Friday Favorite: I love this poem

*Seven comments before we move on...*

So a couple of years ago I heard Billy Collins was doing a reading at UC Riverside which was my neck of the woods at the time. I knew who Billy Collins was. I taught language arts and creative writing. How could I not know that he was the former U.S. poet laureate. I liked Billy Collins a lot. I thought his poetry was all right (a little too traditional for me) but I loved what he did with Poetry 180, his effort to bring poetry back into everyday life. The idea was to read a poem every morning in school and not talk about it or analyze it. Just listen to it and think about it and enjoy it. He collected some pretty cool poetry into an anthology (there are at least two now) toward that end.

So my friend Jaymee and I decided to go check it out.

Here's the thing. You know how sometimes tone doesn't really come across clearly in an email? What you read and what someone meant come across differently depending on where you inflect it and put the the emphasis? Well...

I had no idea Billy Collins was freaking hilarious. I had always read his stuff and felt there was a seriousness or somberness to it. He was no doubt a wordsmith, but I don't know...I liked the thoughtfulness. I just like a little whimsy too. Then I heard him read. And I realized 80% of what I heard as somber was actually incredibly wry. And it was hysterical.

That's how the following poems became one of my favorites. Be warned: it's not deep. But it kind of is. But it's kind of not. But I love it.

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 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 am 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.


P.S. If you're stumped for a comment, I welcome suggestions of poets or poems I should check out.