Find Yourself a Poet

Find yourself a poet. Spend time with them. Read their poems from cover to cover and then move on to their next book of poetry... tear through it slowly spill coffee on the pages because you forgot there was a cup in your hand because the image of hyacinths was too beautiful and the coffee is cold now anyway and you have to ready yourself for work. or go to sleep. after a few more lines to travel through heart break, daffodils and hippos on holiday...land peacefully back on your golden bed sheets with a cold cup of coffee down the front of your pajamas.

Find yourself a poet that you love. Love them so much that you can see the flaws in their poetry, the finite way they finish their stanzas the predictability of rhyme the non-variation of theme and despite all their flaws you want to wrap yourself in their blank verse and dare anyone to say you are not happy and fully alive.

This morning with my tepid cup of Lady Grey, my cathedral bells, overcast skies and thoughts of Good Friday in my heart I continued the journey of last night through Billy Collins' Ballistics. Not everyone loves Billy Collins, that's fine. The title of this blog was not "Find yourself Billy Collins". Even for me, Billy and I have separated for a few years now, only perusing the odd poem now and again like phone call to keep in touch, or facebook message level of connection. At the library in Chester the other week, after being appalled at the lack of modern poetry at Waterstone's ... I mean APPALLED. I have checked this store in various locations and have each time been disappointed and thus I banish that store from my heart, which is difficult for me to say to a book store. Partly because it is an inanimate thing and also because I always hope that the new chain or branch will be different... alas... I put my trust in the library system, which is very good in Cheshire, though they had no books of poetry in that I particularly desired to read I could order Billy Collins and ee cummings to my local Branch. Collins arrived first and I am delighted. thrilled!!

For those of you that don't know, I have quite a history with this poet and his poetry influences much of my own writing. I had the chance to meet him at the 2004 English Majors Convention in Florida and acted like a 14-year-0ld meeting Justin Timberlake. My fellow nerd, Emily, and I sat front and centre whilst he read to the large group and then after buying another book of his poetry, to add to the two I already owned, we stood in line to have him sign it. I was so nervous! Especially when he said that "I looked like I was really enjoying the reading" He SAW ME!! wow. I think I may have blurted out that I thought he was brilliant and I loved his poems and there may have been pictures taken... I'm a nerd.

So that is a bit of background, and now when I read his poems, though I do think some of them too neatly finished...still... brilliant. So here are a few of his poems from Ballistics... I recommend reading the whole book, cover to cover.... or this Easter weekend, enjoy a little indulgent time with your favorite poet. Read it out loud. Make your housemate listen to you, they will love it. Mine did anyway... or in any case she smiled at me like I was crazy and she wouldn't change it for the world... neither would I. :-)

The Effort

Would anyone care to join me
in flicking a few pebbles in the direction
teachers who are fond of asking the question:
"What is the poet trying to say?"

as if Thomas Hardy and Emily Dickinson
had struggled but ultimately failed in their efforts--
inarticulate wretches that they were,
biting their pens and staring out the window for a clue.

Yes, it seems that Whitman, Amy Lowell
and the rest could only try and fail,
but we in Mrs. Parker's third-period English class
here at Springfield high will succeed

with the help of these study questions
in saying what the poor poet could not,
and we will get all this done before
that orgy of egg salad and tuna fish known as lunch.

Tonight, however, I am the one trying
to say what it is this absence means,
the two of us sleeping and waking under different roofs.
The image of this vase of cut flowers,

not from our garden, is no help.
And the same goes for the single plate,
the solitary lamp, and the weather that presses its face
against these new windows--the drizzle and the
morning frost

So I will leave it up to Mrs. Parker,
who is tapping a piece of chalk against the blackboard
and her students-- a few with hands up,
others slouching with their caps on backwards--

to figure out what it is I am trying to say
about this place where I find myself
and do it before the noon bell rings
and that whirlwind of meatloaf is unleashed.