About two months ago, I started working on something special to say about my mother at her 80th birthday party.
I tried several toasts, but they were either the epitome of rank sentimentality (think of Hallmark on steroids) or starkly clinical (not unlike those introductions that begin: "a woman, who needs no introduction" -- and then turn into eternal ramblings).
I then tried some poems, but each was worse than the one that went before. I ended up without enough wadded paper to fill a full complement of gift bags at a Kennedy baby shower.
And then it hit me. No one can combine good writing with universal truth better than my favorite poet: Billy Collins. I read the following poem to my Sunday school class for mother's day. And I pressed it into service Friday night at my mother's birthday. Do I need to add that nothing I wrote would have been appreciated as much as --
The Lanyard
The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.
No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.
I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.
She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light
and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.
Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift—not the worn truth
that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.
~ Billy Collins
5 comments:
Steve, What a powerful poem. I'm sure it had the desired impact on your mom. I've never heard of Billy Collins - will have to look him up. Alee' Robbins
Billy Collins is one of my favorite poets. I would be happy to lend you one of his books when you stop to see Bill and Donna. I have heard him read this poem on several radio programs. It truly is powerful. My Mom loved it.
Steve, what a kind gesture. I promise I'll handle it with great care. I'll be at their house this Sunday mid-day while Donna helps me with my never-ending bookwork. Does that work for your schedule? Alee'
I trust that Donna got the book to you, Alee'. Let me know what you think of his other poems.
Steve, I'm going to see Donna this evening - Sunday's plans were changed from her house to mine. I didn't have a way to let you know and for that I apologize.
Anyway, I'll look forward to getting the book this evening...thanks again for the loan. Alee'
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