Battered and Shiny Like the Moon

Somebody asked me recently what my favorite poem was. 

Generally, I hate questions like this. "What's your favorite movie?" "What's your favorite song?" "What's your favorite band?" "What's your favorite book?"

I could give you a Top 20, if you'd like, or a smattering from among various genres, but pick out a single one? From all the amazing movies, songs, bands, and books out there? Is that even possible? 

The way I see it, there are basically two types of people in the world. Those who can answer the "favorite" question, and those who can't. The ones who can take great pride in being able to answer, have put much thought into their answers and feel confident in the unassailable wisdom of their judgment. They don't understand people like me, and I don't understand people like them.

Because the moment someone asks me the "favorite" question, my mind immediately goes blank. Like white-hot-nothing blank. Then I grope around in the nothing until I find one thing I love, which then generates thoughts of another thing I love JUST AS MUCH IF NOT MORE!! And then suddenly I am awash in a frenzy of associations. 

How is one supposed to differentiate from among the awesome things in this world? How does one structure these highly personal hierarchies? Where does one find the stones to say, "This one. It's the one. My favorite."

I don't think I could even do that with ice cream flavors.

That's a bald-ass lie. It's mint chocolate chip.

Huh. What do you know? I guess it is possible.

And in fact, returning to the question that sparked this post, I do think I have a favorite poem. Revisiting Elizabeth Bishop--and the teaching of Elizabeth Bishop--in yesterday's post dredged up a distant memory of a poem I once had memorized, not because I had to but just because I loved hearing it in my head.

It's called "The Shampoo."

The first time I read it, I cried. It was such a visceral, cerebral love poem. About romantic love, sure, but also about any kind of love where the passing of years only strengthens appreciation and devotion. The line, "For Time is/ nothing if not amenable"--so oddly pragmatic, yet so achingly beautiful, it breaks my heart.

Plus describing encroaching grey hairs as "shooting stars" imbues them with the glamor and astrophysical significance they so richly deserve, but which largely eludes them.

Anyway, here it is. For posterity.

And so that the next time someone asks me what my favorite poem is, I'll have an answer.

THE SHAMPOO

Elizabeth Bishop

The still explosions on the rocks,

the lichens, grow
by spreading, gray, concentric shocks.
They have arranged
to meet the rings around the moon, although
within our memories they have not changed.

And since the heavens will attend
as long on us,
you've been, dear friend,
precipitate and pragmatical;
and look what happens. For Time is
nothing if not amenable.

The shooting stars in your black hair
in bright formation
are flocking where,
so straight, so soon?
-- Come, let me wash it in this big tin basin,
battered and shiny like the moon.