Billy for Bogus

[annaswirls]

This made me giggle. Only a poet chick could have a fantasy about domming Billy Collins.

only a true poet chick would plant the fantasy into another poet chicks mind and then stir it back up again....

and you know there will be poetry born of this merger

you think I can come get him to passion it out with me here? What does he like? We need some Billy bait.

 

[Angeline]

The ultimate Billy relationship poem

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.

 

[Angeline]

only a true poet chick would plant the fantasy into another poet chicks mind and then stir it back up again....

and you know there will be poetry born of this merger

you think I can come get him to passion it out with me here? What does he like? We need some Billy bait.

We've never met, but I think he's hawt. In a poetic sorta way.

 

[RhymeFairy]

This made me giggle. Only a poet chick could have a fantasy about domming Billy Collins.

Now you ALL have done it. Went and picked one of my fav.
poets and someone ELSE wants to Dom him ... Grrr !!

I Love love love his poetry. He is funny and very dry witted
about things, ( IMHO ). I can just see him all tied up ready for ... me.

First he would start reciting poetry of others then his own, begging for ... Continuing on he starts writing in air, BOWING to my beauty and grace with a with a whip. Secret fantasies start pouring outta him like sand in an hour glass. Eyes eagerly watching as I move feathers along his body, oil his tired muscles and nip at his throat. Yes, he loves those satin Blood red ties, binding him to the bed. Pulling a sonnet outta thin air, he whispers his wants ... I would let him watch ... as I slowly undressed, button by button, zip by zip. Sensually massaging my tits as his tongue darts out, he can taste me, not really, but he begs ... and begs ...

Yes, I would most def. like my turn at Billy Collins,
So ......... Where do I sign up?



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Victoria's Secret

The one in the upper-left-hand corner
is giving me a look
that says I know you are here
and I have nothing better to do
for the remainder of human time
than return your persistent but engaging stare.
She is wearing a deeply scalloped
flame-stitch halter top
with padded push-up styling
and easy side-zip tap pants.


The one on the facing page, however,
who looks at me over her bare shoulder,
cannot hide the shadow of annoyance in her brow.
You have interrupted me,
she seems to be saying,
with your coughing and your loud music.
Now please leave me alone;
let me finish whatever it was I was doing
in my organza-trimmed
whisperweight camisole with
keyhole closure and point d'esprit mesh back.


I wet my thumb and flip the page.
Here, the one who happens to be reclining
in a satin and lace merry widow
with an inset lace-up front,
decorated underwire cups and bodice
with lace ruffles along the bottom
and hook-and-eye closure in the back,
is wearing a slightly contorted expression,
her head thrust back, mouth partially open,
a confusing mixture of pain and surprise
as if she had stepped on a tack
just as I was breaking down
her bedroom door with my shoulder.


Nor does the one directly beneath her
looking particularly happy to see me.
She is arching one eyebrow slightly
as if to say, so what if I am wearing nothing
but this stretch panne velvet bodysuit
with a low sweetheart neckline
featuring molded cups and adjustable straps.
Do you have a problem with that?!


The one on the far right is easier to take,
her eyes half-closed
as if she were listening to a medley
of lullabies playing faintly on a music box.
Soon she will drop off to sleep,
her head nestled in the soft crook of her arm,
and later she will wake up in her
Spandex slip dress with the high side slit,
deep scoop neckline, elastic shirring,
and concealed back zip and vent.


But opposite her,
stretched out catlike on a couch
in the warm glow of a paneled library,
is one who wears a distinctly challenging expression,
her face tipped up, exposing
her long neck, her perfectly flared nostrils.
Go ahead, her expression tells me,
take off my satin charmeuse gown
with a sheer, jacquard bodice
decorated with a touch of shimmering Lurex.
Go ahead, fling it into the fireplace.
What do I care, her eyes say, we're all going to hell anyway.


I have other mail to open,
but I cannot help noticing her neighbor
whose eyes are downcast,
her head ever so demurely bowed to the side
as if she were the model who sat for Coreggio
when he painted "The Madonna of St. Jerome,"
only, it became so ungodly hot in Parma
that afternoon, she had to remove
the traditional blue robe
and pose there in his studio
in a beautifully shaped satin teddy
with an embossed V-front,
princess seaming to mold the bodice,
and puckered knit detail.


And occupying the whole facing page
is one who displays that expression
we have come to associate with photographic beauty.
Yes, she is pouting about something,
all lower lip and cheekbone.
Perhaps her ice cream has tumbled
out of its cone onto the parquet floor.
Perhaps she has been waiting all day
for a new sofa to be delivered,
waiting all day in stretch lace hipster
with lattice edging, satin frog closures,
velvet scrollwork, cuffed ankles,
flare silhouette, and knotted shoulder straps
available in black, champagne, almond,
cinnabar, plum, bronze, mocha,
peach, ivory, caramel, blush, butter, rose, and periwinkle.
It is, of course, impossible to say,
impossible to know what she is thinking,
why her mouth is the shape of petulance.


But this is already too much.
Who has the time to linger on these delicate
lures, these once unmentionable things?
Life is rushing by like a mad, swollen river.
One minute roses are opening in the garden
and the next, snow is flying past my window.
Plus the phone is ringing.
The dog is whining at the door.
Rain is beating on the roof.
And as always there is a list of things I have to do
before the night descends, black and silky,
and the dark hours begin to hurtle by,
before the little doors of the body swing shut
and I ride to sleep, my closed eyes
still burning from all the glossy lights of day.

~~ Billy Collins

Who WOULD NOT wanna Dom him?
Mmmmmmmmmmm ~

 

[Angeline]

Now you ALL have done it. Went and picked one of my fav.
poets and someone ELSE wants to Dom him ... Grrr !!

I Love love love his poetry. He is funny and very dry witted
about things, ( IMHO ). I can just see him all tied up ready for ... me.

First he would start reciting poetry of others then his own, begging for ... Continuing on he starts writing in air, BOWING to my beauty and grace with a with a whip. Secret fantasies start pouring outta him like sand in an hour glass. Eyes eagerly watching as I move feathers along his body, oil his tired muscles and nip at his throat. Yes, he loves those satin Blood red ties, binding him to the bed. Pulling a sonnet outta thin air, he whispers his wants ... I would let him watch ... as I slowly undressed, button by button, zip by zip. Sensually massaging my tits as his tongue darts out, he can taste me, not really, but he begs ... and begs ...

Yes, I would most def. like my turn at Billy Collins,
So ......... Where do I sign up?



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Victoria's Secret

The one in the upper-left-hand corner
is giving me a look
that says I know you are here
and I have nothing better to do
for the remainder of human time
than return your persistent but engaging stare.
She is wearing a deeply scalloped
flame-stitch halter top
with padded push-up styling
and easy side-zip tap pants.


The one on the facing page, however,
who looks at me over her bare shoulder,
cannot hide the shadow of annoyance in her brow.
You have interrupted me,
she seems to be saying,
with your coughing and your loud music.
Now please leave me alone;
let me finish whatever it was I was doing
in my organza-trimmed
whisperweight camisole with
keyhole closure and point d'esprit mesh back.


I wet my thumb and flip the page.
Here, the one who happens to be reclining
in a satin and lace merry widow
with an inset lace-up front,
decorated underwire cups and bodice
with lace ruffles along the bottom
and hook-and-eye closure in the back,
is wearing a slightly contorted expression,
her head thrust back, mouth partially open,
a confusing mixture of pain and surprise
as if she had stepped on a tack
just as I was breaking down
her bedroom door with my shoulder.


Nor does the one directly beneath her
looking particularly happy to see me.
She is arching one eyebrow slightly
as if to say, so what if I am wearing nothing
but this stretch panne velvet bodysuit
with a low sweetheart neckline
featuring molded cups and adjustable straps.
Do you have a problem with that?!


The one on the far right is easier to take,
her eyes half-closed
as if she were listening to a medley
of lullabies playing faintly on a music box.
Soon she will drop off to sleep,
her head nestled in the soft crook of her arm,
and later she will wake up in her
Spandex slip dress with the high side slit,
deep scoop neckline, elastic shirring,
and concealed back zip and vent.


But opposite her,
stretched out catlike on a couch
in the warm glow of a paneled library,
is one who wears a distinctly challenging expression,
her face tipped up, exposing
her long neck, her perfectly flared nostrils.
Go ahead, her expression tells me,
take off my satin charmeuse gown
with a sheer, jacquard bodice
decorated with a touch of shimmering Lurex.
Go ahead, fling it into the fireplace.
What do I care, her eyes say, we're all going to hell anyway.


I have other mail to open,
but I cannot help noticing her neighbor
whose eyes are downcast,
her head ever so demurely bowed to the side
as if she were the model who sat for Coreggio
when he painted "The Madonna of St. Jerome,"
only, it became so ungodly hot in Parma
that afternoon, she had to remove
the traditional blue robe
and pose there in his studio
in a beautifully shaped satin teddy
with an embossed V-front,
princess seaming to mold the bodice,
and puckered knit detail.


And occupying the whole facing page
is one who displays that expression
we have come to associate with photographic beauty.
Yes, she is pouting about something,
all lower lip and cheekbone.
Perhaps her ice cream has tumbled
out of its cone onto the parquet floor.
Perhaps she has been waiting all day
for a new sofa to be delivered,
waiting all day in stretch lace hipster
with lattice edging, satin frog closures,
velvet scrollwork, cuffed ankles,
flare silhouette, and knotted shoulder straps
available in black, champagne, almond,
cinnabar, plum, bronze, mocha,
peach, ivory, caramel, blush, butter, rose, and periwinkle.
It is, of course, impossible to say,
impossible to know what she is thinking,
why her mouth is the shape of petulance.


But this is already too much.
Who has the time to linger on these delicate
lures, these once unmentionable things?
Life is rushing by like a mad, swollen river.
One minute roses are opening in the garden
and the next, snow is flying past my window.
Plus the phone is ringing.
The dog is whining at the door.
Rain is beating on the roof.
And as always there is a list of things I have to do
before the night descends, black and silky,
and the dark hours begin to hurtle by,
before the little doors of the body swing shut
and I ride to sleep, my closed eyes
still burning from all the glossy lights of day.

~~ Billy Collins

Who WOULD NOT wanna Dom him?
Mmmmmmmmmmm ~

My gosh, we'd kill him. Eve, Anna, WSO, Boo, me, you? All working him over and making him recite our favorite poems by him.

No Billy, no. The one about the barking dog. No the jazz one! No the best cigarette! C'mon Billy, faster! Faster!

Eagleyez is standing over my shoulder, reading as I type, just rolling his eyes in wonderment and saying "Jaysuz."

lol.

 

[wildsweetone]

so should we be saying poor Billy, or poor Eagleyez, at this point?

 

[annaswirls]

so should we be saying poor Billy, or poor Eagleyez, at this point?

um, I think lucky Billy, luckier Eagleyez would be called for.

RF I think I would make him guess which of his poems is my favorites, and pluck out a single leg hair, saying NO WRONG! Bad Billy!

well you know it would be nice just to have a cup of coffee, or green tea... I just switched. I am not sure how it is going, but I think I will rule over the man until he breaks and growls and bites and lets out the beast he was meant to be

 

[wildsweetone]

from coffee to green tea? that's some switch! i'm impressed.

 

[RhymeFairy]

um, I think lucky Billy, luckier Eagleyez would be called for.

RF I think I would make him guess which of his poems is my favorites, and pluck out a single leg hair, saying NO WRONG! Bad Billy!
well you know it would be nice just to have a cup of coffee, or green tea... I just switched. I am not sure how it is going, but I think I will rule over the man until he breaks and growls and bites and lets out the beast he was meant to be

Yes !!! Great idea Anna
How about a spanking, and a whip cream dollop
( you can guess where ) for every wrong answer.
Let'm watch while we play ... with it.

Mmmm sexy n Schweett !!!

This is my Fav poem of his. Have no clue why,
maybe you ... can tell me why.


Purity


My favorite time to write is in the late afternoon,
weekdays, particularly Wednesdays.
This is how I go about it:
I take a fresh pot of tea into my study and close the door.
Then I remove my clothes and leave them in a pile
as if I had melted to death and my legacy consisted of only
a white shirt, a pair of pants, and a pot of cold tea.

Then I remove my flesh and hang it over a chair.
I slide it off my bones like a silken garment.
I do this so that what I write will be pure,
completely rinsed of the carnal,
uncontaminated by the preoccupations of the body.

Finally I remove each of my organs and arrange them
on a small table near the window.
I do not want to hear their ancient rhythms
when I am trying to tap out my own drumbeat.

Now I sit down at the desk, ready to begin.
I am entirely pure: nothing but a skeleton at a typewriter.

I should mention that sometimes I leave my penis on.
I find it diffcult to ignore the temptation.
Then I am a skeleton with a penis at a typewriter.

In this condition I write extraordinary love poems,
most of them exploiting the connection between sex and death.

I am concentration itself: I exist in a universe
where there is nothing but sex, death, and typewriting.

After a spell of this I remove my penis too.
Then I am all skull and bones typing into the afternoon.
Just the absolute essentials, no flounces.
Now I write only about death, most classical of themes
in language light as the air between my ribs.

Afterward, I reward myself by going for a drive at sunset.
I replace my organs and slip back into my flesh
and clothes. Then I back the car out of the garage
and speed through woods on winding country roads,
passing stone walls, farmhouses, and frozen ponds,
all perfectly arranged like words in a famous sonnet.



~~ Billy Collins


What a tail eh ~

 

[cjh]

this is the one i read to a favorite child who told me he doesn't like "pomes."

Introduction to Poetry

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

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into the 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 water ski
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.

i don't think my little friend is ready for victoria's secret.

 

[bogusbrig]

Well I read him for an hour or so last night and I didn't get any alergic reactions. Hmm He's actually OK or that's my assessment so far but looking at the reactions on this thread I'm wondering if he isn't a bit of a girly poet. I'm still not sure whether I should be taking him seriously or not. He's very laid back and he doesn't come across as prentious or showing off his poetic muscles, which is a plus but makes me wonder if he has got any. The assessment will continue over the weekend.

 

[Angeline]

Well I read him for an hour or so last night and I didn't get any alergic reactions. Hmm He's actually OK or that's my assessment so far but looking at the reactions on this thread I'm wondering if he isn't a bit of a girly poet. I'm still not sure whether I should be taking him seriously or not. He's very laid back and he doesn't come across as prentious or showing off his poetic muscles, which is a plus but makes me wonder if he has got any. The assessment will continue over the weekend.

A girly poet? You're such a snob. Hmmmph.

 

[Angeline]

this is the one i read to a favorite child who told me he doesn't like "pomes."

Introduction to Poetry

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

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into the 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 water ski
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.

i don't think my little friend is ready for victoria's secret.

Hiya Jackie!



I'm comin home this afternoon and listening to Los Lobos...while I burn discs. *nods*

Bet you didn't share this one with your little friend either.

Pinup

The murkiness of the local garage is not so dense
that you cannot make out the calendar of pinup
drawings on the wall above a bench of tools.
Your ears are ringing with the sound of
the mechanic hammering on your exhaust pipe,
and as you look closer you notice that this month's
is not the one pushing the lawn mower, wearing
a straw hat and very short blue shorts,
her shirt tied in a knot just below her breasts.
Nor is it the one in the admiral's cap, bending
forward, resting her hands on a wharf piling,
glancing over the tiny anchors on her shoulders.
No, this is March, the month of great winds,
so appropriately it is the one walking her dog
along a city sidewalk on a very blustery day.
One hand is busy keeping her hat down on her head
and the other is grasping the little dog's leash,
so of course there is no hand left to push down
her dress which is billowing up around her waist
exposing her long stockinged legs and yes the secret
apparatus of her garter belt. Needless to say,
in the confusion of wind and excited dog
the leash has wrapped itself around her ankles
several times giving her a rather bridled
and helpless appearance which is added to
by the impossibly high heels she is teetering on.
You would like to come to her rescue,
gather up the little dog in your arms,
untangle the leash, lead her to safety,
and receive her bottomless gratitude, but
the mechanic is calling you over to look
at something under your car. It seems that he has
run into a problem and the job is going
to cost more than he had said and take
much longer than he had thought.
Well, it can't be helped, you hear yourself say
as you return to your place by the workbench,
knowing that as soon as the hammering resumes
you will slowly lift the bottom of the calendar
just enough to reveal a glimpse of what
the future holds in store: ah,
the red polka dot umbrella of April and her
upturned palm extended coyly into the rain.

 

[cjh]

Hiya Jackie!



I'm comin home this afternoon and listening to Los Lobos...while I burn discs. *nods*

Bet you didn't share this one with your little friend either.

Pinup

The murkiness of the local garage is not so dense
that you cannot make out the calendar of pinup
<snip>
Well, it can't be helped, you hear yourself say
as you return to your place by the workbench,
knowing that as soon as the hammering resumes
you will slowly lift the bottom of the calendar
just enough to reveal a glimpse of what
the future holds in store: ah,
the red polka dot umbrella of April and her
upturned palm extended coyly into the rain.

heh.

that one reminds me of my father. he was an engineer, and always received that very calendar from tool companies. i wonder if he still has any tucked away in his garage.

fall finally showed up. in earnest. leaves on the ground AND it hit the 30s.

here's an excerpt from nostalgia that makes me smile.

Remember the 1340s? We we doing a dance called
the Catapult.
You always wore brown, the color craze of the decade,
and I was draped in one of those capes that were popular,
the ones with unicorns and pomegranates in needlework.
Everyone would pause for beer and onions in the afternoon,
and at night we would play a game called "Find the Cow."
Everything was hand-lettered then, not like today.

 

[Angeline]

heh.

that one reminds me of my father. he was an engineer, and always received that very calendar from tool companies. i wonder if he still has any tucked away in his garage.

fall finally showed up. in earnest. leaves on the ground AND it hit the 30s.

here's an excerpt from nostalgia that makes me smile.

Remember the 1340s? We we doing a dance called
the Catapult.
You always wore brown, the color craze of the decade,
and I was draped in one of those capes that were popular,
the ones with unicorns and pomegranates in needlework.
Everyone would pause for beer and onions in the afternoon,
and at night we would play a game called "Find the Cow."
Everything was hand-lettered then, not like today.

I know that poem well. It always makes me laugh.

You probably know this one--I think it's rather well known. And you seem to know just about everything anyway.

It's a great kid poem. I've actually taught this one.

Snow Day

Today we woke up to a revolution of snow,
its white flag waving over everything,
the landscape vanished,
not a single mouse to punctuate the blankness,
and beyond these windows

the government buildings smothered,
schools and libraries buried, the post office lost
under the noiseless drift,
the paths of trains softly blocked,
the world fallen under this falling.

In a while I will put on some boots
and step out like someone walking in water,
and the dog will porpoise through the drifts,
and I will shake a laden branch,
sending a cold shower down on us both.

But for now I am a willing prisoner in this house,
a sympathizer with the anarchic cause of snow.
I will make a pot of tea
and listen to the plastic radio on the counter,
as glad as anyone to hear the news

that the Kiddie Corner School is closed,
the Ding-Dong School, closed,
the All Aboard Children's School, closed,
the Hi-Ho Nursery School, closed,
along with -- some will be delighted to hear --

the Toadstool School, the Little School,
Little Sparrows Nursery School,
Little Stars Pre-School, Peas-and-Carrots Day School,
the Tom Thumb Child Center, all closed,
and -- clap your hands -- the Peanuts Play School.

So this is where the children hide all day,
These are the nests where they letter and draw,
where they put on their bright miniature jackets,
all darting and climbing and sliding,
all but the few girls whispering by the fence.

And now I am listening hard
in the grandiose silence of the snow,
trying to hear what those three girls are plotting,
what riot is afoot,
which small queen is about to be brought down.

 

[bogusbrig]

A girly poet? You're such a snob. Hmmmph.

I do my best Angeline, I do my best.

 

[BooMerengue]

I do my best Angeline, I do my best.

See?? (laughing)

 

[Angeline]

I do my best Angeline, I do my best.

Ah you've had it easy here so far. I'm a saint compared to the pressure you'll have if, oh say, Anna, Eve, Lauren, Tess, and Boo were to decide to really get after you along with me. You just don't know, lol. I've seen some frightening girly-pack attacks in my years here. The staunchest are humbled by our pure woman power.

You don't know JUDO, but if you get too haughty I'll get her to make a guest appearance. Hahahahahahaha.

So watch it.

 

[bogusbrig]

Ah you've had it easy here so far. I'm a saint compared to the pressure you'll have if, oh say, Anna, Eve, Lauren, Tess, and Boo were to decide to really get after you along with me. You just don't know, lol. I've seen some frightening girly-pack attacks in my years here. The staunchest are humbled by our pure woman power.

You don't know JUDO, but if you get too haughty I'll get her to make a guest appearance. Hahahahahahaha.

So watch it.

Oops! It looks like it's time to read some more Billy Collins and find something good to say about him.

*Bogus creeps out of the room in hope of avoiding flying domestic appliances*

 

[Angeline]

Oops! It looks like it's time to read some more Billy Collins and find something good to say about him.

*Bogus creeps out of the room in hope of avoiding flying domestic appliances*

Eve, are you reading this thread? Doesn't he like to live dangerously?

I tell ya Bogus...right on the precipice.

 

[bogusbrig]

OK Under Angeline's influence I've been reading Billy Collins again this morning and I'm struggling to form an opinion. Usually I form pretty strong opinions quite quickly, though they are never set in concrete and I'm always happy to admit the error of my ways. However, not having a strong opinion is unusual for me which leaves Billy Collins somewhere in no mans land in my brain. He is inoffensive which might be the problem, his poetry is low key and laid back.

I'm going to carry on reading him to see if I can form an opinion one way or the other. I'd be grateful if anyone could put forward an argument as to why he is good or bad.

 

[twelveoone]

OK Under Angeline's influence I've been reading Billy Collins again this morning and I'm struggling to form an opinion. Usually I form pretty strong opinions quite quickly, though they are never set in concrete and I'm always happy to admit the error of my ways. However, not having a strong opinion is unusual for me which leaves Billy Collins somewhere in no mans land in my brain. He is inoffensive which might be the problem, his poetry is low key and laid back.

I'm going to carry on reading him to see if I can form an opinion one way or the other. I'd be grateful if anyone could put forward an argument as to why he is good or bad.

He's funny Bog. He's funny.

Fishing on the Susquehanna in July
by Billy Collins

I have never been fishing on the Susquehanna

or on any river for that matter

to be perfectly honest.



Not in July or any month

have I had the pleasure--if it is a pleasure--

of fishing on the Susquehanna.



I am more likely to be found

in a quiet room like this one--

a painting of a woman on the wall,



a bowl of tangerines on the table--

trying to manufacture the sensation

of fishing on the Susquehanna.



There is little doubt

that others have been fishing

on the Susquehanna,



rowing upstream in a wooden boat,

sliding the oars under the water

then raising them to drip in the light.



But the nearest I have ever come to


fishing on the Susquehanna

was one afternoon in a museum in Philadelphia



when I balanced a little egg of time

in front of a painting

in which that river curled around a bend



under a blue cloud-ruffled sky,

dense trees along the banks,

and a fellow with a red bandanna



sitting in a small, green

flat-bottom boat

holding the thin whip of a pole.



That is something I am unlikely

ever to do, I remember

saying to myself and the person next to me.



Then I blinked and moved on

to other American scenes

of haystacks, water whitening over rocks,



even one of a brown hare

who seemed so wired with alertness

I imagined him springing right out of the frame.

Alright this wasn't riotous...
One can forgive him his stint as Poet Laureate for this, almost as funny as some of Eliot's stuff. What an opening line...

Nostalgia

Remember the 1340's? We were doing a dance called the Catapult.
You always wore brown, the color craze of the decade,
and I was draped in one of those capes that were popular,
the ones with unicorns and pomegranates in needlework.
Everyone would pause for beer and onions in the afternoon,
and at night we would play a game called "Find the Cow."
Everything was hand-lettered then, not like today.....

and he writes better than Bukowski, and just as funny.

 

[PatCarrington]

I'd be grateful if anyone could put forward an argument as to why he is good or bad.

Here’s mine:

I know the one thing that, to me, is the signal of a writer of quality, especially in poetry, but also in the more graceful prose I’ve read … Steinbeck, Hemingway, others.

That thing is high-end simplicity, the ability to touch the profound in simple ways, with simple language.

In my mind, a good poet knows that anything that stops a poem, that makes the reader stop reading for any reason other than to smile or sigh or gasp, could be a death knell to the work. When a reader stops reading, they may not come back, and I think good poets write verse that begs to be read from start to finish, without stopping.

Poets who have yet to cross over the hill of complexity back to simplicity seem to have a need to impress with all sorts of references that would send the average reader scurrying to the bookshelf for whatever reference material would do the trick.

It’s that old argument that Rybka (I think) used to cite in his sig line, a public tussle between Faulkner and Hemingway.

Faulkner (critically): Has Hemingway ever written a book where you might need a dictionary?

Hemingway: Poor Faulkner, does he really think big emotions come from big words?

I think that is Billy Collins’ biggest strength, higher-level simplicity.

There are others things that impress me in poets that Billy Collins does not have. But he certainly does have a sophisticated understanding and advanced handle on his language, and his audience, and the ability to touch deep emotions with simple images and phrasing.

I do not think he is a perfect poet. I just think he’s damn good, one of the better American poets I’ve read.

 

[twelveoone]

Doch,
I had to look up:
unicorns and pomegranates and needlework and "Find the Cow"

 

[PatCarrington]

Doch,
I had to look up:
unicorns and pomegranates and needlework and "Find the Cow"

whether you did or didn't, the words still carry themselves...the understanding ( or the bulk of it ) is there anyway, even without full grasp on references.

is it necessary, for example, to even know if there was a game called "Find the Cow" to understand that things were simpler, that so many things were brown - the poetry and comedy come through, regardless.

it is the same way with Eliot ( you know this ) - in 'Wasteland" the words carry themselves. Even if you have never read the Bible, even if you do not get the references, the words still ring pure and true.

some things may be lost (and gained with exploration - which can be done later ), but the language rings as clearly as a bell.

the quality of the reader comes into play also, of course...not referring to you and "Nostalgia" here, but any reader, of any piece.

it is a complex thing, reading - all have differing skill levels and tastes.

but simple words should carry for almost everyone.