Welcome to Sunday Poetry. If this is your first visit you can read about the purpose and inspiration of my Sunday poetry blogs here.
This week and last I’ve blogged about old books, so today’s poem is an ode to books written by Billy Collins, the poet who convinced me, after a lecture at Chautauqua Institution two years ago, that I needed to rethink my disinterest in poetry. From that lecture came this weekly blog and a year long journey.
In a side note about that journey? Recently when the name of a presenters at an upcoming writer’s workshop jumped out at me, I realized just how much I’ve learned since we began here together. I posted Martin Espada’s poem Who Burns for the Perfection of Paper some time ago, and it’s still one of my very favorites. I would never have read the poem or known him as a poet, were it not for Sunday Poetry. In the next year I look forward to learning much, much more.
Simply called Books, there’s nothing simple about today’s Billy Collins poem. What part of your life has revolved around books? How have they changed you? Have you experienced the “endless, paneled rooms?”
Remember there are no quizzes here, no right ways to read or contemplate the poem we share. Absolutely no dissecting allowed. Just come along for the “read.” What line, word or thought will you carry with you this week? If you’d like to tell us where the poem took you? We’ll listen.