way through before realizing that I had read it years before. It's the first half of the book, when everything seemed new, that is the most troubling to me. And so, this poem speaks to my own eventuality perhaps.
You have three choices for this poem: You can listen to it as you watch an animated illustration, you may choose to have Bill Murray read it to you or you may opt to read it quietly to yourself.
(1.)
(2.)
(3.)
Forgetfulness
By Collins, Billy
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
or 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.
Rather than daily hijacking the comments section of my pal Whit's posts, I'm going to attempt to remember how to blog consecutively for days and days - maybe even a whole week!- on my own dusty old blog so that I, too may participate in the festivity of Poetry Month.
Aside from the occasional odd nursery rhyme or humorous limerick, my poetry appreciation as a youth can best be summed up thusly:
I never saw a purple cow, I never hope to see one.
I can tell you anyhow,
I'd rather see one than be one.
Though I would sometimes find myself speaking lyrically,
or stuck in a verbal rhyming loop,
I didn't realize back then that one
could enjoy poetry as much as I now do (doop?).
I never thought I would read the stuff on purpose, much less have an app or two on my phone.
Like a good sandwich or holy matrimony, enjoyment came down to finding those built of quality ingredients.
As did Keillor, Collins and Updike which begs a nod to The New Yorker, too. As unlikely a preferred publication for me as the poetry it turned me on to, I started picking up library discards for the comics and found myself lingering longer and longer over the surrounding literary contributions; poetry and fiction especially.
Today I would not share with you my favorite poem. Who can narrow it down to just one? Rather, I invite you into a moment.
Isn't that what poems do after all ?
The date is June 25, 2013. Garrison Keillor is on sabbatical from his long runningThe Writer's Almanac and Billy Collins is guest hosting. The chosen poem for the day is "Baseball" by John Updike. Now, I must admit that I prefer Updike's storytelling to most of his poetry but this moment is poetic serendipity.
