Billy Collins

Lanee gave me a poetry book by Billy Collins--The Trouble with Poetry. I had never heard of Collins, (a reflection of the waning currency of my literary education), although I have since learned that he was poet laureate of our country a few years back, including on September 11, 2001, which I suppose is both a grave responsibility and an immortal opportunity for a poet, whose gaggle of humanity generally lacks responsibility and is easily forgotten.

Collins is fun to read. A native New Yorker, he has spent most of his life teaching college in the Bronx, a setting which has doubtless contributed to his unpretentious style. He has a keen eye for the commonplace, not as symbols really, as poets often contrive, but as playing integral roles that evade inspection, taking their turns upon life's stage, sometimes with a single line of timely occasion. The salt shaker may reside in a darkened cabinet most of the time, but what is more important when served a baked potato?

So I have enjoyed his refreshing work, despite my usual comfort in structure, meter and rhyme. Collins could care less about any of these, as he is the poet of experience, part common and homespun like Frost and part coarse and plain-spoken like Whitman, mixed with dollop of e.e. cummings' iconoclasm and irony for an American stew made palatable for today's tastes. Here's one I liked:

Flock

It has been calculated that each copy of the Gutenburg Bible ... required the skins of 300 sheep.
--from an article on printing.

I can see them squeezed into the holding pen
behind the stone building
where the printing press is housed,

all of them squirming around
to find a little room
and looking so much alike

it would be nearly impossible
to count them,
and there is no telling

which one will carry the news
that the Lord is a shepherd,
one of the few things they already know.