Poem of the Week

Genius

By Billy Collins

was what they called you in high school
if you tripped on a shoelace in the hall
and all your books went flying.

Or if you walked into an open locker door
you would be known as Einstein,
who imagined riding a streetcar into infinity.

Later, genius became someone
who could take a sliver of chalk and squire pi
a hundred places out beyond the decimal point,

or someone painting on his back on a scaffold,
or a man drawing a waterwheel in a margin,
or spinning out a little night music.

But earlier this week on a wooded path,
I thought the swans afloat on the reservoir
were the true geniuses,

the ones who had figured out how to fly,
how to be both beautiful and brutal,
and how to mate for life.

Twenty-four geniuses in all,
for I numbered them as Yeats had done,
deployed upon the calm, crystalline surface--

forty-eight if we count their still reflections,
or an even fifty if you want to toss in me
and the dog running up ahead,

who were smart enough to be out
that morning - she sniffing the ground,
me with my head up in the light morning breeze.

***

I don't really write poetry anymore, but back when I did I wanted to be Billy Collins. Of course I did. Everyone does.

There's something about the way Mr. Collins presents an everyday activity, like a leisurely walk, and imbues it with an almost sacred significance. The different uses of the term "genius" collide in an interesting fashion that calls into question the importance we sometimes place on our usual daily squabbles.