My good friend, Carolyn, sent me this note in an email this morning. It’s shareable, so I’m sharing it here.
Good morning, Kate.
I bought a book of poetry by Billy Collins because you said you liked his work. And yesterday I read his poem about “The Trouble with Poetry”, and it made my head tingle.
I like that feeling, so I’m sending a bit of the poem to you even though you probably read it years ago. Still, good poems are like old friends if only because they reward contact with something familiar and something unexpected.
… the trouble with poetry is
That it encourages the writing of more poetry,
More guppies crowding the fish tank…
And how will it ever end?
Unless the day finally arrives
When we have compared everything in the world
To everything else in the world
And there is nothing left to do
But quietly close our notebooks
And sit with our hands folded on our desks.
Poetry fills me with joy
And I rise like a feather in the wind.
Poetry fills me with sorrow
And I sink like chain flung from a bridge
But mostly poetry fills me
With the urge to write poetry
To sit in the dark and wait for a little flame
To appear at the tip of my pencil….
I’ll start today’s writing with that image in my head. It got there because I (belatedly) took your suggestion. And I’m grateful. Write on!
Not interested in grumpy poems, even if they fit the weather — which today’s would, had I chosen to post a grumpy poem.
Didn’t. Chose instead this one, by Billy Collins. Because it fits my optimism that soon we’ll see the sun again.
It’s St. Patrick’s Day, so I wanted to post a poem by an Irish writer. This guy counts, though he was born in the U.S.
When I read something beautiful about Canada, I want to share it. Like this poem, by the gifted Billy Collins.