[[Billy Collins]] is the laureate of the everyday, capturing the lyrical nature of small moments. Some of the entries in this collection even cross into meta territory, poetry about poetry, or about a single poem. In any event, he is a one of a kind. There is no obfuscation, no riddles, no deeply inside jokes or references, as is so common of the poets of today who substitute the unknowable, untranslatable, or enigmatic for art. Each of the poems is clear in meaning without losing any lyrical mysticism. Why must modern poets purposely hide any meaning behind language or cute structure.

Highly Recommended!!!!!
5 bones!!!!! ( )

I think I'm in love. Billy Collins makes me smile, ponder, and wish I were a poet too. ( )

I didn't love every poem in this collection, but I did really enjoy three quarters of them and that exceeded my expectations by a whole lot.

I recommend Introduction to Poetry, Forgetfulness, Days, On Turning Ten, Marginalia , Dharma, Reading an Anthology of Chinese Poems of the Sung Dynasty, I Pause to Admire the Length and Clarity of Their Titles, and Insomnia.

I would so definitely read and buy more Billy Collins. I can believe I like poetry. When did this happen? ( )

We locate an adjective for the weather.
We announce that we are having a wonderful time.
We express the wish that you were here

and hide the wish that we were where you are,
walking back from the mailbox, your head lowered
as you read and turn the thin message in your hands.

A slice of this place, a length of white beach,
a piazza or carved spires of a cathedral
will pierce the familiar place where you remain,

and you will toss on the table this reversible display:
a few square inches of where we have strayed
and a compression of what we feel.
-from "American Sonnet"

In fairness, I should probably not have given Mr. Collins his second chance while I was taking a break from Marlon James' [b:Black Leopard, Red Wolf|40524312|Black Leopard, Red Wolf (The Dark Star Trilogy, #1)|Marlon James|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1538656386s/40524312.jpg|48215793], giving that man's words the space and rest to hurt me really properly. Nor should I have picked up this small volume immediately after finishing Roz Chast's meditation on her parents' dying days in [b:Can't We Talk about Something More Pleasant?|18594409|Can't We Talk about Something More Pleasant?|Roz Chast|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1421087235s/18594409.jpg|26340807]. But I have thirteen books out from the library and this seemed an easy one to get off the stack, and I really did need a break from Mr. James' wonderful-so-far book. So that is the state of your humble reviewer, a caveat in case any of you commit the folly of taking my not always humble opinion into account in what you read. Another caveat would be that when I find myself wishing a not so fond 'fuck you' to the poet in the midst of multiple poems, I think it best for all involved if I stop. Hence the DNF.

What has poor Mr. Collins done to earn such an impolite response? Perhaps not so much, besides waste my time and his. His poems are, after all, workmanlike examples of the craft, harmless meditations on teaching, chopping wood, the nature of reading and poetry, his parents deaths, all the waitpersons he's ever met and their someday deaths, and such. It's just that there's poetry for the sake of constructing a poem, issuing a musing (very like writing a postcard, I freely admit!), and then there's living a poem, tearing the words out of the desolation of life and death and bleeding them, sweating them into the shape of flame. To put it a different way, my very favorite poet right now is a stewardess who pours her struggles with identity, love, and her mother into beautiful burning meditations on her Tumblr, and her least trope would set Mr. Collins on fire. She won't ever be poet laureate. I doubt she'd even want to. She probably won't ever have a book of collected poems for me to set my five shining stars on. Maybe she wouldn't want that either. But I am the tiniest bit bitter about it.

Anyway, Mr. Collins and his poems are not horrible. He has his moments. (I see all of us reading ourselves away from ourselves,/straining in circles of light to find more light is brilliant! If only the rest of the poem were as good! A whole book of that, I would gladly crown with starlight!) But on the whole, if you want poetry, find you some real poetry. This is just postcards from where poetry is supposed to live. ( )

The two-time poet laureate of the Untied States is perhaps on of the most readable poets today. He has a unique knack for taking the mundane and making it interesting. I have read several of his collections and have enjoyed them all.

"Bar Time" is an interesting reflection. Clocks in bars are set fifteen minutes ahead of the current time to prevent violating the law of serving after hours. Collins take a different view of the time difference. He sees the bar as a time machine putting him fifteen minutes ahead of those people he sees walking outside. A window to the past and comfortably ahead of the cares and concerns of those outside. After a few drinks, one could easily form this story in their head.

"The History Teacher" looks at the education of our children and the softening of history. The Ice Age is the Chilly Age, The Spanish inquisition is simple inquiries by the Spanish, The Enola Gay dropped an atom on Japan, and the Boer War becomes the Bore War of old stories. The fun Collins has with names of events can be seen as humorous or as the failure of the education system:

The children leave his classroom
for the playground to torment the weak
and the smart
mussing up their hair and breaking their glasses,

"Pinup" is about a bored man sitting in a mechanics garage while his car is being worked on. His mind drifts to the calendar on the of a pinup girl and what she is doing and wearing. He becomes absorbed at looking a the picture and almost misses the mechanics call for him to come over. Once there the mechanic shows him that the problem is more expensive than originally thought. The man concludes that it can't be helped and returns to his seat and lifts the calendar to the next month and sees a new pinup girl and story.

These above poems are from his selected works which make up most of the collection. The new poems are only a handful. This is unfortunate but like the man in the garage we can always go back and become absorbed in the previous poems again. ( )