For a year which doesn’t seem all that long ago, especially when one was born in the 60’s, from The Rain in Portugal.
from 1960 / by Billy Collins
The quieter bass solo just reveals
the people in the club
who have been talking all along,
the same ones you can hear
on some well-known recordings.
For the Sunday that was, from The Rain in Portugal.
from On Rhyme / by Billy Collins
That’s why instead of recalling today
that it pours mostly in Spain,
I am going to picture the rain in Portugal,
how it falls on the hillside vineyards,
on the surface of deep harbors
For Poetry, from The Rain in Portugal.
from Dream Life / by Billy Collins
Poetry works long hours
and rarely speaks to the tailor
as she bends to repair the fancy costumes
of various allegorical figures
who were told by Thrift how little she charges.
For art and life turning their backs on each other and walking in opposite directions as happens in mirrors every day, from Poetry, July/August 2016.
from the usual rilke: Rilke’s Separation / by Ernst Jandl
the unusual rilke
and the usual rilke
would have to separate
For a beloved book with a great title that always feels especially relevant in May, especially if one is a teacher, from The Art of Drowning.
from The Biography of a Cloud / by Billy Collins
We do know this much:
that it billowed white at the mountainous top
and its flat underside was the gray of headstones;
that it slid onto the land and felt its way
over the contours of several western states,
always moving eastward, from left to right,
the way the eye moves over print
as if it were reading the earth with its blind shadow.
For if we can save them, we may only be able to save them one at a time, from Reasons for Moving.
from The Babies / by Mark Strand
Let us hurry.
Let us save the babies.
Let us try to save the babies.
For there are many different ways to celebrate prom night, and one way is by taking athletes to run races dear to their hearts, and one way is by actually having a prom night; our school is doing both tonight, from Poetry.
from Another Moon / by Zack Strait
Mama said
it only existed in storybooks
with its soft surface
of bluebells
but there it was
spinning so close to the earth
that it bent
every weather vane in Omaha
it was prom night
For whales and mariners, from Poetry, May 2017.
from The Cliff-Top Monastery / by A.B. Jackson
The crew half-slept that night, in golden cells
their dreams hatchlings, their nerves eggshells.
For no longer needing to follow one’s horoscope, if one does, when the days have passed for doing so, from horoscopes for the dead.
from Horoscopes for the Dead / by Billy Collins
But you will be relieved to learn
that you no longer need to reflect carefully before acting,
nor do you have to think more of others,
and never again will creative work take a back seat
to the business responsibilities that you never really had.
For a Monday without bells, and for a seat at my home desk, my tutu mouse smiling to see a human in the seat and to hear Miles Davis play, as Mr. Davis always does if one just tunes in, from Picnic, Lightning.
from In the Room of a Thousand Miles / by Billy Collins
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.
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