As some of you out in there in the wide world may or may not know, Billy Collins will be coming to Tulane on Monday, March 16 at 7 pm. The event will be at McAlister Auditorium, and is free of charge.
And, for whatever reason, this has ticked some people off. Now, I understand why this might have happened. Billy Collins, who was a two time Poet Laureate of the United States in ’01 and ’03, is about as divisive a poet as there is in the country right now. People either love or hate Billy Collins, and there seem to be very few people in between. (This is of course not counting the grand majority of the population who have never heard of Billy Collins, nor any poet born after Frost. But that is neither here nor there, and as a young poet I won’t waste my breath on that rant.)
Why Billy Collins seems to tick so many people off, especially those embedded in the dark enclaves of the poetry world, is that his poetry is so accessible. Poets think it’s too easy. Billy Collins is one of the few poets writing right now (or poets that are getting any sort of acclaim) who, when you read a poem of his, you know exactly what is going on. There are rarely any sort of deep, mystifying metaphors in his work. If Collins is going to start a metaphor, more often than not he’ll tell you that he’s going to start a metaphor. You never have to reach for a dictionary when reading his work, and ever so rarely do you need to recall your Greek myths. Basically, you can pick up a book of Billy Collins, whether it be on a subway or the beach, and you can read it.
My question is: what is so wrong about that?
I can hear poets responding now, breathlessly, with a ruddy furor bristling up in their cheeks: Collins condescends to the reader. He demands nothing. His work is insulting.
This is a load of garbage. Collins’ main crime he’s committed is to be popular, and I will stand by that until someone shows me otherwise. There are thousands of poets across the country, and Billy Collins is not the only one who uses plain language to get his point across. I won’t spout off names, but if you’ve read any amount of poetry and can tell me that Collins is the most simplistic of the bunch, you’re a liar. But those poets don’t call up anger, resentment. No one is “boycotting” their readings.
What Collins did was sell half a million books of poetry, which is unheard of. He was the Poet Laureate of the United States not once but twice. This arouses anger in poets. And I see their point.
I’ve written poems that were five times as dense as anything Collins has published in the last fifteen years. They’ve had intertwining metaphors, developed personification, yadda yadda yadda. About eight people read my poem, and three liked it. Billy Collins wrote a whole book of p0ems about sitting at his desk, drinking bourbon and listening to jazz, and half a million people read it. It seems unfair. I get it.
What people forget is that half a million people can’t all be that wrong. When I was able to quit the self-pitying hogwash, the “it’s-so-unfair-no one-recognizes-my-genius-and-he’s-cleaning-up-in-royalties” sobbing, and just sit down and read his work, I was moved. Collins takes the simplistic and finds the divine. Sure it’s minimalist. Sure some of his poems will fall flat, cause you to shrug and say, “So?”. But others will stop you in their tracks. I’ll attach a favorite of mine here at the bottom, and you can do with it what you will. All I know is that I read the last four lines of that poem about 6 years ago, and I’ve never forgotten them.
So get over yourself, grow up and come listen to one of the most important (for better or worse) poets of our time. Encourage young people to go. It’s Collins’ very accessibility that has inspired a lot of young people who never bothered to work through poetry a doorway into the form. Don’t let your pride get in the way of that.
Billy Collins, “On Turning Ten”
The whole idea of it makes me feel
like I’m coming down with something,
something worse than any stomach ache
or the headaches I get from reading in bad light–
a kind of measles of the spirit,
a mumps of the psyche,
a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul.
You tell me it is too early to be looking back,
but that is because you have forgotten
the perfect simplicity of being one
and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.
But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.
At four I was an Arabian wizard.
I could make myself invisible
by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.
At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince.
But now I am mostly at the window
watching the late afternoon light.
Back then it never fell so solemnly
against the side of my tree house,
and my bicycle never leaned against the garage
as it does today,
all the dark blue speed drained out of it.
This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself,
as I walk through the universe in my sneakers.
It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends,
time to turn the first big number.
It seems only yesterday I used to believe
there was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me I could shine.
But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,
I skin my knees. I bleed.