English
Country House
I
pass under the arched entrance to my hedge-maze
and
move into its argument of corridors,
running
a hand along the leafy walls, perfectly trimmed.
I
love to move like a mouse inside this puzzle for the body, balancing the wish to be lost
with the need to be found.
I
continue into the secret patterns of its side-lanes,
savoring
the conundrum of every manicured corner and turn.
At
the end of a cul-de-sac I sit down on a white bench,
a
place to rest and bask in one's befuddlement.
Then
I walk on trying to forget the guests I abandoned.
I
should be with them now wilting in a lawn chair
and
talking over tea and lemon slices instead of watching
clouds
pass over this crazy bower, this sweet labyrinth.
But
people are not captivating as they were a decade ago
when
the famous would come here to follow their diversions,
Stubbs
agitating over a sketchbook of Thoroughbreds,
Muybridge
outdoors taking photographs of a naked boxer.
I
remember Johann Malzel inventing the metronome
in
an upper room. In this soft afternoon light
I
remember Roget walking up from the meadow,
his
basket full of synonyms, the dogs barking at his clothes.
I
remember them all as I stand here in the dark green center.
—Billy
Collins
A poem of mazes and amazement, with the kind of whimsy in detail and language that I adore.
image: Christie B. Cochrell, Kenilworth
No comments:
Post a Comment