I read the news this morning looking for a sprig of comfort, signs that the economy will turn around and the environment be honored the way it should.
I come across Billy Collins.
Despair
So much gloom and doubt in our poetry -
flowers wilting on the table,
the self regarding itself in a watery mirror.
flowers wilting on the table,
the self regarding itself in a watery mirror.
Dead leaves cover the ground,
the wind moans in the chimney,
and the tendrils of the yew tree inch toward the coffin.
the wind moans in the chimney,
and the tendrils of the yew tree inch toward the coffin.
I wonder what the ancient Chinese poets
would make of all this,
thee shadows and empty cupboards?
would make of all this,
thee shadows and empty cupboards?
Today, with the sun blazing in the trees,
my thoughts turn to the great
tenth-century celebrators of experience,
my thoughts turn to the great
tenth-century celebrators of experience,
Wa-Hoo, whose delight in the smallest things
could hardly be restrained,
and to his joyous counterpart in the western provinces,
Ye-Hah.
could hardly be restrained,
and to his joyous counterpart in the western provinces,
Ye-Hah.
~ Billy Collins ~
(Ballistics)
