- 1.Poetry Thursday!
- 2.Poetry Thursday!
- 3.Poetry almost Thursday, Thanksgiving Edition
- 4.The first day of December, Poetry Thursday
- 5.Boy At the Window — Poetry Thursday
- 6.A Poem About Evolution — Poetry Thursday
- 7.Like Snow – Poetry Thursday
- 8.The Peace of Wild Things – Poetry Thursday
- 9.Rain – Poetry Thursday
- 10.The Real Work – Poetry Thursday
- 11.To The River – Poetry Thursday
- 12.A Beautiful Poem About Internal Darkness
- 13.Poetry Thursday – School Prayer
- 14.Poetry Thursday – Genius
- 15.Poetry Thursday – Soon This Space Will Be Too Small
- 16.A Poem from Stephen Harrod Buhner
- 17.To Bless the Space Between Us – Poetry Thursday!
- 18.Poetry Thursday – A Quote from Antoine de Saint-Exupery
- 19.Poetry Thursday – Sarah Cleghorn
- 20.On a Tree Fallen Across the Road by Robert Frost
- 21.A Noiseless Patient Spider by Walt Whitman
- 22.My Will by Lorna Goodison
- 23.Going Away – A Poem from the Quechua
- 24.Blessing by John O’Donohue
- 25.The Trouble with Poetry by Billy Collins
- 26.Wild Geese by Wendell Berry
- 27.Silence of the Fall by Louisa Paulin
- 28.Poetry Thursday – Karl Ove Knausgaard
- 29.Snow Day by Billy Collins – Poetry Thursday
- 30.Winter Solstice by Jodi Aliesan – Poetry Thursday
- 31.A Brief For The Defense by Jack Gilbert
- 32.Lost by David Wagoner
- 33.Fiddling with the Idiot by Hafiz
- 34.The Sixth of January by David Budbill
- 35.Two Tramps in Mud Time by Robert Frost
- 36.What We Need is Here by Wendell Berry
- 37.Keep Moving Forward by Mitchell Greenwood
- 38.When I am Among the Trees by Mary Oliver
- 39.Praying by Mary Oliver
- 40.Thirst by Mary Oliver
- 41.Blueberries by Mary Oliver
- 42.The Sycamore by Wendell Berry
- 43.Jealous Hearing Someone Laugh by Hafiz
The Trouble with Poetry
by Billy Collins
The trouble with poetry, I realized
as I walked along a beach one night-
cold Florida sand under my bare feet,
a show of stars in the sky-
the trouble with poetry is
that it encourages the writing of more poetry,
more guppies crowding the fish tank,
more baby rabbits
hopping out of their mothers into the dewy grass.
And how will it ever end?
unless the day finally arrives
when we have compared everything in the world
to everything else in the world,
and there is nothing left to do
but quietly close our notebooks
and sit our hands folded on our desks.
Poetry fills me with joy
and I rise like a feather in the wind.
Poetry fills me with sorrow
and I sink like a chain flung from a brdige.
But mostly poetry fills me
with the urge to write poetry,
to sit in the dark and wait for a little flame
to appear at the tip of my pencil.
And along with that, the longing to steal,
to break into the poems of others
with a flashlight and a ski mask.
And what an unmerry band of thieves we are,
cut-purses, common shoplifters,
I thought to myself
as a cold wave swirled around my feet
and the lighthouse moved its megaphone over the sea,
which is an image I stole directly
from Lawrence Ferlinghetti-
to be perfectly homest for a moment-
the bicycling poet of San Francisco
whose little amusement park of a book
I carried in a side pocket of my uniform
up and down the treacherous halls of high school.