In this age of instant, push-button publishing the art of the carefully chosen word can sometimes feel lost. Poetry isn’t read as much and collections aren’t big sellers. Yet Billy Collins, along with just a small handful of other popular poets, defies all of that with collections that sell hundreds of thousands of copies.
Some critics contend that what Collins writes isn’t, in fact, poetry that it is little more than prose rendered as poetry on the page but virtue of the line breaks only. They hold up as exhibit A recordings or live performances of his poetry. But this simply isn’t true. If poetry is going to speak of life to us then it can’t be expected to adhere to strictly formal constraints.
They also suggest that his style is generic; I say, based on his ability to speak to us all, that his style is universal. The directness of the unadorned language strips away all pretenses and, as all distractions fade away, brings a forced focus that lends itself to achieving a certain kind of grace. Really now, what’s wrong with poetry for the masses? Simple, direct and unadorned does not mean that something is inferior.
All of the hallmarks of Billy Collins poetry that we have come to appreciate over the years are here: The almost day-dream like flights of fancy that get their start with innocent enough thoughts or actions that we can all relate to; The subtle humor; The nesting of deeper thoughts into everyday, mundane objects; the pairing of the ordinary with the extraordinary.
Once, two spoons in bed,
now tined forksacross a granite table
and the knives they have hired.
There is, in these poems, the air of a mischievous grin; of an old man flirting with an attractive cashier and saying the most outlandish things, because he can. This is the best kind of poetry, that which is meant to be re-read and shared; which makes you smile and think.
So much younger and with a tall, young son
in the house above ours on a hill
it seemed that death had blundered once again.Was it poor directions or the blurring rain,
the too-small numerals on the mailbox
that sent his dark car up the wrong driveway?Surely, it was me he was looking for–
overripe, childless, gaudy with appetite,
the one who shoul be ghosting over the rooftopsnot standing bare-footed in this kitchen
on a sun-shot October morning
after eight days and nights of downpour,me with my presumptuous breathing,
my arrogant love of coffee
and the colorful leaves beyond the windows.The weight of my clothes, not his,
might hang in the darkness of a closet today,
my rake idle, my pen across a notebook.The harmony of this house, not his,
might be missing a voice,
the hallways alive with the cry of the telephone–if only death had checked his cracked leather map
then bent to wipe the fog
from the windshield with an empty sleeve.
Collins is a gift and thanks for reminding me of that, Brian. Gotta track this one down.