BillyCollins

Billy Collins (William James Collins) was born on March 22, 1941. He is an american poet, a professor, author and an anthologist.A lot of his work ended up in textbooks, books, and things that were read all over the world. His work was chosen several times for the Best American series. He now lives in Somers, New York

Silence By Billy Collins

Now it is time to say what you have to say.

The room is quiet.

The whirring fan has been unplugged,

and the girl who was tapping

a pencil on her desktop has been removed.

So tell us what is on your mind.

We want to hear the sound of your foliage,

the unraveling of your tool kit,

your songs of loneliness,

your songs of hurt.

The trains are motionless on the tracks,

the ships are at restn the harbor.

The dogs are cocking their heads

and the gods are peering down from their balloons.

The town is hushed,

and everyone here has a copy.

So tell us about your parents—

your father behind the steering wheel,

your cruel mother at the sink.

Let's hear about all the clouds you saw, all the trees.

Read the poem you brought with you tonight.

The ocean has stopped sloshing around,

and even Beethoven

is sitting up in his deathbed,

his cold hearing horn inserted in one ear.

This poem is about how someone had a poem that told about her life but nobody listens. The author is someone who did listen and really liked it and wanted everyone else to listen, so he made people listen.

media type="youtube" key="iuTNdHadwbk" height="315" width="420" this isn't the same poem as the one I chose but its a cool animation that Mrs. Hazle showed me.

The dead are always looking down on us, they say, while we are putting on our shoes or making a sandwich, they are looking down through the glass-bottom boats, of heaven as they row themselves slowly through eternity. They watch the tops of our heads moving below on earth, And when we lie down in a field or on a couch, Drugged perhaps by the hum of a warm afternoon, They think we are looking back at them, which makes them lift their oars and fall silent and wait, like parents, for us to close our eyes.

Page By Erika Kendall