Litany
Billy Collins is probably my favorite living poet for several reasons. He never fails to help me see whatever he’s talking about in a new way. He regularly makes me feel like poetry is accessible by making his poetry accessible. He chooses everyday, down to earth topics and uses them to help me see them – and myself – differently. But mostly Billy Collins is my favorite poet because he makes me laugh. Sometimes out loud. Which, to be perfectly truthful, doesn’t often happen when I’m reading poetry. ☺
His poem “Litany” is one of my favorites for just that reason. Starting with a line from a love poem by Belgian poet Jacques Crickillon, he embarks toward the typical and predictable aim of such poetry by offering a tribute to his beloved. But after developing his litany of love ever so briefly, he just can’t help himself and wants to make sure his beloved doesn’t get too carried away. And then – perhaps betraying the narcissistic edge of most romantic love, or at least the infatuation that prompts romantic love poems – the narrator turns to lift up images that pay homage not just to his beloved but to himself. And then he remembers, perhaps, that this isn’t the way love poems are supposed to go so makes a quick course correction at the end, sort of.
Read it and see if you can’t laugh.
And then listen to this 3-year old (really!) recite it and it gets even funnier. Finally, give Collins a chance and listen to his own reading before a live audience (who also finds it funny!) where he talks about “literary theft” and the joys of rewriting someone else’s poetry. Who knew poetry could be such fun!
You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine…
–Jacques Crickillon
“Litany”
You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.
However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.
It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general’s head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.
And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.
It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.
I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.
I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman’s tea cup.
But don’t worry, I’m not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and–somehow–the wine.
Billy Collins, from Nine Horses: Poems
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incredible reading– the little boy, that is!
Even more amazing; he had the whole thing memorized!
While i have always enjoyed this poem, I LOVE this little boy’s rendering of it, especially his inflections. It is quite remarkable. Btw: i love your blog and as a clergy person, use it often for inspiration. Thanks!
The little boy is amazing!!!!!
David,
Thank you so much for sharing your thoughts and prayers with us. I look forward to “Meantimes” arrival in my emailbox each day.
Your gloss on Luke’s record of the Beatitudes today reminded of a sermon by Dietrich Bonhoeffer I read recently. His text was the Gospel for the First Sunday after Trinity Sunday in the old one-year Agenda: Jesus’s Parable of Lazarus and the Rich Man (Luke 16:19-31).
The immediacy with which Bonhoeffer treats this story is bracing to me in the face of so much preaching I hear today. Bonhoeffer says, “One cannot understand and preach the Gospel concretely enough. … We should be able to talk about matters of our faith in such a way that the hands reach out for it faster than we can fill them.”
Bonhoeffer cautions against “‘sublimating,’ that is, refining, elevating, spiritualizing, moralizing” the Gospel. He says with the preacher’s sense of irony, “But the main thing is always what a person’s attitude is toward his poverty and toward his wealth. The external aspect doesn’t matter at all, but rather the attitude matters: rich in God or poor in God.” And later, “Now, I ask you, where in the story of the poor Lazarus does it say anything about his inner life?”
The concrete interpretation of this story leads to this very contemporary-sounding observation: “…it is the poverty of Lazarus that makes the rich man rich, just as the wealth of the other man makes Lazarus poor.” And this: “Who is Lazarus? You know yourself: Your poorer brother or sister who cannot cope with life’s outward [concrete] or spiritual aspects, … who craves the crumbs from under your table.”
Near the end of his sermon, Bonhoeffer says: “We are all Lazarus before God. … only when we know that we are all Lazarus, because we all live through the mercy of God, do we see Lazarus in our neighbor.”
Blessed are the poor – that is, all of us.
Thank you for reminding me of this sermon with your essay.
By the way, we shared a ‘bema’ this past summer. It was my privilege to read the Lesson from Revelation at the closing ‘All Saints’ Eucharist at the St. Olaf Conference on Worship, Theology and the Arts. Your sermon that day touched me deeply. I have shared this service with many friends. All the best to you as we begin yet another Lent together.
Peace,
david
Daid L. Almond, Director of Music
First Baptist Church
New London, NH
Good to hear from you, David. That was a good week we shared in Northfield. And I appreciate your sharing the Bonhoeffer sermon. I like so much thinking that the moment we recognize our poverty (and blessing) we see the same in others.
Thanks, again.
And what about the parents of this very articulate 3 year old? How did they come to offer this particular poem to their son and then encourage him to memorize it!? Wonder what the child’s full repertoire is…
What an amazing gift this post is! I just subscribed to “In the Meantime”, and already I’m so thankful.
Has anyone connected the Crickillon and the Collins poem to the sixth stanza of Baudelaire’s poem number LXXXIII in Les Fleurs du Mal:
Je suis la plaie et le couteau!
Je suis le soufflet et la joue!
Je suis les membres et la roue,
Et la victime et le bourreau!
[I’m the knife the wound/I’m the slap and the cheek/etc