It is as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

—Billy Collins, former U.S. Poet Laureate, from “Forgetfulness”

•••

He is not considered hip, out of fashion to many
fans of younger, edgier poets, but this octogenarian
rockstar poet captivated my younger self

with the poem I chose to commit to my own
forgetful heart this week and recite before
a class taught by another major-league poet.

At different points in my teaching career
I almost had this one blasted into memory,
but it, like so much of my brain power,

retired before I did to that little fishing village
where there are no phones. Or nowadays,
to extend the metaphor, weak cell service.

Ten of us, including the major-league,
excellent-teacher poet—memorized poems,
tucking them into our heartspaces

to, we hope, be able to whip out on
demand at parties, the way people used
to gather around a piano, and someone

would sing, others would join in, sending
a whirl of music into the air. Now I shall
return home to gently prod people to

fix in the mind words by a poet they love,
even the shortest poems like the one about
the plums by good old what’s-his-name,

to declaim—or even sing, as one of us
in class did—someone else’s words
that move us, and, with luck, land

favorably on someone else around
the piano, who just might be inspired
to master their own rendition.

•••

You can listen to Billy Collins recite “Forgetfulness” here.