Billy Collins
The Best Cigarette
There are many that I miss Having sent my last one out a car window Sparking along the road one night, years ago. The heralded one, of course: After sex, the two glowing tips
Forgetfulness
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
Reading An Anthology Of Chinese Poems Of The Sung Dynasty, I Pause To Admire The Length And Clarity Of Their Titles
It seems these poets have nothing Up their ample sleeves They turn over so many cards so early, Telling us before the first line Whether it is wet or dry, Night or day, the
Study In Orange And White
I knew that James Whistler was part of the Paris scene, But I was still surprised when I found the painting Of his mother at the Musée d’Orsay Among all the colored dots and
I Chop Some Parsley While Listening To Art Blakey's Version Of "Three Blind Mice"
And I start wondering how they came to be blind. If it was congenital, they could be brothers and sister, And I think of the poor mother Brooding over her sightless young triplets. Or
The First Dream
The Wind is ghosting around the house tonight And as I lean against the door of sleep I begin to think about the first person to dream, How quiet he must have seemed the
Nostalgia
Remember the 1340’s? We were doing a dance called the Catapult. You always wore brown, the color craze of the decade, And I was draped in one of those capes that were popular, The
Walking Across The Atlantic
I wait for the holiday crowd to clear the beach Before stepping onto the first wave. Soon I am walking across the Atlantic Thinking about Spain, Checking for whales, waterspouts. I feel the water
Snow Day
Today we woke up to a revolution of snow, Its white flag waving over everything, The landscape vanished, Not a single mouse to punctuate the blankness, And beyond these windows The government buildings smothered,
Introduction To Poetry
I ask them to take a poem And hold it up to the light Like a color slide Or press an ear against its hive. I say drop a mouse into a poem And
The Only Day In Existence
The early sun is so pale and shadowy, I could be looking up at a ghost In the shape of a window, A tall, rectangular spirit Looking down at me in bed, About to
Nightclub
You are so beautiful and I am a fool To be in love with you Is a theme that keeps coming up In songs and poems. There seems to be no room for variation.
Marginalia
Sometimes the notes are ferocious, Skirmishes against the author Raging along the borders of every page In tiny black script. If I could just get my hands on you, Kierkegaard, or Conor Cruise O’Brien,
Madmen
They say you can jinx a poem If you talk about it before it is done. If you let it out too early, they warn, Your poem will fly away, And this time they
Shoveling Snow With Buddha
In the usual iconography of the temple or the local Wok You would never see him doing such a thing, Tossing the dry snow over a mountain Of his bare, round shoulder, His hair