Forgetfulness

I was recently asked to recite my favorite poem. hmmm...my first favorite poet (who inevitably will have to be my last favorite poet - due to the poeticalness of such unwavering certainty) was Billy Collins. Introduced to him my sophomore year of college by my poetical pal Perrin, I have taken great comfort in one of his poems in particular. It reminds me of the universal fate of forgetfulness - so when I cannot recall even a single stanza of this beloved poem, I smile, knowing I probably never will. ;)

An Excerpt

from Spring Lemonade

In late April they spread manure on the fields
the same week the lilac hedges bloom,
so the nose gets one of those symphonic challenges
that require you to stand out on the porch and breathe.

The earth goes around a corner, the dresser drawers slide out
and naturally, we change our clothes,
putting the long underwear away,
taking out the short-sleeve shirts,

trying to make the transition
from psychological Moscow
to psychological Hawaii...

...Last night the sunset was so pink and swollen
the sky looked like it had gotten an infection.

We were sitting on the lawn and sipping lemonade.
Inflamed clouds were throbbing in the feverish light.
Shannon murmured, Somebody better call a doctor.
Kath said, Someboday get some aspirin.
But nobody moved.

And the smell of lilacs and manure blew out of the fields
with such complexity and sweetness, we closed our eyes.
It had nothing to do with being good, or smart, or choosing right.
It had to do with being lucky--
something none of us had ever imagined.

Tony Hoagland

Drawing Class

If you ever asked me
how my drawing classes are going.

I would tell you that I enjoy
adhering to the outline of a thing.

to follow the slope of an individual pear
or the curve of a glossy piano.

And I love trailing my hand
over the smooth membrane of bond,

the intelligent little trinity
of my fingers gripping the neck of the pencil

while the other two dangle below
like the fleshy legs of a tiny swimmer.

I would add that I can get lost
crosshatching the shadow of a chair

or tracing and retracing
the slight undercarriage of a breast.

We all started with the box and the ball
then moved on to the cup and the lamp,

the serrated leaf, the acorn with its cap.
But I want to graduate to the glass decanter

and learn how to immobilize in lead
translucent curtains lifted in the air.

I want to draw
four straight lines that will connect me

to the four points of the compass,
to the bright spires of cities,

the overlapping trellises,
the turning spokes of the world.

One day I want to draw freehand
a continuous figure

that will begin with me
when the black tip touches the paper

and end with you when it is lifted
and set down beside a luminous morning window.

- Billy Collins, The Trouble With Poetry