The Lanyard — 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. Written by The name of the author is the first to gofollowed obediently by the title, the plot,the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novelwhich suddenly becomes one you have never read,never even heard of,as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbordecided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,to a little fishing village where there are no phones. So perhaps your book was aptly named after all. Collins often breaks away from work to play Adderly-mode jazz on a piano in the living room. So this is where the children hide all day,These are the nests where they letter and draw,where they put on their bright miniature jackets,all darting and climbing and sliding,all but the few girls whispering by the fence. Hm--is my love of all things Billy Collins finally fading, or is his poetry? Mama you will always be my first true love.
Having gotten this at a library, I think it's a great library book to see if you enjoy because no doubt some people will really enjoy and consider it a worthy add to their collection. Poems, for me, begin as a social engagement. He paints a picture that is so familiar, you can see it like you're looking at something you've seen a million times, like Mona Lisa. Why then do people not care about His authority; His wrath. Out of 13 poems, only one poem from a son to his mom? A lot of it has to do with tone because tone is the key signature for the poem. Even this morning would be an improvement over the present. At first one wonders what the poem will be about.
It feels like eatingthe same small, perfect grapeagain and again. Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen. It's like some people complaining about prose dialogue that doesn't have quotation marks. So when I see people slagging Billy Collins as middlebrow, I have to scratch my head because I don't know what highbrow poetry is supposed to be. The poems felt very flat, even for Billy Collins, who of course isn't trying to embellish. I found Billy Collins back in 2004 when he contacted teachers to participate in the , a poem a day for students in schools to be shared during daily announcements or posted on bulletin boards. 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.
Billy Collins is his usual, offhand self here, but the effort appears mailed in. Where has the summer of 1572 gone? And here is your lanyard, I replied, which I made with a little help from a counselor. I love Billy Collins: his unpretentious but evocative language, his light but subtly existential tones, his exactitude and thoughtfulness. Miss you much, love you forever! I make such material available in an effort to spread an appreciation of poetry for educational and recreational uses. Recommended I was in the poetry section of my local branch of the public library and I noticed they had a full complement of books by Billy Collins. Sunsets and sunrises seen on the same day.
I want to establish a kind of sociability or even hospitality at the beginning of a poem. I could have blathered on about how my students used to always discover that they liked poetry after I introduced them to you. I saw that look that you gave me, Billy Collins, when I said nothing as you signed my book. Wonderful, funny, poignant - all at the same time. And now he dives,disappears below the surface,and while I wait for him to pop up,I picture him flying underwater with his strange wings,as I picture you, my tiny mother,who disappeared last year,flying somewhere with your strange wings,your wide eyes, and your heavy wet dress,kicking deeper down into a lakewith no end or name, some boundless province of water. Since April is poetry month, I decided to share one of my favorite poets, Billy Collins.
Billy Collins may be the only person saving poetry from popular death. It has floated away down a dark mythological river whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall, well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle. Actually, they are the real artists,you said, spinning the ice in your glass. And when the dog looks up at me,I kneel down on the floorand whisper it into each of his long white ears. This is the best kind of love, I thought, without recompense, without gifts, or unkind words, without suspicion, or silence on the telephone. After I do a few drafts, I type up the poem on a Macintosh G3 and then send it out the door. The only distraction was line spacing to divide poems into three line stanzas for ease of legibility more A nice relaxed collection of poetry that often made me smile with its randomness.
I say, Get rid of it. No wonder the moon in the window seems to have driftedout of a love poem that you used to know by heart. No wonder you rise in the middle of the night to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war. The poems felt very flat, even for Billy Collins, who of course isn't trying to embellish. She was the one who taught me to read by reading to me. Like the speaker in the poem, I have given my mother a lanyard I made during day camp.
And here is your lanyard, I replied, which I made with a little help from a counselor. Our collars were high and our hats were extremely soft. And if any of you are curiousabout where this aggregation,this whole battery-powered crew,is headed, let us just saythat the real center of the universe,the only true point of view,is full of hope that he,the hub of the cosmoswith his hair blown sideways,will eventually make it all the way downtown. Another great collection from an American treasure. It makes the world go round, and even when our loved ones are gone, is still as present as that lanyard buried somewhere in a drawer in the house.
He lives in Somers, New York. Collins said in an interview some years ago that the subject of most poems is death. 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. When I realized that all these places could still be in business on the day after I die, I vowed to drink more water, to eat more fresh fruits and vegetables, and to start going to the gym I never go to if only to outlive Balloon Designs by Pauline and maybe even Pauline herself though it would be enough if she simply lost the business and left town for good. I once imagined English placing flowers at the tombstones of its parents, Latin and Anglo- Saxon, but you people can actually visit its grave on a Sunday afternoon if you still have days of the week. She nursed me in many a sick room, lifted spoons of medicine to my lips, laid cold face-clothes on my forehead, and then led me out into the air light and taught me to walk and swim, and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.