Despair (by Billy Collins)
So much gloom and doubt in our poetry –
flowers wilting on the table,
the self regarding itself in a watery mirror.
Dead leaves cover the ground,
the wind moans in the chimney,
and the tendrils of the yew tree inch toward the coffin.
I wonder what the ancient Chinese poets
would make of all this,
the shadows and empty cupboards?
Today, with the sun blazing in the trees,
my thoughts turn to the great
tenth-century celebrators of experience,
Wa-Hoo, whose delight in the smallest things
could hardly be restrained,
and to his joyous counterpart in the western provinces,
The gift, the glory of being alive and choosing to be happy and delighting in even the smallest things. I remember times in my life where I’ve felt joy well up within me and have let out a “holy holler” at the joy of being alive and feeling happy. Well, here’s to more hollering and shouting of Wahoo and Yehah! Hopefully it’s gonna get noisier around here in my part of the world.
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