MiniBiografia

Langour I have come back to the couch- hands behind my head, legs crossed at the ankles- to resume my lifelong study of the ceiling and its river-like crack, its memory of a water stain, the touch of civilization in the rounded steps of the molding, and the lick of time in the flaking plaster. To move would only ruffle the calm surface of the morning, and disturb shadows of leaves in the windows. And to throw open a door would startle the fish in the pond, maybe frighten a few birds from the hedge. Better to stay here, to occupy the still room of thought, to listen to the dog breathing on the floor, better to count my lucky coins, or redesign my family coat of arms- remove the plow and hive, shoo away the bee. Billy Collins , in Nine Horses

Today If ever there were a spring day so perfect, so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze that it made you want to throw open all the windows in the house and unlatch the door to the canary's cage, indeed, rip the little door from its jamb, a day when the cool brick paths and the garden bursting with peonies seemed so etched in sunlight that you felt like taking a hammer to the glass paperweight on the living room end table, releasing the inhabitants from their snow-covered cottage so they could walk out, holding hands and squinting into this larger dome of blue and white, well, today is just that kind of day. Billy Collins , in Nine Horses

Night Letter to the Reader I get up from the tangled bed and go outside, a bird leaving its nest, a snail taking a holiday from its shelf, but only to stand on the lawn, an ordinary insomniac amid the growth systems of gardens and woods. If I were younger, I might be thinking about something I heard at a party, about an unusual car, or the press of Saturday night, but as it it, I am simply conscious, an animal in pajamas, sensing only the pale humidity of the night and the slight zephyrs that stir the tops of the trees. The dog has followed me out and stands a little ahead, her nose lifted as if she were inhaling the tall white flowers, visible tonight in the darkened garden, and there was something else I wanted to tell you, something about the warm orange light in the windows of the house, but now I am wondering if you are even listening and why I bother to tell you these things that will never make a difference, flecks of ash, tibny chips of ice....

(...) But now I seem to be carrying my not-stopping-long-enough-ball as I walk around the circumference of myself and up and down the angles of the day. (...) Billy Collins , Roadside Flowers , in Nine Horses Gosto do som das folhas do livro de Billy Collins, quando as puxo para mim e as empurro para o lado, a folhear as palavras. É o tipo de som que me faz sentir o silêncio, e dentro do silêncio, voltar a ouvir-me. Vou pela mão do Billy Collins, e aos poucos começarei a regressar às cores. A formar imagens, a juntar pedaços e a voltar a crescer. A parar para ver. E não tarda, como o poeta, I will lie on my stomach and write .

Enquanto a lebre corta a meta como um tiro, a tartaruga pára uma vez mais à beira da estrada, desta vez para esticar o pescoço e mordiscar um pouco de erva fresca, ao contrário da vez anterior quando se distraiu com uma abelha zunindo no coração de uma flor selvagem. Billy Collins , in Amor Universal