Doggie Wisdom

Percy (nine)

Mary Oliver

Your friend is coming I say

To Percy, and name a name

And he runs to the door, his

Wide mouth in its laugh-shape,

And waves, since he has one, his tail.

Emerson, I am trying to live,

As you said we must, the examined life.

But there are days I wish

There was less in my head to examine,

Not to speak of the busy heart.  How

Would it be to be Percy, I wonder, not

Thinking, not weighing anything, just running forward.

Dharma

Billy Collins

The way the dog trots out the front door

every morning

without a hat or an umbrella,

without any money

or the keys to her doghouse

never fails to fill the saucer of my heart

with milky admiration.

Who provides a finer example

of a life without encumbrance—

Thoreau in his curtainless hut

with a single plate, a single spoon?

Gandhi with his staff and his holy diapers?

Off she goes into the material world

with nothing but her brown coat

and her modest blue collar,

following only her wet nose,

the twin portals of her steady breathing,

followed only by the plume of her tail.

If only she did not shove the cat aside

every morning

and eat all his food

what a model of self-containment she

would be,

what a paragon of earthly detachment.

If only she were not so eager

for a rub behind the ears,

so acrobatic in her welcomes,

if only I were not her god.

More Billy Collins

I've read poems by Billy Collins spoofing such poetic forms as the sonnet and haiku. Here he makes light of those sentimental, saccharin lines in love poems like the one by Jacques Crickillon.

Litany

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.

Here is the real treat though.  Watch a three year old recite this entire poem!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uVu4Me_n91Y&feature=related

I think this one is the funniest. Collins wrote this to a friend from the country who was explaining to Collins, the city fella, the same story I've heard about mice and matches.

The Country

Billy Collins

I wondered about you
when you told me never to leave
a box of wooden, strike-anywhere matches
lying around the house because the mice

might get into them and start a fire.
But your face was absolutely straight
when you twisted the lid down on the round tin
where the matches, you said, are always stowed.

Who could sleep that night?
Who could whisk away the thought
of one unlikely mouse
padding along a cold water pipe

behind the floral wallpaper
gripping a single wooden match
between the needles of his teeth?
Who could not see him rounding a corner,

the blue tip scratching against a rough-hewn beam,
the sudden flare, and the creature
for one bright, shining moment
suddenly thrust ahead of his time-

now a fire-starter, now a torchbearer
in a forgotten ritual, little brown druid
illuminating some ancient night.
Who could fail to notice,

lit up in the blazing insulation
the tiny looks of wonderment on the faces
of his fellow mice, onetime inhabitants
of what once was your house in the country?

-from Nine Horses: Poems

Here is a you-tube video with an animated movie if your internal movie was not already playing as you read it.  Billy Collins is reading.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8xovLpim_1s

Forgetfulness

Forgetfulness

Billy Collins

 
The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

Marie's comment on the Loss poems reminded me of this gem. Below is a link to Collins reading the poem with an artist's animation. Definitely worth your time.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wrEPJh14mcU&feature=related

Loss

One Art

Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:

places, and names, and where it was you meant

to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or

next-to-last, of three loved houses went.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.

I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture

I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident

the art of losing’s not too hard to master

though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Elizabeth Bishop, “One Art” from The Complete Poems 1926-1979.

 Copyright © 1979, 1983

I love the way these two poets present the universal experience of dealing with loss.
Neither melodramatic, but I think quite interesting in their approach.


Still Life with a Balloon

Wislawa Szymborska

Returning memories?

No, at the time of death

I’d like to see lost objects

return instead.

Avalanches of gloves,

coats, suitcases, umbrellas

come, and I’ll say at last:

what good’s all this?

Safety pins, two odd combs,

a paper rose, a knife,

some string — come, and I’ll say

at last: I haven’t missed you.

Please turn up, key, come out,

wherever you’ve been hiding,

in time for me to say

You’ve gotten rusty, friend!

Downpours of affidavits,

permits and questionnaires,

rain down and I will say:

I see the sun behind you.

My watch, dropped in a river,

bob up and let me seize you —

then, face to face, I’ll say:

Your so-called time is up.

And lastly, toy balloon

once kidnapped by the wind—

come home, and I will say:

there are no children here.

Fly out the open window

and into the wide world;

let someone else shout “Look!”

and I will cry.

Pink

Pink

by Luci Shaw

Not a color I've wanted to wear—too
innocently girlish, and I'm not innocent,
not a girl. But today the gnarled cherry trees
along Alabama Street are decked out
like bridesmaids—garlands in their hair,
nosegays in their hands—extravagant,

finally the big spring wedding to splurge,
and hang the cost. Each really wants to be
the bride so she can toss her bouquet until,
unaccustomed, the gutters choke
with pink confetti that flies up and whirls
in the wake of cars going west,

flirting shamelessly with teenage boys on
the crosswalks. The pale twisters,
the drifts of petals, call out to me, "Let go;
it's OK to be giddy, enchanted, flighty,
intoxicated with color. Drive straight
to the mall and buy yourself a pink Tee."

"Pink" by Luci Shaw from What the Light Was Like.

Okay,so I was at Jayne's beautiful garden on Wednesday and found these beautiful flowers,  and they just happened to be pink and even though pink has never been my favorite color, now I'm thinking maybe I'll sign up and be a pink fan. How about you? 

One of my seventh graders wrote this one on her favorite color.
Check out the photos at the bottom of the page.

Pink

Pink are your cheeks

coming in from a cold breezy day

Pink is a pillow

ready to hold your head

Pink is a kiss

that lands on a cheek

Pink is a willing heart

ready to give someone a hug

Pink is a bow

tied on a girl’s head

Pink is pink polish she wears on her nails

Pink comes in all shades when you mix red and white

Pink is a ballerina’s ballet shoes and a tutu

shaking on soul, nervous for the dance

Pink tastes like a grapefruit

but cotton candy as well

Pink tastes like pink lemonade

Pink smells like a rose

blooming, looking its best

Pink is the smell of fresh clothes

laundry detergent

Pink is soft, comforting

warm, cheerful, girly

 and sweet

Pink is a teeny, tiny little tinkle in your ear

When you pull down your covers

Do you think pink?