I am not a fan of Billy Collins.
And don't even get me started on C.S. Lewis.
And the reminiscing of his dead wife always in the kitchen, always in the kitchen
or washing his clothes.
I prefer the works of those that touch upon the type of hunger
where one can almost feel the stomach eating itself.
Precarious wasp nests tied around corners. Bird tongues and false interpreters.
The smoke of dreams and the hour of grace.
And the almost love poems
that make the bones solid and heavy again.
Or the specific ambiguity of Yehuda Amichai’s #9
“What is it? An old shed for tools.
No, it is a great love that was.”
It was the greatest betrayal to learn of his death
months after his passing.
There is no law that compels the passing of poets to be announced.
There should be.
Missalettes made from the old sheets of poems, pressed and dried by the hands of close relatives
in handwritten letters,
in black cursive the poet's name- only.
Perhaps there has been
this system of announcing. But I am unaware
of having been excommunicated from the Church of Poets.
Sincerely, A Billy Collins and C.S. Lewis blasphemer.
(Freewriting with recursive edits - 37 min. -- April 6th, 2024)
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