The Rain in Portugal by Billy Collins

I love Billy Collins' poetry! I think anyone who reads it will love it. Here is the poem that inspired the title of this latest collection, The Rain in Portugal.

On Rhyme

It's possible that a stitch in time

might save as many as twelve or as few as three,

and I have no trouble remembering

that September has thirty days.

So do June, November, and April.

I like a cat wearing a chapeau or a trilby,

Little Jack Horner stitting on a sofa,

old men who are not from Nantucket,

and how life can seem almost unreal

when you are gently rowing a boat down a stream.

That's why instead of recalling today

that it pours mostly in Spain,

I am going to picture the rain in Portugal,

how it falls on the hillside vineyards,

on the surface of the deep harbors

where fishing boats are swaying,

and in the narrow alleys of the cities,

where three boys in tee shirts

are kicking a soccer ball in the rain,

ignoring the window-cries of their mothers.

Don't you love it? It kind of reminds me of Jabberwocky in

Alice in Wonderland

 except it makes total sense. Collins' poetry often takes unexpected turns, which is a sign of good writing, right?

There's a poem called "Only Child" that I sent to my siblings. And I read this one to Randy, since we commute together.

Traffic "...watching the next car ahead and in the mirror the car behind." --Graham Greene

A child on a silver bicycle,

a young mother pushing a stroller,

and a runner who looked like he was running to Patagonia

have all passed my car, jammed

into a traffic jam on a summer weekend.

And now an elderly couple gradually

overtakes me as does a family of snails--

me stalled as if in a pit of tar

far from any beach and its salty air.

Why even Buddha has risen

from his habitual sitting

and is now walking serenely past my car,

holding his robes to his chest with one hand.

I watch him from the patch of shade

I have inched into as he begins to grow smaller

over my steering wheel then sits down again

up ahead, unfurling his palms

as if he were only a tiny figurine affixed to the dash.

I can just imagine him sitting in stop and go traffic thinking of and writing this poem. It reminds me of when I rode with my family--4 kids and a dog--in the Volkswagon camper down the unpaved Alcan Highway. My brother Joel would count the cars that were passing us, letting us know when he reached significant number such as 100.

If you think you don't like poetry, or don't get it, try Billy Collins.