I often say that, if you are a poet, you're surrounded by poetry. I have a poet friend who, in her birthday messages to me, says, "Happy birthday! Now go write about it!" I laugh every time, and then I start thinking about my next poem or blog post or essay.
This evening, on a night-time walk, I saw a mountain ash tree still filled with orange berries, each cluster capped with snow, and I took out my camera to save the image. This perfect clash of summer and winter. Now, I'm writing this blog post about it.
Billy Collins is surrounded by possibilities . . .
The Suggestion Box
by: Billy Collins
at the coffee shop as it turned out
when the usual waitress said
I’ll bet you’re going to write a poem about this
after she had knocked a cup of coffee into my lap.
Then later in the morning I was told
by a student that I should write a poem
about the fire drill that was going on
as we all stood on the lawn outside our building.
In the afternoon a woman I barely knew
said you could write a poem about that,
pointing to a dirigible that was passing overhead.
And if all that were not enough,
a friend turned to me as we walked past
a man whose face was covered with tattoos
and said, I see poem coming!
Why is everyone being so helpful?
I wondered that evening by the shore of a lake.
Maybe I should write a poem
about all the people who think
they know what I should be writing poems about.
It was just then in the fading light that I spotted
a pair of ducks emerging
from a cluster of reeds to paddle out to open water,
the female glancing back over her russet shoulder
just in time to see me searching my pockets for a pen.
I knew it, she quacked, with a bit of a brogue.
But who can blame you for following your heart?
she went on.
Now, go write a lovely poem about me and the mister.
If you're wondering whether I'm constantly looking for poem ideas, the answer to that question is "yes" and "no." Yes, I'm a person who watches for small moments of wonder and astonishment all day long. I keep my eyes open for sunrises, beautiful leaves, white caps on Lake Superior, or a cobweb breathing in the corner. No, I don't write a poem about each of those small moments, because I need to work, eat, walk, love. There are so many poems begging to be written.
It is Thanksgiving Eve, and tomorrow, I will be walking a Turkey trot, drinking mimosas, and cooking a turkey dinner. It's going to be a full day, with plenty of grace and wonder to be had. I will say that Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays (not because I buy into the bullshit narrative of a friendly colonial feast between pilgrims and Indigenous people). I just appreciate getting together with people I love, eating, laughing, and telling stories. That is a great wonder.
I give thanks tonight for the deep breath of the coming day. Yes, I may write a poem about eating turkey or walking in the snow with my puppy, or I may not. There are people right now who are dealing with loss and grief, as well. I may write about poem about that, or I may not.
Whatever tomorrow brings, Saint Marty is blessed with love in his life, and that just may be poem enough for him.
