January 11: "Limits," Obscurity of Poets, Vulnerability

Billy Collins knows his . . . 

Limits

by:  Billy Collins

Even on a calm day

if you remain quiet

and hold your breath,

you still will not

be able to hear

the singing of the clouds.

It has been one of those days for me.  Quietly busy.  Testing my limits.  I worked from 7:30 in the morning until about 8:30 at night.  Things that filled my time:  writing a $20,000 grant and a meeting of poets.

I love collective nouns.  A skulk of foxes  Colony of bats.  Charm of finches.  Cast of hawks.  Quiver of cobras.  Troubling of goldfish.  The accepted term for a gathering of poets is a "circle."  Compared to a flamboyance of flamingos, a circle of poets or poets circle is kinda . . . boring.

I have found some interesting alternatives.  A quire of poets.  Contest of poets.  Resplendence of poets.  Stanza of poets.  Rhyme of poets.  Iamb of poets.  And (one of my favorites) an obscurity of poets.  

I do love meeting with my poet friends.  They're a diverse group.  Different ages and backgrounds.  Yet, one thing unites us all--acceptance.  It doesn't matter who you are, or how experienced, when you step into the room, you are a poet.  Period.

I've taught poetry to a lot of people, from kindergartners to high schoolers to senior citizens. I usually hear one thing come out of every person's mouth:  "I'm not really a poet."  And my response to that statement is "Bullshit."  (Of course, I don't quite phrase it like that for kindergartners.  Contrary to popular belief, I don't like making children cry.)  Everyone has an inner poet.

Poets are people who notice things to which other people don't pay much attention.  A glint of sunlight igniting an autumn maple leaf.  A snapping turtle pacing across a summer lawn.  A quiet wind that seems to be whispering words you need to hear.  Or the singing of clouds.  

Anybody can see and hear and feel these things, but poets go out of the way to take note of them.  Seek them out.  Each day is a hunting expedition for normal, ordinary, everyday miracles.  You don't necessarily have to remain quiet or hold your breath to experience them.  It's more a matter of opening yourself up.

However, it's not easy remaining that open and exposed.  To stand in the backyard, weeping at the sound of loons at dusk.  Bury your feet in the sand and let waves touch you in ways that human hands can't.  Or gaze up at a flock of clouds on a windless day and listen so hard you can hear the music of their molecules.  To be that open requires a vulnerability most people don't feel comfortable experiencing.

Except poets.

Everyone should have an obscurity of poets to hang with.  The world would be a much kinder, gentler place.  There would still be pain and anger and loss, but there would also be more love and understanding and compassion to balance things out.  

And, at night, clouds would lullaby us to sleep.

My name is Saint Marty, and I'm a poet.