Poetry

I have recently been awakened to the joy of poetry. People I admire have always loved it, but I am just beginning to turn phrases and rhythms over in my head like sweet morsels.

I went to see Billy Collins read some of his poetry with my roommate Amanda and fell in love. Although... we did muse on the way back as to what constitutes "poetry?" Any thoughts?

Here are two of my favorites so far. One I found two years ago on the subway in NYC, the other a Billy Collins piece that captured me Monday night.

Enjoy!


Utterance by W.S. Merwin

sitting over words
very late i have heard a kind of whispered sighing
not far
like a night wind in pines or like the sea in the dark
the echo of everything that has ever been spoken
still spinning in one syllable
between the earth and silence


Litany by Billy Collins

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.