I love Billy Collins so would like to share one of his poems with you today.
Workshop
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.
Billy Collins
A grey pony in a Welsh field, glimpsed from a wood last Sunday.
Horses make a landscape look beautiful.
Alice Walker
I have also been next door today, do call by.
Cait, I am also an admirer of Billy Collins' way with words, and thank you for letting me see this poem.
ReplyDeleteThank you also for that beautiful photograph of the landscape enhanced by the presence of a splendid pony.
May I also thank you for the invites to click over to "next door" where some very fine photographs and wise words are always to be found.
So very cold here in New York. I want to take my camera and myself out for a walk, but just cannot get that though into motion while the temperature lingers below freezing.
Guess I do not wish to suffer too much for art! xo