More Billy Collins

Another wonderful little poem... My lanyard wearing mom was born on this day in 1922. I miss her every day. The Lanyard by Billy Collins The other day I was ricocheting slowly off the blue walls of this room, moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano, from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor, when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard. No cookie nibbled by a French novelist could send one into the past more suddenly— a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp by a deep Adirondack lake learning how to braid long thin plastic strips into a lanyard, a gift for my mother. I had never seen anyone use a lanyard or wear one, if that’s what you did with them, but that did not keep me from crossing strand over strand again and again until I had made a boxy red and white lanyard for my mother. She gave me life and milk from her breasts, and I gave her a lanyard. She nursed me in many a sick room, lifted spoons of medicine to my lips, laid cold face-cloths on my forehead, and then led me out into the airy light and taught me to walk and swim, and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard. Here are thousands of meals, she said, and here is clothing and a good education. And here is your lanyard, I replied, which I made with a little help from a counselor. Here is a breathing body and a beating heart, strong legs, bones and teeth, and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered, and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp. And here, I wish to say to her now, is a smaller gift—not the worn truth that you can never repay your mother, but the rueful admission that when she took the two-tone lanyard from my hand, I was as sure as a boy could be that this useless, worthless thing I wove out of boredom would be enough to make us even.

Billy Collins

The History Teacher When I saw the story that Idaho's State School Superintendent Tom Luna had pulled a pop history quiz on lawmakers on the legislature's education committees, and that 17% couldn't name the year Idaho became a state and that 15% didn't know Lewiston was the original capital, I thought immediately of Billy Collins' wonderful little poem - The History Teacher. Trying to protect his students' innocence he told them the Ice Age was really just the Chilly Age, a period of a million years when everyone had to wear sweaters. And the Stone Age became the Gravel Age, named after the long driveways of the time. The Spanish Inquisition was nothing more than an outbreak of questions such as "How far is it from here to Madrid?" "What do you call the matador's hat?" The War of the Roses took place in a garden, and the Enola Gay dropped one tiny atom on Japan. The children would leave his classroom for the playground to torment the weak and the smart, mussing up their hair and breaking their glasses, while he gathered up his notes and walked home past flower beds and white picket fences, wondering if they would believe that soldiers in the Boer War told long, rambling stories designed to make the enemy nod off.

Idaho became a state in 1890, by the way.

The Poetry of Cities

Carl Sandburg and Downtowns It is the birthday of the poet and Lincoln biographer Carl Sandburg born January 6, 1878 in Galesburg, Illinois. Twice winner of the Pulitzer - The War Years about Lincoln's presidency won the award in 1940 and his Complete Poems won in 1951 - Sandburg is often dismissed today as too much the sentimentalist. Perhaps that is why I like him very much. I thought of Sandburg's poems about Chicago and Omaha and other cities this morning while absorbing the news that downtown economic mainstays - big Macy's department stores - in Missoula and Boise are soon to close. As Idaho Statesman reporter Tim Woodward noted, the Boise store was a fixture in the heart of Idaho's Capitol City for decades; a meeting place, a lunchtime destination. Such icons are hard - impossible perhaps - to replace. Boise once had five downtown department stores. Now it will have none. Boise and Missoula are still among the most attractive downtowns in the west, but big, old time department stores are magnets for people and help support other small merchants and one hates to see them close and you wonder what can possibly fill the void. But, back to Sandburg. The editor of a recent collection of Sandburg's poetry, Paul Berman, told NPR a while back that the writer was inspired by cities: "His genius, his inspiration in [the Chicago] poem and some others, was to look around the streets, at the billboards and the advertising slogans, and see in those things a language," Berman says. "And he was able to figure out that this language itself contained poetry." There is poetry in great cities and, yes, a yearning for the variety and uniqueness of downtowns where people gather, things happen and the look and culture is much different - and vastly more interesting - than a strip mall or suburban shopping destination surrounded by acres of parking. In one of my favorite Sandburg poems - Limited - the narrator is headed to a city, or at least a final destination. I am riding on a limited express, one of the crack trains of the nation. Hurtling across the prairie into blue haze and dark air go fifteen all-steel coaches holding a thousand people. (All the coaches shall be scrap and rust and all the men and women laughing in the diners and sleepers shall pass to ashes.) I ask a man in the smoker where he is going and he answers: "Omaha." Read some Sandburg. This is a great site to sample some of his enduring work.

The Choice

The Greatest Poet... For me the answer is easy - W.B. Yeats. In December 1923, nearly 86 years ago, Yeats won the Nobel Prize for literature and made much of the fact that the recognition came shortly after Ireland had gained independence. His recognition, Yeats contended, was an acknowledgement of the quality of Irish literature. Perhaps, but Yeats was an immense talent. In fact, his greatest work - lyrical, beautiful poetry - came after he received the big prize that had been awarded largely for his work as a playwright. One of my favorites poems is called The Choice: The intellect of man is forced to choose Perfection of the life, or of the work, And if it take the second must refuse A heavenly mansion, raging in the dark. When all that story's finished, what's the news? In luck or out the toil has left its mark: That old perplexity an empty purse, Or the day's vanity, the night's remorse.

I also like Yeats because he was a man of the world, indeed he served in the Irish Senate where he became a major voice celebrating Irish culture.

Pour a little Irish whiskey on a cold November night and open Yeats' collected works. You'll find some magic.

All Souls

A Day of Remembrance

On All Souls Day, a remembrance of those we love and live among us in memory, two poems by John Updike and W.B. Yeats.

I can't get this little Updike poem - one of his last - out of my head and, on this crisp fall day of remembrance, it once again seems particularly appropriate. It came to me the other day: Were I to die, no one would say, "Oh, what a shame! So young, so full Of promise - depths unplumable!" Instead, a shrug and tearless eyes Will greet my overdue demise; The wide response will be, I know, "I thought he died a while ago." For life's a shabby subterfuge, And death is real, and dark, and huge, The shock of it will register Nowhere but where it will occur. - John Updike from "Endpoint and Other Poems"

And Yeats's - All Souls' Night

Epilogue to “A Vision’ Midnight has come, and the great Christ Church Bell And may a lesser bell sound through the room; And it is All Souls’ Night, And two long glasses brimmed with muscatel Bubble upon the table. A ghost may come; For it is a ghost’s right, His element is so fine Being sharpened by his death, To drink from the wine-breath While our gross palates drink from the whole wine.

The rest of the All Souls' Night is here: