Poem in My Pocket


Today, I discovered, was Poem in Your Pocket Day. The whole idea is to pick a poem (or write one if you’d like and have that ability) and carry it in your pocket. Then you share it. Either by taking it out of your pocket and showing or reading it to someone, or by leaving it in some public place for someone else to find. I really like the last option. A random poem in a random place being picked up and read by a random person? I love that!! Reminds me of BookCrossing, a book swap club where you leave a book in a random place for someone to find and read. How fun is that?!?

I chose the poem below because I like it. :) I stumbled up on it while searching for a poem I kinda remember liking in high school. All I can remember is repeatedly used “No one” as the main character, and I thought it was by Robert Frost. Didn’t find a Robert Frost poem about anything like that, so I googled “no one” + poetry. Still didn’t find what I was looking for but did find this one. And I instantly liked it. It made me smile and it spoke to me about something that’s been on my mind a lot lately — life being too busy and all the things we’re missing while we’re doing all the things we’re doing. Enjoy! And pick a poem. Put it in your pocket or put it on your blog or tape it a mirror in a public restroom. Or tell me about it in a comment on this post. :)

The Chairs That No One Sits In
by Billy Collins

You see them on porches and on lawns
down by the lakeside,
usually arranged in pairs implying a couple

who might sit there and look out
at the water or the big shade trees.
The trouble is you never see anyone

sitting in these forlorn chairs
though at one time it must have seemed
a good place to stop and do nothing for a while.

Sometimes there is a little table
between the chairs where no one
is resting a glass or placing a book facedown.

It might be none of my business,
but it might be a good idea one day
for everyone who placed those vacant chairs

on a veranda or a dock to sit down in them
for the sake of remembering
whatever it was they thought deserved

to be viewed from two chairs
side by side with a table in between.
The clouds are high and massive that day.

The woman looks up from her book.
The man takes a sip of his drink.
Then there is nothing but the sound of their looking,

the lapping of lake water, and a call of one bird
then another, cries of joy or warning—
it passes the time to wonder which.

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