In the early, but not quiet, morning
cars whoosh south and north on
Indian Trail Road.
I will be piloting one of them soon enough,
but until then
jasmine tea and a mechanical pencil
are my company.
The poet Billy Collins tilts my world every time I read one or two or four of his poems. I find myself wanting to crawl inside his life and feel what it's like to be him, sitting at an old wooden desk, gazing through a slightly dusty window across the garden and into the woods. What it's like to have the beginnings of a poem form in his mind and spill onto the page, then shape itself into something simultaneously so knowable and exquisitely surprising.
Maybe his desk isn't wooden or old, maybe he lives in a city, maybe the crafting of his work is excruciating.
But I don't really believe that. The excruciating part, anyway. I think Billy Collins is filled with joy when he writes. Not that all his work is joyful, he certainly explores themes of loss and melancholy, but the underlying feel of the six collections I've read is one of downright fun.
The first seven lines of this post are vaguely reminiscent of a Collins poem, my attempt to describe the ordinary in a fresh, but recognizable way. More than that, it is my attempt to start writing. This morning's first words, this month's first lines.
I am the one who finds the act of writing excruciating. As well as not writing one of my biggest sources of angst. It has been six weeks since visiting these pages. Long enough I must apologize to my readers. But more so. To myself.
cars whoosh south and north on
Indian Trail Road.
I will be piloting one of them soon enough,
but until then
jasmine tea and a mechanical pencil
are my company.
The poet Billy Collins tilts my world every time I read one or two or four of his poems. I find myself wanting to crawl inside his life and feel what it's like to be him, sitting at an old wooden desk, gazing through a slightly dusty window across the garden and into the woods. What it's like to have the beginnings of a poem form in his mind and spill onto the page, then shape itself into something simultaneously so knowable and exquisitely surprising.
Maybe his desk isn't wooden or old, maybe he lives in a city, maybe the crafting of his work is excruciating.
But I don't really believe that. The excruciating part, anyway. I think Billy Collins is filled with joy when he writes. Not that all his work is joyful, he certainly explores themes of loss and melancholy, but the underlying feel of the six collections I've read is one of downright fun.
The first seven lines of this post are vaguely reminiscent of a Collins poem, my attempt to describe the ordinary in a fresh, but recognizable way. More than that, it is my attempt to start writing. This morning's first words, this month's first lines.
I am the one who finds the act of writing excruciating. As well as not writing one of my biggest sources of angst. It has been six weeks since visiting these pages. Long enough I must apologize to my readers. But more so. To myself.
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