Monday
by: Billy Collins
The birds are in their trees,
the toast is in the toaster,
and the poets are at their windows.
They are at their windows
in every section of the tangerine of earth--
the Chinese poets looking up at the moon,
the American poets gazing out
at the pink and blue ribbons of sunrise.
The clerks are at their desks,
the miners are down in their mines,
and the poets are looking out their windows
maybe with a cigarette, a cup of tea,
and maybe a flannel shirt or bathrobe is involved.
The proofreaders are playing the ping-pong
game of proofreading,
glancing back and forth from page to page,
the chefs are dicing celery and potatoes,
and the poets are at their windows
because it is their job for which
they are paid nothing every Friday afternoon.
Which window it hardly seems to matter
though many have a favorite,
for there is always something to see--
a bird grasping a thin branch,
the headlights of a taxi rounding a corner,
those two boys in wool caps angling across the street.
The fishermen bob in their boats,
the linemen climb their round poles,
the barbers wait by their mirrors and chairs,
and the poets continue to stare
at the cracked birdbath or a limb knocked down by the wind.
By now, it should go without saying
that what the oven is to the baker
and the berry-stained blouse to the dry cleaner,
so the window is to the poet.
Just think--
before the invention of the window,
the poets would have had to put on a jacket
and a winter hat to go outside
or remain indoors with only a wall to stare at.
And when I say a wall,
I do not mean a wall with striped wallpaper
and a sketch of a cow in a frame.
I mean a cold wall of fieldstones,
the wall of the medieval sonnet,
the original woman's heart of stone,
the stone caught in the throat of her poet-lover.
As a poet, I've done my fair share of window-gazing. It goes with the territory--observing, noting, interpreting, capturing with words the ineffable world.
Right now, I'm sitting on my living room couch, typing this post. Behind me, a large picture window that provides a view of the bushes and tries along the side of my house. On early mornings in summer, all manners of birds sit in the branches and beat my alarm clock in waking me up with their singing.
However, this morning, I didn't need a window. One of my best poet friends invited me to sit in her garden and write with her. So, a little after sunrise, there I was, scribbling away in my journal under the white petals of a mock orange tree. It felt kind of sacred to me, surrounded by flowers, listening to the world wake up. Dogs barking. A jogger slapping by on the sidewalk. Cars gliding down the street, on their way to jobs or schools or beaches.
My friend and I talked about how poets interact with the world differently than other people. While everyone else focuses on the forest, we focus on the holes in the maple leaves. Others concentrate on the rainstorm--we concentrate on the steak sizzle of the rain hitting the sidewalk. It's a matter of metonymy, letting a part represent the whole. Poets are great at it.
When my day starts with a little metonymy, I always feel more relaxed and centered. If it occurs in a flower garden, even better. And if it involves one of my best friends, it's nirvana.
Saint Marty is still a little blissed out.
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