September 15: "Boy Shooting at a Statue," Unlimited Lives, Snapping Turtle

I think anyone can be a poet, just like anyone can be a computer programmer or firefighter or teacher.  We're only limited by our interests and passions.

When I was younger, I wanted to be Steven Spielberg, surround myself with whip-toting archeologists and heart-glowing extraterrestrials.  (I knew these things weren't real.  I just loved Spielberg's storytelling, how he could hold in a thrall a couple hundred people in a movie theater.)  When I was a little older, I wanted to be Stephen King, scaring the shit out of million of people with my words.

That's what kids do.  They imagine different lives for themselves--better, exciting, unlimited lives.

Billy Collins observes a young boy playing a game . . . 

Boy Shooting at a Statue

by: Billy Collins

It was late afternoon,
the beginning of winter, a light snow,
and I was the only one in the small park

to witness the lone boy running
in circles around the base of a bronze statue.
I could not read the carved name

of the statesman who loomed above,
one hand on his cold hip,
but as the boy ran, head down,

he would point a finger at the statue
and pull an imaginary trigger
imitating the sounds of rapid gunfire.

Evening thickened, the mercury sank,
but the boy kept running in the circle
of his footprints in the snow

shooting blindly into the air.
History will never find a way to end,
I thought, as I left the park by the north gate

and walked slowly home
returning to the station of my desk
where the sheets of paper I wrote on

were like pieces of glass
through which I could see
hundreds of dark birds circling in the sky below.

The boy in this poem may be imagining that he's a cowboy or soldier or frontiersman.  I don't think he's pretending to be a poet.  That job belongs to Collins, who walks home, sits at his desk, and begins to write.

Believe it or not, from a pretty young age, I abandoned ideas of being launched into outer space or saving a baby from a burning building or sitting in the Oval Office.  Of course, when I told my mom that I wanted to be a writer, she supported my ambition, but also encouraged me to get a degree in computer programming for something to fall back on.

Thank goodness, I haven't had to fall back.  Yet.  

Yes, I'm a published writer.  That was my dream.  Still is.  I'm sort of like a snapping turtle--I latched onto the idea and never let go.  This life may not have brought me a ton of money, but it has brought me a ton of happiness. 

Saint Marty couldn't have asked for more than that.