Tonight, I'm still out of time. Still busy. Still tired. Still overworked. Yet, I need some poetry to keep me sane. Billy Collins poetry.
I have a love poem this evening. A Billy Collins love poem. That means there's not going to be a whole lot of "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day" or "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways." It's a poem about real love. Messy love. Love that recognizes limitations, that sees reality. It's also love that indulges in beauty and lyricism.
Saint Marty needs a little lyricism tonight.
Litany
by: Billy Collins
You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine...
-Jacques Crickillon
You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.
However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.
It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.
And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.
It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.
I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.
I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine.
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| I prefer white wine, myself |
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