Marginalia, by Billy Collins

Sometimes the notes are ferocious, skirmishes against the author raging along the borders of every page in tiny black script. If I could just get my hands on you, Kierkegaard, or Conor Cruise O’Brien, they seem to say, I would bolt the door and beat some logic into your head. Other comments are more offhand,…

Mae West, by Edward Field

She comes on drenched in a perfume called Self Satisfaction from feather boa to silver pumps. She does not need to be loved by you though she’ll give you credit for good taste. Just because you say you love her she’s not throwing herself at your feet in gratitude. Every other star reveals how worthless…

Clam Ode, by Dean Young

One attempts to be significant on a grand scale in the knockdown battle of life but settles. It is clammy today, meaning wet and gray, not having a hard, calciniferous shell. I love the expression “happy as a clam,” how it imparts buoyant emotion to a rather, when you get down to it, nonexpressive creature.…

Japanese Maple, by Clive James

Your death, near now, is of an easy sort. So slow a fading out brings no real pain. Breath growing short Is just uncomfortable. You feel the drain Of energy, but thought and sight remain: Enhanced, in fact. When did you ever see So much sweet beauty as when fine rain falls On that small…