Tonight, I sat and read and wrote. At the end of it, tired and mentally drained, I read some Billy Collins, who is the best-selling poet in America. While some may dismiss him for being popular, the man is ridiculously gifted. I also listened to Bruckner at the same time (symphony 9, mv I, Sir Colin Davis and the LSO), and despaired that I could ever write even a single poem that approached half the beauty of a single minute of Bruckner. Hence, a poem to Billy Collins.
I must add you
to the list of poets
who make me weep.
As you stand
next to Keats,
Herbert and Levertov,
I want you to know
you were added
because of your talent
not your sentiments.
You have such talent,
and I have not,
how shall I ever
become a poet?
Oh, why did God
not make me a composer,
a field where all
the greats
are dead.
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