November 5: "Delivery," Election Night, Compassion and Intelligence

Yes, it is election night.  Yes, I have been watching election returns since about 8 p.m.

No, I'm not going to comment on what's going on.  (I'm sure I will in the coming days, but not now.)  All I will say right now is that I'm still hoping compassion and intelligence prevails, not hatred and stupidity.  

Billy Collins wants his bad news to be gift-wrapped . . . 

Delivery

by: Billy Collins

Moon in the upper window,
shadow of my crooked pen on the page,
and I find myself wishing that the news of my death

might be delivered not by a dark truck
but by a child's attempt to draw that truck--
the long rectangular box of the trailer,

some lettering on the side,
then the protruding cab, the ovoid wheels,
maybe the inscrutable profile of a driver,

and puffs of white smoke
issuing from the tailpipe, drawn like flowers
and similar in their expressions to the clouds in the sky, only smaller.

Collins is sugar-coating death, making it wonderfully childlike, almost beautiful.

It has been raining all day long.  As I sit typing this post, I can still hear it coming down hard against the window behind me.  It's a pleasant, calming sound compared to what's being said on the television right now.  

That's all Saint Marty wants to say tonight.  If you are stressed, stop and listen to the rain. 

May 24: Still Tired, Billy Collins, "Delivery"

I'm still pretty tired tonight.  I've got most of my chores already done.  I've cleaned my house and gone for a run.  Pretty soon, I'm going to give my four-year-old a bath and get him ready for bed.  He didn't get a bath last night, so right now he smells like sweat and dirt and stubbornness.

I have a poem for you tonight from Billy Collins, former poet laureate of the United States.  The poem originally appeared in the magazine Subtropics and was reprinted in The Best American Poetry 2012.

Saint Marty needs a nap.

Delivery

by:  Billy Collins

Moon moving in the upper window,
shadow of the pen in my hand on the page--
I keep wishing that the news of my death

will be delivered by a little wooden truck
or a child's drawing of a truck
featuring the long rectangular box of the trailer,

with some lettering on the side,
then the protruding cab, the ovoid wheels,
maybe the inscrutable profile of a driver,

and of course puffs of white smoke
issuing from the tail pipe, drawn like flowers
and similar in their expression to the clouds in the sky only smaller.

As my son says, "Beep!  Beep!"