Names silent in stone Or cried out behind a door. Names blown over the earth and out to sea. In the evening — weakening light, the last swallows. A boy on a lake lifts his oars. A woman by a window puts a match to a candle, And the names are outlined on the rose clouds — Vanacore and Wallace, let X stand, if it can, for the ones unfound Then Young and Ziminsky, the final jolt of Z.
Names etched on the head of a pin. One name spanning a bridge, another undergoing a tunnel. A blue name needled into the skin. Names of citizens, workers, mothers and fathers, The bright-eyed daughter, the quick son. Alphabet of names in a green field. Names in the small tracks of birds. I mean a cold wall of fieldstones, the wall of the medieval sonnet, the original woman's heart of stone, the stone caught in the throat of her poet-lover.
Posted by Liz Busby at PM. Liz, I had no idea you got married. Contrats - belated. Glad you're doing so well. We miss all of you up there. I love that poem. I'd say it pretty well sums it up how when writers look like they are doing nothing, they are actually doing very hard work - the work of thought. It is too bad deep and difficult thought looks the same as no thought at all. I find that when I get stuck in my writing I have to go do household chores for about 5 minutes.
And someone said something to the effect that no one needs more drinks of water than a writer sitting down to write. Keep it up! Poems for Kids. Poetry for Teens. Lesson Plans. Resources for Teachers.
Academy of American Poets. American Poets Magazine. Poets Search more than 3, biographies of contemporary and classic poets. Billy Collins —. There is only true relationship. On Turning Ten The whole idea of it makes me feel like I'm coming down with something, something worse than any stomach ache or the headaches I get from reading in bad light-- a kind of measles of the spirit, a mumps of the psyche, a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul. You tell me it is too early to be looking back, but that is because you have forgotten the perfect simplicity of being one and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.
But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit. At four I was an Arabian wizard. I could make myself invisible by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.
At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince. But now I am mostly at the window watching the late afternoon light. Back then it never fell so solemnly against the side of my tree house, and my bicycle never leaned against the garage as it does today, all the dark blue speed drained out of it. This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself, as I walk through the universe in my sneakers.
It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends, time to turn the first big number. It seems only yesterday I used to believe there was nothing under my skin but light. If you cut me I could shine. But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life, I skin my knees.
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