Poetry Month: Day Thirty

And so, I end this month-long tip of the hat to Poetry Month with another poem-prophetic.

I am reminded too, of so many porches filled now with emptiness;

barren swings and rocking chairs where stories used to sit. I see loved ones lingering in the twilight, soon to take sweet rest. Of all the seats in the house, yours with mine is best.

Thinking back over the porches we've shared,sitting in hammocks or worn-out lawn chairs- beautiful landscapes or time passing through, the view is improved for watching with you.

 

They Sit Together on the Porch

Wendell Berry



They sit together on the porch, the dark

Almost fallen, the house behind them dark.

Their supper done with, they have washed and dried

The dishes–only two plates now, two glasses,

Two knives, two forks, two spoons–small work for two.

She sits with her hands folded in her lap,

At rest. He smokes his pipe. They do not speak,

And when they speak at last it is to say

What each one knows the other knows. They have

One mind between them, now, that finally

For all its knowing will not exactly know

Which one goes first through the dark doorway, bidding

Goodnight, and which sits on a while alone.

Poetry Month: Day Twenty-Nine

One of my favorites. 

LITANY

BILLY COLLINS

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.

Poetry Month: Day Twenty-Eight

I have often been accused of talking too much to strangers.

 Or as someone recently put it,

 * "Everytime I turn around, you're talking to some new weird featherplucker." 



While this poem seems to be going opposite my direction, by speaking to few if any

along its mosey way, it could easily find itself going my way, up on the freeway

of imediate and immersive conversation, if as seatmate it dared to catch my eye

or if as waitress, it braved a friendly smile. Strangers no more, atttentive

I would listen as it unpacked.





Follow the linked title to the poem and an interview with Billy Collins

Traveling Alone 

Billy Collins



At the hotel coffee shop that morning, the waitress was wearing a pink uniform with “Florence” written in script over her heart. 

And the man who checked my bag had a nameplate that said “Ben.” Behind him was a long row of royal palms. 

On the plane, two women poured drinks from a cart they rolled down the aisle—“Debbie” and “Lynn” according to their winged tags.

And such was my company as I arced from coast to coast, and so I seldom spoke, and then only of the coffee, the bag, the tiny bottles of vodka.

I said little more than “Thank you” and “Can you take this from me, please?” Yet I began to sense that all of them were ready to open up, to get to know me better, perhaps begin a friendship.

Florence looked irritated as she shuffled from table to table, but was she just hiding her need to know about my early years—the ball I would toss and catch in my hands the times I hid behind my mother’s dress?

And was I so wrong in seeing in Ben’s eyes a glimmer of interest in my theories and habits—my view of the Enlightenment, my love of cards, the hours I tended to keep?

And what about Debbie and Lynn? Did they not look eager to ask about my writing process, my way of composing in the morning by a window, which I would have admitted if they had just had the courage to ask.

And strangely enough—I would have continued as they stopped pouring drinks and the other passengers turned to listen— the only emotion I ever feel, Debbie and Lynn, is what the beaver must feel, as he bears each stick to his hidden construction, which creates the tranquil pond and gives the mallards somewhere to paddle, the pair of swans a place to conceal their young.

 

* For the record: outside the froyo place, @the time my spontaneous friendships with 'weird featherpluckers' was called into question, it was Bubba who spoke first, to me and everyone else on the patio. He wanted all of us to know that he found his chosen flavor like eating frozen sour cream. He knew it might seem odd, but would we care for a bite to see for ourselves? I politely declined but it was good old fashioned manners that went on to obligate me to quip that they need a burrito flavor to match. While I might conceded to being amiable, at times downright chatty- I could never bring myself to use such fowl language as 'featherpluckers'. While I can give no good defence as to why such exchanges frequently find me, I'm certainly glad they do.