The Trouble with Poetry and Other Poems
Playfulness, spare elegance, and wit epitomize the poetry of Billy Collins. With his distinct voice and accessible language, America's two-term Poet Laureate has opened the door to poetry for countless people for whom it might otherwise remain closed. Like the present book's title, Collins's poems are filled with mischief, humor, and irony, "Poetry speaks to all people, it is said, but here I would like to address / only those in my own time zone"-but also with quiet observation, intense wonder, and a reverence for the everyday: "The birds are in their trees, / the toast is in the toaster, / and the poets are at their windows. / They are at their windows in every section of the tangerine of earth-the Chinese poets looking up at the moon, / the American poets gazing out / at the pink and blue ribbons of sunrise." Through simple language, Collins shows that good poetry doesn't have to be obscure or incomprehensible, qualities that are perhaps the real trouble with most "serious" poetry: "By now, it should go without saying / that what the oven is to the baker / and the berry-stained blouse to the drycleaner / so the window is to the poet." In this dazzling new collection, his first in three years, Collins explores boyhood, jazz, love, the passage of time, and, of course, writing-themes familiar to Collins's fans but made new here. Gorgeous, funny, and deeply empathetic, Billy Collins's poetry is a window through which we see our lives as if for the first time.
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Community Reviews
(Am I allowed to start with a picture of an arm wrestling movie - Over the Top - to review a book of poetry? This may be breaking all the rules.)
Holy camoly. What did I just read?
I laughed! I cried!
No, really. I truly laughed and truly cried.
I'm terrible at reading poetry, and I think I know why. I don't want to be wrong. It's the same reason that I'm both great and terrible at games like Trivial Pursuit. I have loads of useless knowledge floating around, but I don't dare drag it out unless I am 100% certain that it is the correct knowledge to apply to that particular question.
Poetry? It wants me to interpret. I know this, but I can't shake that fear of being wrong. That line? It made me laugh. But wait...was it actually meant to be funny? Did I read it wrong? Was that a serious moment where laughter was...inappropriate? THIS is why reading poetry stresses me out. I still like to read it from time to time but mostly because I like to read poetry out loud while walking around the house or while leaning back in the kitchen chair with one knee to my chest.
Billy Collins released me from my (mostly irrational) fear of poetry. I reacted the way I wanted to react because I couldn't help but react.
I did some laughing:
When at a loss for an ending,
have some brown hens standing in the rain.
AND
I would have run away,
but I was too weak, a trick you taught me
while I was learning to sit and heel,
and-greatest of insults-shake hands without a hand.
I did some swooning:
I want to carry you
and for you to carry me
the way voices are said to carry over water.
I did a little self reflection:
I could feel the day offering itself to me,
and I wanted nothing more
than to be in the moment-but which moment?
Not that one, or that one, or that one,
or any of those that were scuttling by
seemed perfectly right for me.
Plus, I was too knotted up with questions
about the past and his tall, evasive sister, the future.
Most importantly? I did a whole lot of ENJOYING.
My favorite poem by far was The Lanyard, which has touched me in a way I wouldn't have ever anticipated such a seemingly simple poem could. It would not do justice to quote only a fraction of this poem, so just trust me and go read it in its entirety.
I also loved The Student, Breathless, and Evening Alone - each for completely different reasons.
There were a few poems that went over my head, but that was to be expected. Just because a poem uses simple language doesn't mean that the poem itself is simple.
5 STARS
The rain is streaking across the sky
and pelting the beaks of brown hens,
who have not the sense to hide.
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