August 4: "The Lodger," Depression-Era, Chronologically Privileged

Billy Collins repurposes his sword . . . 

The Lodger

by: Billy Collins

After I had beaten my sword into a ploughshare,

I beat my ploughshare into a hoe,

then beat the hoe into a fork,

which I used to eat my dinner alone.

And when I had finished dinner,

I beat my fork into a toothpick,

which I twirled on my lips

then flicked over a low stone wall

as I walked along the city river

under the clouds and stars,

quite happy but for the thought

that I should have beaten that toothpick into a shilling

so I could buy a newspaper to read

after climbing the stairs to my room.

Collins transforms a thing meant to harm/kill into things that sustain, nourish, and aid.  He plows and hoes with it, eats and picks clean his teeth with it.  Then he throws it over a stone wall.  Later, he regrets not pounding that toothpick into money to purchase a newspaper.

My parents were Depression-era babies, born right after the time the Stock Market crashed and the world started to starve.  My mother never wasted anything, especially when it came to food.  My dad hoarded everything.  In our garage, he had several shelves jammed with jars of screws and nuts and bolts, all sorted and organized.  When my dad died, he left behind an entire warehouse of stuff he just couldn't throw out.  Toilet tanks and seats.  Old Christmas trees and decorations.  I think there might have even been some used car tires.

My parents raised nine kids, too, so Mom and Dad really understood the motto "Waste not, want not."  I lucked out as the youngest of the family.  While my siblings had to wear hand-me-downs, I didn't.  Between my three brothers and myself came five sisters, so I didn't have to endure used clothing.  Some people may think that I was spoiled.  I prefer the term "chronologically privileged."  

Here's the thing, though:  I've got a Depression-era mentality when it comes to writing.  I never trash anything I write.  When I was a kid, I started keeping diaries.  I graduated to journals eventually.  I have boxes and boxes of these notebooks, but I've never gone back to reread any of them.

Maybe there are brilliant poems or short stories or essays in them.  Or maybe memories that I've blocked from my mind.  Perhaps a little pornography, especially in my high school diaries.  If someone ever decides to write my literary biography, that person will have plenty of primary source material to draw from.

There is a poem (one of the first I ever wrote) that I lost.  I even won an award for this poem when I was an undergraduate.  I know it is buried in a notebook in one of those boxes under my bed.  If you're reading this post many years from now, you need to find "In the Parking Lot at Bonanza."  (It may also be titled "Blueberries.") 

It's one of the best things Saint Marty's ever written.  He thinks.