Aimless Love

Yellow Hibiscus at Jekyll Island last week.

Learning to appreciate and write poetry at 50-plus is proving to be a fun challenge. I shared my poem to a deceased person (this week’s assignment) with the class last night. You can read it here. I like my poem, and the lady next to me told me she loved it and talked about her own father; I could tell she was sincere. (My siblings all said they liked it, but hey, what else can they say?) The teacher thought it was too straight forward and she didn’t like the ending. She didn’t like that Daddy was sitting in a recliner watching television in the end and actually suggested that I change it to something "more interesting." I think she meant something more worthwhile. “Well, it is about my dad. We didn’t sit around reading poetry and playing the violin. He worked hard in a blue collar job all week, all his life, and he liked to sit in his recliner on Saturday afternoon sometimes. It’s a fond memory for me,” I replied, with attitude. I think she got my point, but I don’t care if she did or not. It’s that snooty attitude that gives poetry and poets a bad name among regular folks. My memory of Daddy watching television on a lazy Saturday afternoon is absolutely poetic to me. He’s gone, and I would give anything to have him back for an afternoon just the way he was. I wouldn’t change a thing about him, and I sure ain’t changing the ending of my poem. I am trying to think of a better title for it, and I have made other edits as suggested by the class and teacher that make it better. But the ending is staying.

Several others shared their poems, and I laughingly admit that I had no clue what two of the poems were about until the authors explained. I’m of average to above-average intelligence, and I couldn’t even pronounce the title of one of the poems…never heard of it. Turns out it was a French word and the author only just learned it a few weeks ago and thought it would be cool to use an obscure French word for the title of her poem, the poem that no one—not even the teacher—could understand. I have no problem that she used a word I didn't know; the weird thing is everyone sat there like they knew the word and how to pronounce it. Turns out most didn't, but everyone was pretending they did. Uh, excuse me, but maybe that's why people find poetry and poets pretentious at times. Give me authenticity please! I don’t agree that poetry needs to be high-brow or weird or unnecessarily mysterious and vague. Some in the class have even criticized one of my favorite poets, Mary Oliver—saying that her poems have become too accessible as she has become more popular. I find that attitude distasteful. If you don't like someone's poetry, fine. But please, the reason can't be because it's too accessible? Where does that leave Dr. Suess?

Back to Mary Oliver. Heck, she's the reason I got interested in poetry in the first place. She’s the reason I’m taking the class. She’s the reason I discovered another contemporary poet that I love, Billy Collins. All you poets and literary types out there know that Billy Collins was U.S. poet laureate from 2001-2003 and has published numerous volumes of poetry. His latest collection, Aimless Love has just been released and you may have seen him on some of the popular news shows promoting the book. I love the title poem from this collection, and I’m sharing it here tonight. The poem is easy to read but packs a powerful message about gratitude and living in the moment. At first glance you might think it’s a humorous poem about a guy who falls in love with a bar of soap in the end; that’s what Stephen Colbert said on his show last night. :-) But of course it is about so much more. This poem resonates with me; it could be the theme song for the last year of my life. And for the rest of it—to find the love, beauty and gratitude in each moment. In simplicity.

Good job, Mr Collins. Thanks for your lovely, accessible poetry. This one is magic to me.

AIMLESS LOVE
by Billy Collins

This morning as I walked along the lakeshore,

I fell in love with a wren

and later in the day with a mouse

the cat had dropped under the dining room table.

In the shadows of an autumn evening,

I fell for a seamstress

still at her machine in the tailor’s window,

and later for a bowl of broth,
steam rising like smoke from a naval battle.

This is the best kind of love, I thought,

without recompense, without gifts,

or unkind words, without suspicion,

or silence on the telephone.

The love of the chestnut,

the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel.

No lust, no slam of the door –

the love of the miniature orange tree,

the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower,

the highway that cuts across Florida.

No waiting, no huffiness, or rancor –

just a twinge every now and then

for the wren who had built her nest

on a low branch overhanging the water

and for the dead mouse,

still dressed in its light brown suit.

But my heart is always propped up

in a field on its tripod,

ready for the next arrow.

After I carried the mouse by the tail

to a pile of leaves in the woods,

I found myself standing at the bathroom sink

gazing down affectionately at the soap,

so patient and soluble,

so at home in its pale green soap dish.

I could feel myself falling again

as I felt its turning in my wet hands

and caught the scent of lavender and stone.