July 2: "You, Reader," Conversation, Exhilarating and Terrifying

No more short poems from Billy Collins, as I finished that collection (Musical Tables) with yesterday's post. So, the poems from this point forward will be coming from The Trouble with Poetry and Other Poems, starting with . . .

You, Reader

by: Billy Collins

I wonder how you are going to feel

when you find out

that I wrote this instead of you,

that it was I who got up early

to sit in the kitchen

and mention with a pen

the rain-soaked window,

the ivy wallpaper,

and the goldfish circling in its bowl.

Go ahead and turn aside,

bite your lip and tear out the page,

but, listen--it was just a matter of time

before one of us happened 

to notice the unlit candles

and the clock humming on the wall.

Plus, nothing happened that morning--

a song on the radio,

a car whistling along the road outside--

and I was only thinking 

about the shakers of salt and pepper

that were standing side by side on a place mat.

I wondered if they had become friends

after all these years

or if they were still strangers to one another

like you and I

who manage to be known and unknown

to each other at the same time--

me at this table with a bowl of pears,

you leaning in a doorway somewhere

near some blue hydrangeas, reading this.

I often wonder about my readers and how they respond to what I've written, like Collins does in this poem.  Writers want to be read.  Period.  The very act of committing words to a page or screen is an exchange.  A conversation, if you will.

The very best writers, for me, are the ones who express an idea that's not only completely original, but also completely recognizable.  Many times, I've read poems that just takes my breath away with their truths.  It's the whole "Damn, I wish I'd written that" syndrome.  

I spent most of today editing a podcast episode and cobbling together another manuscript of poems.  The podcast is done.  The book?  Not so much.  It's in an early, gestational stage.  I'm not really sure what it is yet, which is exhilarating and terrifying at once.

Faithful disciples of this blog know that I don't let go of poems easily.  I revise.  Then, I revise the revision.  And, just for good measure, I revise the revision of the revision.  That's why it has taken me so long to release my second poetry collection.

It's been windy and rainy most of the day.  I'm waiting for the storms to reignite.  Not planning on writing a new poem this evening.  Too tired creatively.  Instead, I'm going to read some Garrison Keillor.  Then, bed.  (Not very exciting, I know.)

Saint Marty promises to be more exciting tomorrow.