Showing posts with label So many trees. Show all posts
Showing posts with label So many trees. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
So is this going to be a blog wherein I just post poems by other people?
Possibly.
But I just have to share this Billy Collins poem featured in today's Writer's Almanac. I spent all last night, tossing and turning because I couldn't remember the name of the tree I planted in the backyard a few summers ago--even though I planted it in the memory of a friend who loved this variety and even though it is a stunningly common tree and even though I have known the name of this tree for ALL MY LIFE. No wonder this poem speaks to me.
Forgetfulness
by Billy Collins
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 of,
as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.
Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,
something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.
Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.
It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.
No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.
But I just have to share this Billy Collins poem featured in today's Writer's Almanac. I spent all last night, tossing and turning because I couldn't remember the name of the tree I planted in the backyard a few summers ago--even though I planted it in the memory of a friend who loved this variety and even though it is a stunningly common tree and even though I have known the name of this tree for ALL MY LIFE. No wonder this poem speaks to me.
Forgetfulness
by Billy Collins
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 of,
as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.
Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,
something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.
Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.
It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.
No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Commitment (and also a plea for Christmas sweaters)
So here's the deal. All of a sudden I have IDEAS! For novels! Lots and lots of novels!
This is really, really unusual for me. I'm the kind of writer who's always sure that this will be my last post. Or column. Or article. Or novel. BECAUSE I WILL NEVER EVER HAVE ANOTHER IDEA! Yup. That's right. I'm positive that the old Idea Well will have gone dry the next time I go drilling. But for some reason right now, baby, I am Jed Clampett striking oil. And that's (kind of) my problem right now. To mix my metaphors here, I don't know which idea I should persue, commit to, marry, have a kid with, etc. Because I think that's what you should do. Commit. Otherwise you'll end up chasing possibilities and never eally setling down to anything. Still. It's hard. Because yes. There are just a LOT of good-lookin' ideas out there . . .
On another completely unrelated note I went to the Festival of Trees with my friend Doni this weekend. AND I wore a Christmas Sweater, which takes a certain amount of confidence these days because they're always telling you on HOW NOT TO DRESS that no one except the elderly and first-grade teachers should wear holiday sweaters in public. But come on. Who can resist a turquoise sweater with pink and lime green applique snowmen on sale for half-price at Smith's Marketplace?
Not me, apparently.
This is really, really unusual for me. I'm the kind of writer who's always sure that this will be my last post. Or column. Or article. Or novel. BECAUSE I WILL NEVER EVER HAVE ANOTHER IDEA! Yup. That's right. I'm positive that the old Idea Well will have gone dry the next time I go drilling. But for some reason right now, baby, I am Jed Clampett striking oil. And that's (kind of) my problem right now. To mix my metaphors here, I don't know which idea I should persue, commit to, marry, have a kid with, etc. Because I think that's what you should do. Commit. Otherwise you'll end up chasing possibilities and never eally setling down to anything. Still. It's hard. Because yes. There are just a LOT of good-lookin' ideas out there . . .
On another completely unrelated note I went to the Festival of Trees with my friend Doni this weekend. AND I wore a Christmas Sweater, which takes a certain amount of confidence these days because they're always telling you on HOW NOT TO DRESS that no one except the elderly and first-grade teachers should wear holiday sweaters in public. But come on. Who can resist a turquoise sweater with pink and lime green applique snowmen on sale for half-price at Smith's Marketplace?
Not me, apparently.
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