For Mothers: “The Lanyard” by Billy Collins

I’ve just read a wonderful poem by former Poet Laureate Billy Collins called “The Lanyard.” Do you know it? If you have a tendency (like I do) to get weepy, please grab a tissue before you read it. And if you can, watch Mr. Collins read it himself. I’ve watched it five times already. (Here’s the definition of lanyard, just in case.) Thank you for sharing this, Marta.

I have nearly thirteen years’ worth of painted pots, hand-traced flowers, colorful sand-covered vases, and macaroni necklaces. I’m sure the poet’s mother would agree that these childhood tributes are more than payment enough, especially when paired with a grubby hug and kiss.

The Lanyard

The other day as I was ricocheting slowly

off the pale blue walls of this room,

bouncing from typewriter to piano,

from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,

I found myself in the L section of the dictionary

where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.

No cookie nibbled by a French novelist

could send one more suddenly into the past —

a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp

by a deep Adirondack lake

learning how to braid thin plastic strips

into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.

I had never seen anyone use a lanyard

or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,

but that did not keep me from crossing

strand over strand again and again

until I had made a boxy

red and white lanyard for my mother.

She gave me life and milk from her breasts,

and I gave her a lanyard.

She nursed me in many a sickroom,

lifted teaspoons of medicine to my lips,

set cold face-cloths on my forehead,

and then led me out into the airy light

and taught me to walk and swim,

and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.

Here are thousands of meals, she said,

and here is clothing and a good education.

And here is your lanyard, I replied,

which I made with a little help from a counselor.

Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,

strong legs, bones and teeth,

and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,

and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.

And here, I wish to say to her now,

is a smaller gift—not the archaic truth

that you can never repay your mother,

but the rueful admission that when she took

the two-tone lanyard from my hands,

I was as sure as a boy could be

that this useless, worthless thing I wove

out of boredom would be enough to make us even.