I am not sure there is any poet writing in America today more popular or widely known than Billy Collins; happily, in his case, his growing fame is well-deserved. I like this poem, even as I revolt against its theme. A true man of Los Angeles, a disciple of the Church of Endless Self-Created Possibility, I often have a hard time accepting that sometimes, some days, I need to be the pensive student of the day, as quiet as the goldfish in winter. The role of poetry, like Scripture, is sometimes to hearten, sometimes to chasten, and sometimes to remind of our own limitations. This is such a poem.
The Only Day in Existence
The early sun is so pale and shadowy,
I could be looking up at a ghost
in the shape of a window,
a tall, rectangular spirit
looking down at me in bed,
about to demand that I avenge
the murder of my father.
But the morning light is only the first line
in the play of this day—
the only day in existence—
the opening chord of its long song,
or think of what is permeating
the thin bedroom curtains
as the beginning of a lecture
I will listen to until it is dark,
a curious student in a V-neck sweater,
angled into the wooden chair of his life,
ready with notebook and a chewed-up pencil,
quiet as a goldfish in winter,
serious as a compass at sea,
eager to absorb whatever lesson
this damp, overcast Tuesday
has to teach me,
here in the spacious classroom of the world
with its long walls of glass,
its heavy, low-hung ceiling.
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