Monday, August 9, 2010

POEM OF THE DAY BY BILLY COLLINS

Morning


Why do we bother with the rest of the day,
the swale of the afternoon,
the sudden dip into evening,

then night with his notorious perfumes,
his many-pointed stars?

This is the best—
throwing off the light covers,
feet on the cold floor,
and buzzing around the house on espresso—

maybe a splash of water on the face,
a palmful of vitamins—
but mostly buzzing around the house on espresso,

dictionary and atlas open on the rug,
the typewriter waiting for the key of the head,
a cello on the radio,

and, if necessary, the windows—
trees fifty, a hundred years old
out there,
heavy clouds on the way
and the lawn steaming like a horse
in the early morning.


-Billy Collins


3 comments:

  1. "ooo, i'm a laureate with nothing better to do than drink coffee in the morning and contemplate my personal affects...i don't even remember how i got here...ooo, it's nice being a poet"

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  2. Yeah, but I can relate too, and I'm just an obscure scribbler from Missouri--The Poet Laureate of Jack Shit. I like it!

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