Tag Archives: Poetry

Dog

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I can hear him out in the kitchen,
his lapping the night’s only music,
head bowed over the waterbowl
like an illustration in a book for boys.

He enters the room with such etiquette,
licking my bare ankle as if he understood
the Braille of the skin.

Then he makes three circles around himself,
flattening his ancient memory of tall grass
before dropping his weight with a sigh on the floor.

This is the spot where he will spend the night,
his ears listening for the syllable of his name,
his tongue hidden in his long mouth
like a strange naked hermit in a cave.

—Questions About Angels by Billy Collins

Reading Myself to Sleep by Billy Collins

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The house is all in darkness except for this corner bedroom
where the lighthouse of a table lamp is guiding
my eyes through the narrow channels of print,

and the only movement in the night is the slight
swirl of curtains, the easy lift and fall of my breathing,
and the flap of pages as they turn in the wind of my hand.

Is there a more gentle way to go into the night
than to follow an endless rope of sentences
and then to slip drowsily under the surface of a page

into the first tentative flicker of a dream,
passing out of the bright precincts of attention
like cigarette smoke passing through a window screen?

All late readers know this sinking feeling of falling
into the liquid of sleep and then rising again
to the call of a voice that you are holding in your hands,

as if pulled from the sea back into a boat
where a discussion is raging on some subject or other,
on Patagonia or Thoroughbreds or the nature of war.

Is there a better method of departure by night
than this quiet bon voyage with an open book,
the sole companion who has come to see you off,

to wave you into the dark waters beyond language?
I can hear the rush and sweep of fallen leaves outside
where the world lies unconscious, and I can feel myself

dissolving, drifting into a story that will never be written,
letting the book slip to the floor where I will find it
in the morning when I surface, wet and streaked with
daylight.

Cliché by Billy Collins

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My life is an open book. It lies here
on a glass tabletop, its pages shamelessly exposed,
outspread like a bird with hundreds of thin paper wings.

It is a biography, needless to say,
and I am reading and writing it simultaneously
in a language troublesome and private.
Every reader must be a translator with a thick lexicon.

No one has read the whole thing but me.
Most dip into the middle for a few paragraphs,
then move on to other shelves, other libraries.
Some have time only for the illustrations.

I love to feel the daily turning of the pages,
the sentences unwinding like string,
and when something really important happens,
I walk out to the edge of the page and, always the student,
make an asterisk, a little star, in the margin.

“I Wish I Knew How to Force Quit You”

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My friend John called this morning and there was an urgency in his tone. “I want you to listen to a segment of This American Life and call me back.” John is not one to get excited about… well, about anything. So I stopped what was doing (okay, I wasn’t doing anything) and found the audio he wanted me to hear. From the This American Life web page:

I Wish I Knew How to Force Quit You. Writer Simon Rich grapples with an A.I. chatbot that threatens to make him obsolete. Excerpts from the audiobook edition of I am Code, written by code-davinci-002, edited by Brent Katz, Josh Morgenthau, and Simon Rich; read by Werner Herzog, Brent Katz, Josh Morgenthau, and Simon Rich, used with permission from Hachette Audio.

The segment is 21 minutes long and is probably the most amazing thing I’ve heard in… well, I don’t remember when I’ve heard anything more amazing. Your mileage may vary.

“Downpour,” by Billy Collins

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Last night we ended up on the couch
trying to remember
all of the friends who had died so far,

and this morning I wrote them down
in alphabetical order
on the flip side of a shopping list
you had left on the kitchen table.

So many of them had been swept away
as if by a hand from the sky,
it was good to recall them,
I was thinking
under the cold lights of a supermarket
as I guided a cart with a wobbly wheel
up and down the long strident aisles.

I was on the lookout for blueberries,
English muffins, linguini, heavy cream,
light bulbs, apples, Canadian bacon,
and whatever else was on the list,
which I managed to keep grocery side up,

until I had passed through the electric doors,
where I stopped to realize,
as I turned the list over,
that I had forgotten Terry O’Shea
as well as the bananas and the bread.

It was pouring by then,
spilling, as they say in Ireland,
people splashing across the lot to their cars.
And that is when I set out,
walking slowly and precisely,
a soaking-wet man
bearing bags of groceries,
walking as if in a procession honoring the dead.

I felt I owed this to Terry,
who was such a strong painter,
for almost forgetting him
and to all the others who had formed
a circle around him on the screen in my head.

I was walking more slowly now
in the presence of the compassion
the dead were extending to a comrade,

plus I was in no hurry to return
to the kitchen, where I would have to tell you
all about Terry and the bananas and the bread.

You can hear the poet read his poem here.

Five animated poems by Billy Collins

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Poor Person Baton

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There’s a sad little woman
with a cardboard sign
standing by the off-ramp
pretty much rain or shine.
The sign says “god bless you”
but I never look too close.
She wears those long dresses
that say I’m a child of god,
you can forget about my legs.
When I miss the light
and have to stop
I hold up a bill and she trots over
“God bless you, god bless you”…
Whoosh I’m gone.
When the light is green
I go sailing by, “next time” say my eyes.
Or we try a daring hand-off move
like passing the poor person baton.

Dead Air

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Dead Air
The circus sounded louder, before it came to town.
The trumpeting pachyderm I was to ride, deafening.
But listening from the wings of the not-so-Bigtop,
The small town crowd made anxious sounds,
Then delighted gasps, to see me astride the tiny beast,
My red high tops dragging lightly through the sawdust.

Judging the beauty of little girls needs quiet.
Not the angry feed of mothers, charging backstage
To rescue little also-rans through the band room door.
Experienced masters of such ceremonies pretend
We do not hear their shame.

But the loudest sound is the tick, tick, tick
Of the song that ended while I was gone.
This room, this Studio, must never be silent.
Can they hear my panic as I bring the air
Back from the dead?