Embedded Files
Dubbed “the most popular poet in America” by Bruce Weber in the New York Times, Billy Collins is famous for conversational, witty poems that welcome readers with humor but often slip into quirky, tender, or profound observation on the everyday, reading and writing, and poetry itself. Collins was born in 1941 in New York City. He earned a BA from the College of the Holy Cross, and both an MA and PhD from the University of California-Riverside. From 2001-2003, he was appointed the Poet Laureate of the United States. As U.S. Poet Laureate, Collins read his poem The Names at a special joint session of the United States Congress on September 6, 2002, held to remember the victims of the 9/11 attacks. Though, unlike their British counterparts, U.S. poets laureate are not asked or expected to write occasional poetry, Collins was asked by the Librarian of Congress to write a poem especially for that event. Collins initially refused to read "The Names" in public, though he has read it two times in public since 2002. He vowed not to include it in any of his books, refusing to capitalize on the 9/11 attacks. As of 2020, he is a teacher in the MFA program at Stony Brook Southampton.
Live Readings
Live Readings
Poems
Poems
Another Reason Why I Don’t Keep A Gun In The House
The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.He is barking the same high, rhythmic barkthat he barks every time they leave the house.They must switch him on on their way out. The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.I close all the windows in the houseand put on a Beethoven symphony full blastbut I can still hear him muffled under the music,barking, barking, barking, and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,his head raised confidently as if Beethovenhad included a part for barking dog. When the record finally ends he is still barking,sitting there in the oboe section barking,his eyes fixed on the conductor who isentreating him with his baton while the other musicians listen in respectfulsilence to the famous barking dog solo,that endless coda that first establishedBeethoven as an innovative genius.
The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.He is barking the same high, rhythmic barkthat he barks every time they leave the house.They must switch him on on their way out. The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.I close all the windows in the houseand put on a Beethoven symphony full blastbut I can still hear him muffled under the music,barking, barking, barking, and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,his head raised confidently as if Beethovenhad included a part for barking dog. When the record finally ends he is still barking,sitting there in the oboe section barking,his eyes fixed on the conductor who isentreating him with his baton while the other musicians listen in respectfulsilence to the famous barking dog solo,that endless coda that first establishedBeethoven as an innovative genius.
The Trouble with Poetry: A Poem of Explanation
The trouble with poetry, I realizedas I walked along a beach one night --cold Florida sand under my bare feet,a show of stars in the sky --
the trouble with poetry isthat it encourages the writing of more poetry,more guppies crowding the fish tank,more baby rabbitshopping out of their mothers into the dewy grass.
And how will it ever end?unless the day finally arriveswhen we have compared everything in the worldto everything else in the world,
and there is nothing left to dobut quietly close our notebooksand sit with our hands folded on our desks.
Poetry fills me with joyand I rise like a feather in the wind.Poetry fills me with sorrowand I sink like a chain flung from a bridge.
But mostly poetry fills mewith the urge to write poetry,to sit in the dark and wait for a little flameto appear at the tip of my pencil.
And along with that, the longing to steal,to break into the poems of otherswith a flashlight and a ski mask.
And what an unmerry band of thieves we are,cut-purses, common shoplifters,I thought to myselfas a cold wave swirled around my feetand the lighthouse moved its megaphone over the sea,which is an image I stole directlyfrom Lawrence Ferlinghetti --to be perfectly honest for a moment --
the bicycling poet of San Franciscowhose little amusement park of a bookI carried in a side pocket of my uniformup and down the treacherous halls of high school.
--from THE TROUBLE WITH POETRY (2007)
The trouble with poetry, I realizedas I walked along a beach one night --cold Florida sand under my bare feet,a show of stars in the sky --
the trouble with poetry isthat it encourages the writing of more poetry,more guppies crowding the fish tank,more baby rabbitshopping out of their mothers into the dewy grass.
And how will it ever end?unless the day finally arriveswhen we have compared everything in the worldto everything else in the world,
and there is nothing left to dobut quietly close our notebooksand sit with our hands folded on our desks.
Poetry fills me with joyand I rise like a feather in the wind.Poetry fills me with sorrowand I sink like a chain flung from a bridge.
But mostly poetry fills mewith the urge to write poetry,to sit in the dark and wait for a little flameto appear at the tip of my pencil.
And along with that, the longing to steal,to break into the poems of otherswith a flashlight and a ski mask.
And what an unmerry band of thieves we are,cut-purses, common shoplifters,I thought to myselfas a cold wave swirled around my feetand the lighthouse moved its megaphone over the sea,which is an image I stole directlyfrom Lawrence Ferlinghetti --to be perfectly honest for a moment --
the bicycling poet of San Franciscowhose little amusement park of a bookI carried in a side pocket of my uniformup and down the treacherous halls of high school.
--from THE TROUBLE WITH POETRY (2007)
I Chop Some Parsley While Listening to Art Blakey’s Version of “Three Blind Mice”
I Chop Some Parsley While Listening to Art Blakey’s Version of “Three Blind Mice”
And I start wondering how they came to be blind.
If it was congenital, they could be brothers and sister,
and I think of the poor mother
brooding over her sightless young triplets.
Or was it a common accident, all three caught
in a searing explosion, a firework perhaps?
If not,
if each came to his or her blindness separately,
how did they ever manage to find one another?
Would it not be difficult for a blind mouse
to locate even one fellow mouse with vision
let alone two other blind ones?
And how, in their tiny darkness,
could they possibly have run after a farmer’s wife
or anyone else’s wife for that matter?
Not to mention why.
Just so she could cut off their tails
with a carving knife, is the cynic’s answer,
but the thought of them without eyes
and now without tails to trail through the moist grass
or slip around the corner of a baseboard
has the cynic who always lounges within me
up off his couch and at the window
trying to hide the rising softness that he feels.
By now I am on to dicing an onion
which might account for the wet stinging
in my own eyes, though Freddie Hubbard’s
mournful trumpet on “Blue Moon,”
which happens to be the next cut,
cannot be said to be making matters any better.
Recommended Titles
Recommended Titles
Page updated
Google Sites
Report abuse