Because I have not given you a poem in lo these many moons...

[osprey_archer]

I was digging through my old notebooks, as I sometimes do, and I found these notes from a Billy Collins poetry reading I attended last year. I have no idea why I didn't post any of this at the time - not only is it a lovely poem, but Billy Collins made fun of Freud in his preface to reading it, which is always a plus - but here they are now.

“He thought he’d figured out what women want—the answer to that insulting question of Freud’s—and what women want is not loyalty or passion or respect. It’s simile. Yes, what women want most is to be compared to other things.”

Litany
by 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.

Comments

[exuberantself.livejournal.com]

That? Is awesome.

I went to a poetry reading once, specifically some of the published poets at the university I went to did a reading. My Writing Center prof gets up in front of everyone and says, "This poem nearly got me fired the first time I read it at one of these things ten years ago." There's really no going downhill from there, right?

I don't remember the poem verbatim or anything, but the beginning is all about this beautiful bird singing outside her window. A male bird joins the first one, then a third does the same. Basically, the two male birds are wooing the lady, and the poems ends with my prof saying, "I've had sex like that." I really wish I could find a copy of it.

[osprey-archer.livejournal.com]

Writing professors. They, like Russian writers, are just so awesomely strange.

Maybe it's just a writer thing? Maybe I need to become more eccentric before I can be a real writer.

[exuberantself.livejournal.com]

That's pretty possible. I took a Fiction Writing class from a professor who was hired based solely on the merit of his written works and he told us that he cultivates his eccentricities.

[anait.livejournal.com]

That was so lovely and funny at the same time. Thanks for posting!