Boat by Pier — Photo-Artistry by kenne
They were beautiful in the clear early light—
red, yellow, blue and green—
is all I wanted to say about them,
although for the rest of the day
I pictured a lighter version of myself
calling time through a little megaphone,
first to the months of the year,
then to the twelve apostles, all grimacing
as they leaned and pulled on the long wooden oars.
— from Brightly Colored Boats on the Banks of the Charles by Billy Collins
Bee On Monument Plant Blossom — Image by kenne
Lake Woodlands Sunrise (1990) Image by kenne
Morning
— from Morning by Billy Collins
Cat and Bird by Paul Klee moma.org
Predator
— Billy Collins
Joy — Image by kenne
Ode To Joy
Friedrich Schiller called Joy the spark of divinity
but she visits me on a regular basis,
and it doesn’t take much for her to appear—
the salt next to the pepper by the stove,
the garbage man ascending his station
on the back of the moving garbage truck,
or I’m just eating a banana
in the car and listening to Buddy Guy.
In other words, she seems down-to-earth,
like a girl getting off a bus with a suitcase
and no one’s there to meet her.
It’s a little after four in the afternoon,
one of the first warm days of spring.
She sits on her suitcase to wait
and slides on her sunglasses.
How do I know she’s listening to the birds?
— Billy Collins (In The Atlantic, November 2021)
“Empty Pot, Empty Bottle” — Dos XX Amber Still Life by kenne
A Word About Transitions
Moreover is not a good way to start a poem
though many begin somewhere in the middle.
Secondly does not belong
at the opening of your second stanza.
Furthermore is to be avoided
no matter how long the poem.
Aforementioned is rarely found
in poems at all, and for good reason.
Most steer clear of notwithstanding,
and the same goes for
nevertheless, however,
as a consequence, in any event,
subsequently,
and as we have seen in the previous chapters.
The appearance of finally
in your final stanza will be of no help.
All of which suggests (another no-no)
that poems don’t need to tell us where we are
or what is soon to come.
For example, the white bowl of lemons
on a table by a window
can go anywhere all by itself
and, in conclusion, so can
seven elephants standing in the rain.
— Billy Collins
Texas Crescent Butterfly — Image by kenne
I like writing about where I am,
where I happen to be sitting,
the humidity or the clouds,
the scene outside the window—
a pink tree in bloom,
a neighbor walking his small, nervous dog.
And if I am drinking
a cup of tea at the time
or a small glass of whiskey,
I will find a line to put it on.
— from In the Room of a Thousand Miles by Billy Collins
Zion Canyon Panorama — B&W Image by kenne
Mighty and dreadful are your tall columns here,
(through soul and love put you in deep shade)
for you outnumber man and outscore even life itself,
and you are roughly tied with God and, strangely, eyes.
— from Unholy Sonnet # 1 by Billy Collins
Bee On Desert Marigold — Image by kenne
— Billy Collins
Billy Collins at the Tucson Festival of Books, 2018 — Image by kenne
Image by Joy
— Video by kenne
Balboa Park Rose Garden — Images by kenne
(Click on any of the images for larger view in a slideshow format.)
I am a lake, my poem is an empty boat,
and my life is the breeze that blows
through the whole scene
stirring everything it touches —
the surface of the water, the limp sail,
even the heavy, leafy trees along the shore.
— from “My Life” by Billy Collins
Dragonfly Grange ‘n’ — Image by kenne
— from “Lines Lost Among Trees” by Billy Collins
My mother, Agnes — Image by kenne
As we near Mother’s Day, 2015, much will be written, gifts given and loved shared. Remembering Mother is truly a daily exercise in life. Over the last ten years, this blog has had many postings on mothers. One of my favorite poems about mothers is one by Billy Collins, titled, “The Lanyard.”
THE LANYARD
The other day as I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room
bouncing from typewriter to piano
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
I found myself in the “L” section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word, Lanyard.
No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one more suddenly into the past.
A past where I sat at a workbench
at a camp by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid thin plastic strips into a lanyard.
A gift for my mother.
I had never seen anyone use a lanyard.
Or wear one, if that’s what you did with them.
But that did not keep me from crossing strand over strand
again and again until I had made a boxy, red and white lanyard for my mother.
She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted teaspoons of medicine to my lips,
set cold facecloths on my forehead
then led me out into the airy light
and taught me to walk and swim and I in turn presented her with a lanyard.
“Here are thousands of meals” she said,
“and here is clothing and a good education.”
“And here is your lanyard,” I replied,
“which I made with a little help from a counselor.”
“Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth and two clear eyes to read the world.” she whispered.
“And here,” I said, “is the lanyard I made at camp.”
“And here,” I wish to say to her now,
“is a smaller gift. Not the archaic truth,
that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took the two-toned lanyard from my hands,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless worthless thing I wove out of boredom
would be enough to make us even.”
— Billy Collins
The Hikers — Canvas Image by kenne
— from “Paradelle for Susan” by Billy Collins
Computer Painting by kenne
— kenne
Becoming is Superior to Being 