Cover to Cover: The Trouble with Poetry by Billy Collins

I was living in the Twin Cities during Billy Collins reign as the US Poet Laureate. Collins came to the Cities for a poetry reading and my then good friend Nora and I went to the show (something how some friendships have natural expiration dates). Always a risk: do you want to know what the author looks, acts and sounds like? Fortunately, it was an awesome event--experiencing his poetry in the voice it was intended to be heard.

I still remember the story he told about his windows. He attempted to write-off the window cleaning cost as a business expense for tax purposes. His justification was that he uses what he observes while looking out the windows to inspire his poetry. Apparently it didn't work.

This was the first book of poetry that I have read from cover to cover. I always feel that a poem should be able to stand alone, without the support of surrounding poems or the cover of a book. It was interesting to read through the flow of this book, which started off a bit depressing but fortunately recovers from this in the final sections. I count about 15 dog-eared pages (this is how I mark poems that I like in my books of poetry).

I have been a reader of Collins ever since introduced to him by JM, who also offered a critique/question in a prior post. Is Collins too simple for his own good, or the good of the poetry? I think at times, perhaps. However, I will not assign that to his style or poems.

I am always amazed at his use of "the simple." He forces you to take notice of something...something that perhaps otherwise would go unrecognized or ignored. See it. Pick it up. Turn it over. Experience it.

In The Evening

The heads of roses begin to drop.
The bee who has been hauling his gold
all day finds a hexagon in which to rest.

In the sky, traces of clouds,
the last few darting birds,
watercolors on the horizon.

The white cat sits facing a wall.
The horse in the field is asleep on its feet.

I light a candle on the wood table.
I take another sip of wine.
I pick up an onion and a knife.

And the past and the future?
Nothing but an only child with two different masks.

A sad poem. I can feel the burn of the onion in my eyes as the knife halves it.


Reading: Human Stain by Phillip Roth
Listening to: The Shins