Litany

Litany

The following are re-written poems from “Litany” by Billy Collins. They were written by Sara Putman’s freshmen classes.

You are a green jewel,
And a solid rock in an earthquake.
You are a flower in the rain,
And the tide of the sea rolling in.
You are a firefly lighting up the night.

I, however, am the winning point in a game,
And the brilliant sunrise lighting up the sky.
I am the wind in the branches.

But don’t worry, I’m not the green jewel.
You are still the green jewel.
You will always be the green jewel,
And the solid rock in an earthquake.
By Kate Keener

You are the homework I didn’t do last night,
And my alarm clock in the morning.
You are the teacher that is a broken record
And the prison that feels like school.

But I, however, am the 30 on the ACT.
I am the office calling to check me out of class.

But don’t worry,
You’re still the homework I didn’t do last night.
And my alarm clock in the morning.
By Abby Wilson

You are an awkward silence,
And the cavity in a tooth.
You are the text saying “I ran out of data,”
And the gum on the bottom of my shoe.

You are the yellow Starburst
And the annoying mosquito on a summer’s night.
However, I am the pink Starburst
And the beautiful butterfly on a summer’s day.

You are the thirty second YouTube ad
And an old pair of Crocs,
But I am the “Skip Ad” button
And a new pair of Yeezy’s.

But don’t worry, I am not the yellow Starburst.
You are still the yellow Starburst.
You will always be the yellow Starburst
And I will always be the pink.
By Christy Fisher

You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the old race horse.
You are the forgotten beauty.

However, you are not the swift wind over the plains,
The golden apples in the king’s cup,
Or the newborn.
And you are definitely not the ½ mile sprinter.
There is no way you are the ½ mile sprinter.

You might be the old stained china,
Maybe the apple that fell on the ground.
You aren’t even close to the sound of a waterfall.

It might interest you to know,
That I am the new handler.
I also happen to be sharper than a knife,
The croak of frogs by the pond.

I am also the training STIG,
And the one that adds fuel to the fire.
But don’t worry, I’m not the old racehorse.
You are the old race horse.
You will always be the old racehorse.
By Rylee Slates

You are the paper and the pen,
The plastic cup and the water.
You are the soap on the dirty dishes
And the hot sting of the sink water.
You are the screech of chair on the floor,
And the scared bird on the side of the road.

However, you are not the bed that you lay down in after a long day,
The Saturday off,
Or the arealist of the silks.
And you are definitely not the smell of clean, cut grass.
There is just no possible way that you are the smell of clean, cut grass, not even a little bit.

It is a possibility that you are a light bulb being put in,
Or even the paper being printed off somewhat correct,
But you are nowhere near
To being the sound of the wind coming in waves through the trees.

And a quick glance at the reflection in the car window will show
That you are not the state of the art 2016 Corvette
Nor the newborn baby laughing for the first time.

You might like to know,
Bringing up the glorious imagery in the world,
That I am the sound of the cold, arctic ocean waves crashing on the shore.

I also happen to be the last fallen leaf of the winter,
And the first bloom of the spring,
And the bundle of flowers on the counter.

I am also the piercing blue eyes in an Australian puppy
And a sporadic road trip.
But don’t fret, I’m not the paper and the pen.
You are still the paper and the pen.
You will always be the paper and the pen,
And don’t forget the plastic cup and the water.
By Emily Wright

You are the feeling of running 6 miles,
The fog on an early morning.
You are the sore legs
And the waking up at 5 every morning.
You are the hurt hip.

I am the feeling of winning a race,
And the first drink of water after a long run.

But you are still the 6 mile run,
You will always be the 6 mile run
And the fog
In the morning.

By Chloe Ray

You are the ruler and the paper,
The fine china and steam.
You are the milk in the coffee
And the spoon that stirs it.
You are the dirt road leading home,
And the shoes covered in dust.

However, you are not the warm sheets,
The smell of cut grass,
Or the open arms.
And you are certainly not the welcome mat,
There is just no way you are the welcome mat.

It is possible that you are the kettle on the stove,
Maybe even the old clock radio,
But you are not even close
To being the familiar ring tone.

And a quick look in the mirror will show
That you are neither the red hairbrush
Nor the Sunday nap.

It might interest you to know
Speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
That I am the pen and the ink.

I also happen to be the ruined canvas,
The spilled paint water
And the dirty socks in the hamper.

I am also the broken glasses
And the shredded report card.
But don’t worry, I’m not the ruler and the paper.
You are still the ruler and the paper.
You will always be the ruler and the paper,
Not to mention the fine china,
And – somehow – the steam.
By Breanna Farrar