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Tag Archives: Billy Collins

The Causeway, Active April and A Poem

I enjoyed this that turned up this morning:

“In readiness for the Easter holidays and an influx of visitors, St Michael’s Mount has implemented radical new social distancing measures.Creating a one way system for those visiting the attraction, the ‘Coming Back Causeway’ has been built to ease congestion, and opens to the public today, Thursday April 1st.
Speaking at the opening ceremony this morning, Marizion parish councillor Mike Mount praised Cormac, saying: “The Coming Back Causeway, which looks almost identical to the original causeway, has been built with such efficiency that hardly anyone saw it happening.”  Mr Mount added: “A one-way system on the original causeway was trialed last summer, but was later abandoned after it emerged that visitors could not return from the island.”

Photo by Photojournalist Greg Martin

I like to pass on the Action for Happiness calendar each month. You can find more details here.

A kind friend dropped in some poems for me this afternoon. Here is one of them, new to me but by one of my favourite poets, Billy Collins, an American poet we once saw live in South Yorkshire. It is just one sentence  and I love it. I hope you do too.  Thank you very much, M.

Today

If ever there were a spring day so perfect,
so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze
that it made you want to throw
open all the windows in the house
and unlatch the door to the canary’s cage,
indeed, rip the little door from its jamb,
a day when the cool brick paths
and the garden bursting with peonies
seemed so etched in sunlight
that you felt like taking
a hammer to the glass paperweight
on the living room end table,
releasing the inhabitants
from their snow-covered cottage
so they could walk out,
holding hands and squinting
into this larger dome of blue and white,
well, today is just that kind of day.
We threw open the windows this morning while having breakfast and listened to the bird song instead of the radio. Bliss.
 

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Sunset, Garden Flowers and A Poem

Nearly sunset when I took this photo but then the clouds came in and there was no colour at all but I do like how this one worked.

The wind has beaten down several blooms but that is merely an opportunity to pick them and have them indoors.

We have had Spring-like sunshine and blue skies for four days, though accompanied by cold winds  and I was reminded of Billy Collins’ poem, Today. We look forward to the properly warm Spring days with the ‘intermittent warm breezes’ that make us ‘want to throw open all the windows.’   I love the idea of releasing the little inhabitants of the snow domes!

Today

If ever there were a spring day so perfect,
so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze
that it made you want to throw
open all the windows in the house
and unlatch the door to the canary’s cage,
indeed, rip the little door from its jamb,
a day when the cool brick paths
and the garden bursting with peonies
seemed so etched in sunlight
that you felt like taking
a hammer to the glass paperweight
on the living room end table,
releasing the inhabitants
from their snow-covered cottage
so they could walk out,
holding hands and squinting
into this larger dome of blue and white,
well, today is just that kind of day.
 

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A Poem For You Dear Readers

I couldn’t resist posting this for my readers and friends who are poets and for those of you who love poems as much as I do, even though it isn’t Monday and even though I am taking a break.  For Kim and Kari in particular.

Monday – Billy Collins

The birds are in their trees,
the toast is in the toaster,
and the poets are at their windows.

They are at their windows
in every section of the tangerine of earth-
the Chinese poets looking up at the moon,
the American poets gazing out
at the pink and blue ribbons of sunrise.

The clerks are at their desks,
the miners are down in their mines,
and the poets are looking out their windows
maybe with a cigarette, a cup of tea,
and maybe a flannel shirt or bathrobe is involved.

The proofreaders are playing the ping-pong
game of proofreading,
glancing back and forth from page to page,
the chefs are dicing celery and potatoes,
and the poets are at their windows
because it is their job for which
they are paid nothing every Friday afternoon.

Which window it hardly seems to matter
though many have a favorite,
for there is always something to see-
a bird grasping a thin branch,
the headlight of a taxi rounding a corner,
those two boys in wool caps angling across the street.

The fishermen bob in their boats,
the linemen climb their round poles,
the barbers wait by their mirrors and chairs,
and the poets continue to stareat the cracked birdbath or a limb knocked down by the wind.

By now, it should go without saying
that what the oven is to the baker
and the berry-stained blouse to the dry cleaner,
so the window is to the poet.

Just think-
before the invention of the window,
the poets would have had to put on a jacket
and a winter hat to go outside
or remain indoors with only a wall to stare at.

And when I say a wall,
I do not mean a wall with striped wallpaper
and a sketch of a cow in a frame.

I mean a cold wall of fieldstones,
the wall of the medieval sonnet,
the original woman’s heart of stone,
the stone caught in the throat of her poet-lover.

 
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Posted by on September 14, 2019 in poetry, Uncategorized

 

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Tomato Torte, Billy Collins and Daisies

1   A friend passed me this recipe that she had cut out of the paper, thinking I might like to try it and it is wonderful – it tastes as good as it looks! I’ll post up the recipe soon. It is vegetarian and could be gluten free very easily.

Tomato Torte

Tomato Torte

2   I first met the poetry of Billy Collins when he did a reading at a poetry event and I just loved what I heard.  This poem comes from ‘The Art of Drowning’ and I give you just the first verse. It kind of sums up my philosophy –  get the best out of every day – find the beauty that is all around you.  Look up the rest of the poem here – it is a delight.  The last stanza is especially pleasing.

Days 

Each one is a gift, no doubt,
mysteriously placed in your waking hand
or set upon your forehead
moments before you open your eyes.

3   Our wall daisies are an enormous mound of pink and white.

Daisy clump

Daisy clump

 

 

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