December 4, 2024: "Here and There," Best Poet Friends, Imagination

I spent some time this morning writing with one of my best poet friends.  Now, I didn't write anything of any worth, but it felt good simply to sit in the same room with her and be myself, without having to put on any masks.

Or I didn't do that.

Billy Collins goes sailing--or he doesn't . . . 

Here and There

by: Billy Collins

I feel nothing this morning 

except the low hum of the ego, 

a constant, shameless sound behind the rib cage. 

I even keep forgetting my friend in surgery 

at this very hour. 

In other words, a perfect time to write 

about clouds rolling in after a week of sun 

and a woman beating laundry on a rock 

in front of her house overlooking the sea— 

all of which I am making up— 

the clouds, the house, the woman, even the laundry. 

Or take the lights strung in a harbor 

that I once saw from the bow of a sailboat, 

which seemed unreal at the time and more unreal now. 

Even if I were there again at the ship’s railing 

as I am sitting here in a lawn chair, who would believe it? 

Vast maple tree above me, are you really there? 

and you, open cellar door, 

and you, vast sky with sun and a fading contrail— 

no more real than the pretend city 

where she lies now under the investigating lights, 

an imaginary surgeon busy 

breaking into the vault of her phantom skull.

This whole poem by Collins speaks to the power of the imagination.  Is that maple tree outside my window real, or have I invented it, imbued it with enough detail to make it alive?  Is Collins' friend really having brain surgery, or is Collins just embellishing once more?  And does it really matter?  It's still the truth.

A couple weeks ago, I fell asleep on my living room couch, and I woke up in the middle of night, swearing that I heard someone pounding on the front door of my house.  My puppy even growled at the sound.  I never checked to see if anyone was standing on my front step.  All I did was make sure the inside door to the house was locked.

Imagination is a powerful force.  In the Book of Genesis, God literally speaks everything into being.  He says the word, and suddenly there's light.  Earth.  Heavens.  Land.  Water,  Stars.  Birds.  Fish.  Beasts.  Adam.  Eve.  God writes a poem, coughs breath into it, and the poem becomes as real as the freckle on my left wrist.

So tonight, as a snowstorm rages outside--or doesn't--I'm grateful for my poet friend.  For the bad poems I wrote this morning with her.  They're still sitting in my journal, without any breath in their lungs.

Now, if only Saint Marty could simply say "Let there be happiness in my heart" and feel it fluttering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

February 24: Ali Baba, Lost in Books, Imagination

"Why, it's Ali Baba!" Scrooge exclaimed in ecstasy.  "It's dear old honest Ali Baba!  Yes, yes, I know!  One Christmas time, when yonder solitary child was left here all alone, he did come, for the first time, just like that.  Poor boy!  And Valentine," said Scrooge, "and his wild brother, Orson; there they go!  And what's his name, who was put down in his drawers, asleep, at the Gate of Damascus; don't you see him!  And the Sultan's Groom turned upside down by the Genii; there he is upon his head!  Serve him right.  I'm glad of it.  What business had he to be married to the Princess!"

Here is Scrooge gushing like a young schoolboy.  He's observing a younger version of himself, abandoned in an empty boarding school at Christmas time, and the younger Scrooge is obviously reading Arabian Nights, which, if memory serves, was one of Charles Dickens' favorite books.  Really, this passage is about the power of the imagination to transport a person out of a miserable life situation.  Scrooge speaks about these characters as if they are real people, good friends, who stop by for a visit.

I think that's one of the reasons why I became an English professor.  I love talking about books, teaching about writing.  I love gushing, sort of, like Scrooge does in this scene.  I'm sure I come across like some geek fanboy in the classroom sometimes.  Just give me a couple of hours to talk about a favorite book like A Christmas Carol or Slaughterhouse Five, and I'll have Ebenezer Scrooge or Billy Pilgrim sitting in the room with us, having a hot dog and talking politics.  That's the exciting part of the job.

For almost two months now, I've been writing about Scrooge at least once a day.  I feel as if I'm really getting under his skin.  I understand him when he's joyful and foolish, as in the above passage, and I'm beginning to understand him when he's cruel and vindictive, complaining about the surplus population.  Reading this book this closely is like reading Scrooge's blog.  He's becoming a flesh-and-blood person for me, as, I'm sure, long-time disciples of Saint Marty see me as a flesh-and-blood person, as well, even though we've never met (and probably never will).  That's the power of language and literature.

My best friend Sharon

I once had a workshop with the poet Sharon Olds.  For a week, I sat in the same room with her, listened to her talk about my poems, poetry in general, and life in general.  I went into the experience as the ultimate Sharon Olds geekboy.  I'd been a fan for years, had read all her books.  I felt like I was meeting a long lost relative.  It's an easy thing to do with Olds.  Her poetry is about such painfully personal experiences that being in the same room with her was like Scrooge being in the same room with Ali Baba.  It was all I could do not to invite her to my next birthday party.  That's the power of literature and writing and imagination.  Even though I'd never met her, she was one of my best friends.

So, if you think of me as one of your best friends, I'll take that as a compliment.  That means I'm connecting with you through my writing.  You and I have a shared experience.  That shared experience is language.  Through words, I'm standing in front of you right now, completely unclothed, baring everything.  There's an image for you.

Invite Saint Marty in for tea today.  Bake him some cookies.  He promises not to sit his naked ass on your sofa.