Billy Collins, With Digression
13 November 2002

The English Department at my university was given a grant by an alumnus specifically to pay to bring in poets to speak (isn't that a cool grant?). Last year they brought in the New Jersey Poet Laureate (it was Gerald Stern at the time), and this year they brought in the U.S. Poet Laureate.

I'm a little embarrassed to admit I'd never heard of Billy Collins until the flyers started going up, and I actually forgot to look him up before I went to go see him speak. My seminar professor was lovely and took the whole class over in lieu of discussing Salman Rushdie (which was good on another level, too, because the GRE kept me from finishing the book). After he began to read, I was glad I hadn't read anything beforehand. I'd forgotten how wonderful it is to discover someone's writing for the first time by having it read aloud to you.

He read for about an hour. His poems are very accessible, but in a way that also leaves you feeling very smart. When he read "On Turning Ten," I was very proud of myself for getting the Shelley reference immediately (see stanza four of "Ode To the West Wind"). They read very conversationally - often deceptively so. The humor sneaks up on you, especially when Mr. Collins himself is reading. He has a very dry delivery - not dry boring, just dry. It works. Some people should never read their own work. Mr. Collins is definitely not one of those people.

The hour flew by. I could have easily sat there for another, if only to hear him read more poetry like this (my favorite of the night):

Litany

You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine... -Jacques Crickillon

You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine.

~

I think that might make a really cool wedding reading for the right people.

Afterwards I bought a copy of one of his books and had him sign it. He was very nice. His reading and the things he said in between poems made me long to take a class with him. It also made me appreciate how lucky I have been to have had even a few professors who really made me fall in love all over again with the language and the literature. I got to see a couple of them last night. My interaction with my professors and discussions with undergrads at other (larger) institutions really make me see that I have been fortunate. I wasn't lost in a huge department; I was one of very few people not co-majoring in Education; I was part of a smaller program where I had an opportunity to have my professors get to know me. And maybe I got to know them a little, too. One gave me the gift of Romanticism. Another encouraged me through a long process of figuring out my path at the university. Both of these men brought subjects to life for me through humor and enthusiasm and the sheer size and power of their knowledge. I am lucky, and grateful. Perhaps they will never know how much (despite the cookies I sent as an inadequate thank you for helping me through the grad school application process and for writing me what I am sure are stellar recommendations). I don't know how many students go up to their professors and try to tell them how grateful they are - or even how many are grateful. I didn't want to finish at this university, and now part of me doesn't want to leave. That is a gift, and it is one they gave to me.

But I digress. I was happy to see three of my professors last night - I talked to one before hand and two after, and had a long conversation with my advisor. He told me I looked happy and stress-free and that it looked like marriage was agreeing with me (the first is true, the second mostly true, and the third an absolute). He told me he missed me in the class I'd had to drop (that was nice to hear). I teased him about how hard I'd heard the midterm had been. And we talked about the gift of hearing Billy Collins, and how wonderful the evening had been.

I'm a Romantic. I'm in love with the old style of poetry, with its cadence and rhythm. But before that, before Dr. V gave me that gift, I was in love with a more modern style. Through his humor and simplicity and obvious brilliance, Mr. Collins seems to be a sort of bridge between the two. It's been a long time since I looked up from Wordsworth to see what else was out there. While my heart will remain at Tintern Abbey, I plan to look around a little more. Just in case I find anything else like this:

Introduction to Poetry

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.

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