July 10: "Eastern Standard Time," Concert, Poetry and Art and Music

Billy Collins meditates on time . . . 

Eastern Standard Time

by: Billy Collins

Poetry speaks to all people, it is said,

but here I would like to address

only those in my own time zone,

this proper slice of longitude

that runs from pole to snowy pole

down the globe through Montreal to Bogota.

Oh, fellow inhabitants of this singular band,

sitting up in your many beds this morning--

the sun falling through the windows

and casting a shadow on the sundial--

consider those in other zones who cannot hear these words.

They are not slipping into a bathrobe as were are,

or following the smell of coffee in a timely fashion.

Rather, they are at work already,

leaning on copy machines,

hammering nails into a house frame.

They are not swallowing a vitamin like us,

rather they are smoking a cigarette under a half moon,

even jumping around on a dance floor,

or just now sliding under the covers,

pulling down the little chains on their bed lamps.

But we are not like these others,

for at this very moment on the face of the earth,

we are standing under a hot shower,

or we are eating our breakfast, 

considered by people of all zones

to be the most important meal of the day.

Later, when the time is right,

we might sit down with the boss,

wash the car, or linger at a candle-lit table,

but now is the hour for pouring the juice

and flipping the eggs with one eye on the toaster.

So let us slice a banana and uncap the jam, 

lift our brimming spoons of milk,

and leave it to the others to lower a flag

or spin absurdly in a barber's chair--

those antipodal oddballs, always early or late.

Let us praise Sir Stanford Fleming,

the Canadian genius who first scored

with these lines the length of the spinning earth.

Let us move together through the rest of this day

passing in unison from light to shadow,

coasting over the crest of noon,

into the valley of evening

and then, holding hands, slip into the deeper valley of night.

Time is precious.  That could be the title of this post.  

Here is a quick list of how I spent my time today:

1. Got an oil change for my car.
2. Wrote with a poet friend in her garden.
3. Worked on programs and publicity at the library.
4. Visited with a poet friend from Ohio.
5. Recorded a podcast episode.
6. Revised some poems.
7. Hosted a concert.

Three items from the above list filled up my soul tank (which has been running on empty for the last couple weeks).

Writing with my poet friend always restores me.  Writing with her in her flower garden, even more so.  As I sat on her swing, scribbling in my journal, white petals from her mock orange tree kept snowing down on me.  I could hear ducks quacking, dogs barking, and cars passing.  A blessing.

Visiting with my poet friend from Ohio was an unexpected treat.  I didn't realize she was in town, and we had a wonderful conversation, catching up on each others' lives.  We both have a weakness for the British TV shows Portrait Artist of the Year and Landscape Artist of the Year, and we spent quite a bit of time discussing our love of art and painting.  A surprise blessing.

Music also restores my faith in the world, and the concert I hosted at the library tonight was by three of the most gifted, wonderful musicians/artists I know.  Brian, one of the band members, sang a song he wrote for his grandmother who recently passed.  Most of you know that I had a sister who died of lymphoma of the brain almost nine years ago now (hard to believe it's been that long--slippery time); in exactly one week, my sister would have turned 63 years old.  So, Brian's song really hit home this evening.  Another blessing.

Poetry and art and music.  Couldn't ask for better medicine.

Saint Marty is a very lucky person.