Indescribably wonderful

[pjthompson]

Oh, this is so, SO worth it. Even if you don't like poetry or Billy Collins, how can you resist a three-year old reciting Billy Collins's poem, Litany?

Thanks to sweetsweetlife for pointing this out.

"3-year-old recites poem, "Litany" by Billy Collins" (Watch on YouTube)

Litany

You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.

You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.

And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.

But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.

You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine.

Comments

[asakiyume.livejournal.com]

Whoa, synchronicity. I was just reading Billy Collins an hour ago. I found this poem, which I loved:

Oh, My God!

Not only in church
and nightly by their bedsides
do young girls pray these days.

Wherever they go,
prayer is woven into their talk
like a bright thread of awe.

Even at the pedestrian mall
outbursts of praise
spring unbidden from their glossy lips

Isn't that wonderful? Would you believe I didn't *get* it at first, was just enjoying the lines like like a bright thread of awe and outbursts of praise? And then I got it and laughed.

The poem you've put here is more serious, deep, and lovely, though.

[pjthompson]

He's one of my very, very favorites. He can take something so mundane and make it magical. Click on my billy collins tag to read a couple of more, if you like.

[asakiyume.livejournal.com]

I like him a whole lot, too. One of my favorites is "The First Geniuses"--do you have that one? (I'll have to check your tag.)

[pjthompson]

No, I don't think I have that one. I used to have a whole bunch more Billy Collins up, but then I felt like I was cheating him, so I took most of it down.

[asakiyume.livejournal.com]

I understand--I feel a bit the same way--so do feel free to delete the comments with the poems in after you've read. I won't take it amiss <3

[pjthompson]

Oh no! If they are in the comments, I think they're sufficiently down a level or two. I don't feel so much like I'm cheating. :-)

[asakiyume.livejournal.com]

You don't have it!

Here:

The First Geniuses
(Billy Collins)

It is so early almost nothing has happened.
Agriculture is an unplanted seed.
Music and the felt hat are thousands of years away.
The sail and the astrolabe, not even specks on the horizon.
The window and scissors: inconceivable.

But even now, before the orchestra of history
has had time to warm up, the first geniuses
have found one another and gathered into a thoughtful group.
Gaunt, tall and bearded, as you might expect,
They stand outlined against a landscape of smoking volcanoes

or move along the shores of lakes, still leaden and unnamed,
or sit on high bare cliffs looking like early arrivals
at a party the earth is about to throw
now that the dinosaurs have finally cleared the room.

They have yet to discover fire, much less invent the wheel,
so they wander a world mostly dark and motionless
wondering what to do with their wisdom
like young girls wonder what to do with their hair.

Once in a while someone will make a pronouncement
about the movement of the stars, the density of silence,
or the strange behavior of water in winter,
but there is no alphabet, not a drop of ink on earth,
so the words disappear into the deep green forests
like flocks of small, startled birds.

Eventually one of them will come up with the compass
or draw the first number in sand with a stick,
and he will let out a shout like Archimedes in his tub
and curious animals will look up from their grazing.

Later the water screw and the catapult will appear;
the nail, the speedometer and the bow tie will follow.
But until then they can only pace the world gravely,
knowing nothing but the thrumming of their minds,
not the whereabouts of north or the notion of zero,
not even how to sharpen a stone to a deadly point.

[pjthompson]

Oh, thank you!

[pjthompson]

p.s. Thank you for that poem--it was wonderful. I also got caught up in the beauty of the phrases and didn't click to what it was about at first!

[frigg.livejournal.com]

This is a kid that would make any author parent proud. :p

[pjthompson]

I'm tellin' ya! What a sharp little man.

[jmeadows.livejournal.com]

OOOOOOMMMMMMMCCCCCCCCC!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

That was simply adorable.

[pjthompson]

I know!!! Heart melting.