| Author | Message | ||
| ~M~
Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 30587 Registered: 11-1998 |
Dearest All -- I'm only posting this because I wanted to share. Most are probably already familiar with it, but for those who aren't, it should give you a few laughs. And who doesn't need a laugh or two on a Wednesday. If you want to hear Mr. Collins read it (which I highly recommend), you can do so here: Poets.org Workshop by Billy Collins I might as well begin by saying how much I like the title. It gets me right away because I’m in a workshop now so immediately the poem has my attention, like the Ancient Mariner grabbing me by the sleeve. And I like the first couple of stanzas, the way they establish this mode of self-pointing that runs through the whole poem and tells us that words are food thrown down on the ground for other words to eat. I can almost taste the tail of the snake in its own mouth, if you know what I mean. But what I’m not sure about is the voice, which sounds in places very casual, very blue jeans, but other times seems standoffish, professorial in the worst sense of the word like the poem is blowing pipe smoke in my face. But maybe that’s just what it wants to do. What I did find engaging were the middle stanzas, especially the fourth one. I like the image of clouds flying like lozenges which gives me a very clear picture. And I really like how this drawbridge operator just appears out of the blue with his feet up on the iron railing and his fishing pole jigging—I like jigging— a hook in the slow industrial canal below. I love slow industrial canal below. All those l’s. Maybe it’s just me, but the next stanza is where I start to have a problem. I mean how can the evening bump into the stars? And what’s an obbligato of snow? Also, I roam the decaffeinated streets. At that point I’m lost. I need help. The other thing that throws me off, and maybe this is just me, is the way the scene keeps shifting around. First, we’re in this big aerodrome and the speaker is inspecting a row of dirigibles, which makes me think this could be a dream. Then he takes us into his garden, the part with the dahlias and the coiling hose, though that’s nice, the coiling hose, but then I’m not sure where we’re supposed to be. The rain and the mint green light, that makes it feel outdoors, but what about this wallpaper? Or is it a kind of indoor cemetery? There’s something about death going on here. In fact, I start to wonder if what we have here is really two poems, or three, or four, or possibly none. But then there’s that last stanza, my favorite. This is where the poem wins me back, especially the lines spoken in the voice of the mouse. I mean we’ve all seen these images in cartoons before, but I still love the details he uses when he’s describing where he lives. The perfect little arch of an entrance in the baseboard, the bed made out of a curled-back sardine can, the spool of thread for a table. I start thinking about how hard the mouse had to work night after night collecting all these things while the people in the house were fast asleep, and that gives me a very strong feeling, a very powerful sense of something. But I don’t know if anyone else was feeling that. Maybe that was just me. Maybe that’s just the way I read it. Love, M | ||
| Fred Longworth
Senior Member Username: sandiegopoet Post Number: 4166 Registered: 05-2006 |
I used to read the above poem at an open-mic I hosted. From time to time, people would come up and ask me if I knew what poem Collins was critiquing in this poem. And could they maybe see it? And perhaps form their own opinion? And I would say, "No, it's an imaginary poem, abstracted from the thousands of awful poems Collins has encountered." Then they would counter, "Why would he want to write a critique of an imaginary poem, when there are so many real ones out there needing his advice?" At this point I would usually start to say something about didactic irony, and satire, but would stop myself. Instead, I would say, "What did you do to your hair? It really looks nice." As with a small child, distract them with candy. Derf Unofficial Forum Pariah -- recent victim of alien abduction -- I'm running out of places to store the bodies. | ||
| ~M~
Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 30588 Registered: 11-1998 |
Thanks for sharing your story, Derf. I'm not at all surprised at the reaction. I was going to read this at the next open mic of the Dead Drunk Poet's Society (no, they're really not called that, although it is steve's and my pet name for them *LOL* ), but I figured them being drunk and all, it would probably fly over their heads and land in their beer mugs. I like your interpretation, but have you noticed that the poem is actually speaking about itself ( i.e., "What I did find engaging were the middle stanzas,/ especially the fourth one" which is the start of the poem's actual fourth stanza)? Maybe you can tell them that, too, as you hand them the candy. I'm sure that will keep them wondering for days. Love, M | ||
| Rania S. Watts
Intermediate Member Username: cementcoveredcherries Post Number: 865 Registered: 04-2008 |
Dear M, Thank you so much for posting this, really enjoyed the read and after the recording. He has such a commanding voice when he reads. Best,  Rania S. Watts "You will hardly know who I am or what I mean" ~ Walt Whitman Cement Covered Cherries | ||
| Fred Longworth
Senior Member Username: sandiegopoet Post Number: 4167 Registered: 05-2006 |
The problem with the evening bumping into the stars is that it ALWAYS fails to say "excuse me." Maybe it's drunk on ether. Fred Unofficial Forum Pariah -- recent victim of alien abduction -- I'm running out of places to store the bodies. | ||
| Lazarus
Senior Member Username: lazarus Post Number: 3526 Registered: 10-2005 |
I would say it's an imaginary critique, abstracted from the thousands of critiques he has observed. But that's just me. -Laz |
