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Whale Day: And Other Poems
Goodreads Choice Award
Nominee for Readers' Favorite Poetry (2020)A wondrous collection from Billy Collins, former U.S. Poet Laureate and New York Times bestselling author of The Rain in Portugal
Whale Day brings together more than fifty poems and showcases the deft mixing of the playful and the serious that has made Billy Collins one of our country's most celebrated and widely read poets. Here are poems that leap with whimsy and imagination, yet stay grounded in the familiar, common things of everyday experience. Collins takes us for a walk with an impossibly ancient dog, discovers the original way to eat a banana, meets an Irish spider, and even invites us to his own funeral. Sensitive to the wonders of being alive as well as the thrill of mortality, Whale Day builds on and amplifies Collins's reputation as one of America's most interesting and durable poets.
Whale Day brings together more than fifty poems and showcases the deft mixing of the playful and the serious that has made Billy Collins one of our country's most celebrated and widely read poets. Here are poems that leap with whimsy and imagination, yet stay grounded in the familiar, common things of everyday experience. Collins takes us for a walk with an impossibly ancient dog, discovers the original way to eat a banana, meets an Irish spider, and even invites us to his own funeral. Sensitive to the wonders of being alive as well as the thrill of mortality, Whale Day builds on and amplifies Collins's reputation as one of America's most interesting and durable poets.
144 pages, Paperback
First published September 29, 2020
190 people are currently reading
7283 people want to read
About the author
Billy Collins
150 books1,616 followersWilliam James Collins is an American poet who served as the Poet Laureate of the United States from 2001 to 2003. He was a Distinguished Professor at Lehman College of the City University of New York, retiring in 2016. Collins was recognized as a Literary Lion of the New York Public Library (1992) and selected as the New York State Poet for 2004 through 2006. In 2016, Collins was inducted into the American Academy of Arts and Letters. As of 2020, he is a teacher in the MFA program at Stony Brook Southampton.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 454 reviews
September 3, 2020
Billy Collins is always a pleasure, pointing out whimsy and strangeness in everyday life. These poems do that quite well, from the pondering on whales and finding yourself in a poetry anthology.
The poet performs his own poets, and they wouldn't be in the same in someone else's voice! I also found this Facebook video where he reads a few of the poems just a few days ago. He babbles a bit about jazz first.
I had a review copy from the publisher in audio; it comes out September 29, 2020.
The poet performs his own poets, and they wouldn't be in the same in someone else's voice! I also found this Facebook video where he reads a few of the poems just a few days ago. He babbles a bit about jazz first.
I had a review copy from the publisher in audio; it comes out September 29, 2020.
Read
October 14, 2021Ready to try these words on for size?
Famous contemporary poet.
Sounds like an oxymoron, I know, but if we were to nominate a living, breathing possibility, Billy Collins might very well be your man.
The former United States Poet Laureate is poetry royalty (though DNA tests are not allowed in Poetry World). Sir Billy of Collins, I like to call him -- the author of more than one collection I’ve deemed inspiring.
Which is why I approached his recent 2020 release with some trepidation. For writers, fame is a double-edged sword. (Not that I wouldn’t fall on such a sword were it offered me!)
Expectations become the albatross. Does Collins meet them?
My verdict is a decided “somewhat.” At times his new poems read less like poetry and more like fireside chats or even (God save us) bad Dad jokes (wait… do we even need “bad” in that expression?).
There’s a lot of bourgeoisie to these poems, for one. Stories of a financially-comfortable, cosmopolitan traveler writing dispatches from Italy, Ireland, and lake-side cottages in Ontario. There’s even a seven-stanza poem called “Massage,” an ode to that luxury few but the well-to-do can afford (tip required) with any regularity. Stanza four is a two-lined clunker landing with these words: “While the right leg is being rubbed/the left leg is thinking I’m next.” (Dads reading this are allowed a chuckle.)
Stanza five is an improvement, if only for an interesting aside shared with the reader:
When I muttered sorry
for dozing off,
she said no worries.
She only minded
the crying, which more people do
than you would think when they are touched.
I ask you: How sad is that?
Collins finds greatest success in the material that presently occupies him--mortality. The collection includes works with titles like “Walking My Seventy-Five-Year-Old Dog,” “Life Expectancy,” “She’s Gone,” “Cremation,” “My Funeral,” “Anniversary” (in this case, of a death), and “On the Deaths of Friends,” which includes this opening:
Either they just die
or they get sick and die of the sickness
or they get sick, recover, then die of something else,
or they get sick, appear to recover,
then die of the same thing,
the sickness coming back
to take another bite out of you
in the forest of your final hours.
Aside from the pronoun jump from "they" to "you," this stanza, holds up thanks to its truths self-evident and ends on a solid note with the alliterative mix, “in the forest of your final hours.” It turns something scary (death) into something rather beautiful (hey, at least there's nice scenery!).
Even the poem “Vivace!” which sounds lively as hell (if Hell were in Italy and, according to Dante, it is), ends on a somber note with the line “for death is the magnetic north of poetry.” Hot, damn. I could have used this as one of the inscriptions in my new book Reincarnation & Other Stimulants (end gratuitous plug of my book in the middle of reviewing someone else's book).
Overall, some vintage Collins here, diluted heavily by the weighty elixir of expectations -- the type thing famous poets not only get away with but get paid for. If you’re seeking the likes of “The Lanyard,” “On Turning Ten,” and “Only Child,” -- poems about childhood that are Collins métier, you’ll likely be disappointed.
Yes, he has one here called “My Father’s Office, John Street, New York City, 1953,” which starts off wonderfully but it eventually gets lost while overthinking its landing. Overall, then, it’s the mortality poems doing the lion’s share of propping up Billy by his reputation.
Read for that purpose if no other, then. There’s no reason to abandon Sir Billy of Collins, even if his armor isn’t exactly as shiny as it once was. You think getting old, traveling from Ireland to Italy, and getting weekly massages is easy?
3.5/5
Famous contemporary poet.
Sounds like an oxymoron, I know, but if we were to nominate a living, breathing possibility, Billy Collins might very well be your man.
The former United States Poet Laureate is poetry royalty (though DNA tests are not allowed in Poetry World). Sir Billy of Collins, I like to call him -- the author of more than one collection I’ve deemed inspiring.
Which is why I approached his recent 2020 release with some trepidation. For writers, fame is a double-edged sword. (Not that I wouldn’t fall on such a sword were it offered me!)
Expectations become the albatross. Does Collins meet them?
My verdict is a decided “somewhat.” At times his new poems read less like poetry and more like fireside chats or even (God save us) bad Dad jokes (wait… do we even need “bad” in that expression?).
There’s a lot of bourgeoisie to these poems, for one. Stories of a financially-comfortable, cosmopolitan traveler writing dispatches from Italy, Ireland, and lake-side cottages in Ontario. There’s even a seven-stanza poem called “Massage,” an ode to that luxury few but the well-to-do can afford (tip required) with any regularity. Stanza four is a two-lined clunker landing with these words: “While the right leg is being rubbed/the left leg is thinking I’m next.” (Dads reading this are allowed a chuckle.)
Stanza five is an improvement, if only for an interesting aside shared with the reader:
When I muttered sorry
for dozing off,
she said no worries.
She only minded
the crying, which more people do
than you would think when they are touched.
I ask you: How sad is that?
Collins finds greatest success in the material that presently occupies him--mortality. The collection includes works with titles like “Walking My Seventy-Five-Year-Old Dog,” “Life Expectancy,” “She’s Gone,” “Cremation,” “My Funeral,” “Anniversary” (in this case, of a death), and “On the Deaths of Friends,” which includes this opening:
Either they just die
or they get sick and die of the sickness
or they get sick, recover, then die of something else,
or they get sick, appear to recover,
then die of the same thing,
the sickness coming back
to take another bite out of you
in the forest of your final hours.
Aside from the pronoun jump from "they" to "you," this stanza, holds up thanks to its truths self-evident and ends on a solid note with the alliterative mix, “in the forest of your final hours.” It turns something scary (death) into something rather beautiful (hey, at least there's nice scenery!).
Even the poem “Vivace!” which sounds lively as hell (if Hell were in Italy and, according to Dante, it is), ends on a somber note with the line “for death is the magnetic north of poetry.” Hot, damn. I could have used this as one of the inscriptions in my new book Reincarnation & Other Stimulants (end gratuitous plug of my book in the middle of reviewing someone else's book).
Overall, some vintage Collins here, diluted heavily by the weighty elixir of expectations -- the type thing famous poets not only get away with but get paid for. If you’re seeking the likes of “The Lanyard,” “On Turning Ten,” and “Only Child,” -- poems about childhood that are Collins métier, you’ll likely be disappointed.
Yes, he has one here called “My Father’s Office, John Street, New York City, 1953,” which starts off wonderfully but it eventually gets lost while overthinking its landing. Overall, then, it’s the mortality poems doing the lion’s share of propping up Billy by his reputation.
Read for that purpose if no other, then. There’s no reason to abandon Sir Billy of Collins, even if his armor isn’t exactly as shiny as it once was. You think getting old, traveling from Ireland to Italy, and getting weekly massages is easy?
3.5/5
May 20, 2021
Audiobook....read by Billie Collins
1 hour and 25 minutes
...Brotherhood of espresso
...Symphony orchestra
...dogs barking to be feed
...whirlwinds
...Lilly pads
...armed soldiers
...an ocean, a rose garden
...buried or cremation
...behind the trees, Hebrew, geese
...cold swims, death, water, parents,
...Toronto, Dublin, Boston, Los Angeles, Ireland, etc.
... looking out at the scenery wondering about oneself
...dreaming of the middle ages
... candlelight, dreams, eating better, retired from smoking,
...rabbit chasing, woods, a tinker, thinker, solitude, eulogies, funerals
...the fox, bagger lips, bears, blue shadows
... a pregnant man, horse-barman, birth, girl or boy poems
...playing cards, architecture, bathrobe, mayonnaise and pickles
...
This was my first experience with Billy Collins. He has a gorgeous calming voice. His poetry felt a little like a garden of crescendos to me....
The thin, the thick, the friends, children and their imaginary friends, the strangers, the joy, grief, sickness, death, loss, beauty, laughter, silence, whistles, lakes, trees, floodgates of love!
These poems are a kaleidoscope of topics, imagery, dreamy imagination...
A VERY BEAUTIFUL.... lullaby experience!
1 hour and 25 minutes
...Brotherhood of espresso
...Symphony orchestra
...dogs barking to be feed
...whirlwinds
...Lilly pads
...armed soldiers
...an ocean, a rose garden
...buried or cremation
...behind the trees, Hebrew, geese
...cold swims, death, water, parents,
...Toronto, Dublin, Boston, Los Angeles, Ireland, etc.
... looking out at the scenery wondering about oneself
...dreaming of the middle ages
... candlelight, dreams, eating better, retired from smoking,
...rabbit chasing, woods, a tinker, thinker, solitude, eulogies, funerals
...the fox, bagger lips, bears, blue shadows
... a pregnant man, horse-barman, birth, girl or boy poems
...playing cards, architecture, bathrobe, mayonnaise and pickles
...
This was my first experience with Billy Collins. He has a gorgeous calming voice. His poetry felt a little like a garden of crescendos to me....
The thin, the thick, the friends, children and their imaginary friends, the strangers, the joy, grief, sickness, death, loss, beauty, laughter, silence, whistles, lakes, trees, floodgates of love!
These poems are a kaleidoscope of topics, imagery, dreamy imagination...
A VERY BEAUTIFUL.... lullaby experience!
August 25, 2024
What, in other hands, might be mundane, Collins molds into incisive commentary on the fragments of our lives. Often whimsical, he investigates the things that get us through each day. From time to time, he takes a larger perspective, but it is with a personal stamp.
Life Expectancy
“On the morning of a birthday that ended in a zero,
I was looking out at the garden
when it occurred to me that the robin
on her worm-hunt in the dewy grass
had a good chance of outliving me,
as did the worm itself for that matter
if he managed to keep his worm-head down.
It was not always like this.
For decades, I could assume
that I would be around longer
than the squirrel dashing up a tree
or the nightly raccoons in the garbage,
longer than the barred owl on a branch,
the ibis, the chicken, and the horse,
longer than four deer in a clearing
and every creature in the zoo
except the elephant and the tortoise,
whose cages I would hurry past.
It was just then in my calculations
that the cat padded noiselessly into the room,
and it seemed reasonable,
given her bright eyes and glossy coat,
to picture her at my funeral,
dressed all in black, as usual,
which would nicely set off her red collar,
some of the mourners might pause in their grieving to notice,
as she found a place next to a labradoodle
in a section of the church reserved for their kind."
And -
Mice
"I was normally alone in my childhood,
a condition that gave me time
to observe the activities of the many mice
that had infested our house
one winter night when the house
next door burned to a crisp.
They all ran across the snow-
covered lawn to find places
to hide in their new home;
then later they discovered the kitchen,
which was like Columbus discovering
America, because the kitchen was already there.
I became their only spectator
like someone alone in a movie house.
I could even tell some of them apart,
but I resisted giving them names,
afraid they would all disappear
if our house happened to burst into flames.
O, anonymous companions,
appearing in a hole in the wall,
always scurrying out of my reach,
so many hours I would watch
your comings and goings,
before someone called me down to dinner;
you were the beginning of cinema for me
and one of the reasons
I am the way I am this morning—
an elderly child with a tummy
full of oatmeal and a mouse on my shoulder,
standing on its hind legs, whispering in my ear."
Make of it what you want, Collins is very accessible and usually provokes more thoughts along the path he sketches.
Life Expectancy
“On the morning of a birthday that ended in a zero,
I was looking out at the garden
when it occurred to me that the robin
on her worm-hunt in the dewy grass
had a good chance of outliving me,
as did the worm itself for that matter
if he managed to keep his worm-head down.
It was not always like this.
For decades, I could assume
that I would be around longer
than the squirrel dashing up a tree
or the nightly raccoons in the garbage,
longer than the barred owl on a branch,
the ibis, the chicken, and the horse,
longer than four deer in a clearing
and every creature in the zoo
except the elephant and the tortoise,
whose cages I would hurry past.
It was just then in my calculations
that the cat padded noiselessly into the room,
and it seemed reasonable,
given her bright eyes and glossy coat,
to picture her at my funeral,
dressed all in black, as usual,
which would nicely set off her red collar,
some of the mourners might pause in their grieving to notice,
as she found a place next to a labradoodle
in a section of the church reserved for their kind."
And -
Mice
"I was normally alone in my childhood,
a condition that gave me time
to observe the activities of the many mice
that had infested our house
one winter night when the house
next door burned to a crisp.
They all ran across the snow-
covered lawn to find places
to hide in their new home;
then later they discovered the kitchen,
which was like Columbus discovering
America, because the kitchen was already there.
I became their only spectator
like someone alone in a movie house.
I could even tell some of them apart,
but I resisted giving them names,
afraid they would all disappear
if our house happened to burst into flames.
O, anonymous companions,
appearing in a hole in the wall,
always scurrying out of my reach,
so many hours I would watch
your comings and goings,
before someone called me down to dinner;
you were the beginning of cinema for me
and one of the reasons
I am the way I am this morning—
an elderly child with a tummy
full of oatmeal and a mouse on my shoulder,
standing on its hind legs, whispering in my ear."
Make of it what you want, Collins is very accessible and usually provokes more thoughts along the path he sketches.
September 14, 2020
I don't understand how Billy Collins is simultaneously so effortless and conversational and at the same time able to slip easily into the universal and profound. Maybe he gets there by being so specific; his poems are conversational and direct but by focusing intently on a specific situation or moment in time, it allows him to get to larger truths without being didactic. These poems are more melancholy and deal more with death, but Collin's humor and wryness still are in ample evidence. A collection that is breezy, profound, and well worth reading.
**Thanks to the author, publisher, and NetGalley for a free copy in exchange for an honest review.
**Thanks to the author, publisher, and NetGalley for a free copy in exchange for an honest review.
February 26, 2021
Drinking Billy Collins
by Philip Habecker
What a poor poet am I,
to check out Whale Day from the Library
No bookstore windfall for an old friend.
Having no money for late-fees - let alone a new hard cover,
I calculated the days I would have it,
the number of renewals,
the number of poems in the book.
A different drink each day
with the former Poet Laureate.
I dipped my finger and pressed it to the page
Paris in May: Manhattan (6). Woodford. Cocchi. Orange bitters.
. . Grapefruit twist, and a Maraska maraschino cocktail cherry
. . Product of Zadar, splitting the difference between Rijeka and Split
The Wild Barnacle (31): Half-and-half
. . Guinness and Harp of course.
. . Poured over a spoon I bent myself.
. . And never again called the verboten "Black-and-Tan."
Vivace! (45): Chianti
. . Which is unfortunate, when you think about it,
. . Given that the poem explicitly mentions
. . sipping Campari and soda.
Each page, a new smudge of a taste.
Another laugh between us.
Another questioning look from
the next patron who checks out the book.
"What is this? Chocolate milk?"
Perhaps.
Unless you were on page 43.
The Card Players (43), in which case you would be looking at
. . Carrot juice, which I made myself.
. . And which also included oranges and ginger.
. . The redolence and color should have made it evident,
. . and not at all comparable to the chocolate milk,
. . which was a left-handed thumbprint on page 101
. . pressed in honor of all the student lunches, cafeterias,
. . English classes, study halls, and poor writing.
They're not pairings, mind you,
But would have been had I shown some forethought.
But every once in a happenstance I would luck out
As I did when we drank
Anniversary (99), Madiera
. . A favorite of John Adams, and served at the funeral of T----- B-------,
. . As it was his favorite as well, and fitting in such a celebration of life.
And now, after various coffees and boozes stain the pages,
Only now have you thought to ask
how I have so much money
For a liquor cabinet,
but not for the preservation of the arts.
And I'd point you to
And It's Raining Outside, Which Always Adds (8), and argue
. . that one day, at least, we only drank water.
by Philip Habecker
What a poor poet am I,
to check out Whale Day from the Library
No bookstore windfall for an old friend.
Having no money for late-fees - let alone a new hard cover,
I calculated the days I would have it,
the number of renewals,
the number of poems in the book.
A different drink each day
with the former Poet Laureate.
I dipped my finger and pressed it to the page
Paris in May: Manhattan (6). Woodford. Cocchi. Orange bitters.
. . Grapefruit twist, and a Maraska maraschino cocktail cherry
. . Product of Zadar, splitting the difference between Rijeka and Split
The Wild Barnacle (31): Half-and-half
. . Guinness and Harp of course.
. . Poured over a spoon I bent myself.
. . And never again called the verboten "Black-and-Tan."
Vivace! (45): Chianti
. . Which is unfortunate, when you think about it,
. . Given that the poem explicitly mentions
. . sipping Campari and soda.
Each page, a new smudge of a taste.
Another laugh between us.
Another questioning look from
the next patron who checks out the book.
"What is this? Chocolate milk?"
Perhaps.
Unless you were on page 43.
The Card Players (43), in which case you would be looking at
. . Carrot juice, which I made myself.
. . And which also included oranges and ginger.
. . The redolence and color should have made it evident,
. . and not at all comparable to the chocolate milk,
. . which was a left-handed thumbprint on page 101
. . pressed in honor of all the student lunches, cafeterias,
. . English classes, study halls, and poor writing.
They're not pairings, mind you,
But would have been had I shown some forethought.
But every once in a happenstance I would luck out
As I did when we drank
Anniversary (99), Madiera
. . A favorite of John Adams, and served at the funeral of T----- B-------,
. . As it was his favorite as well, and fitting in such a celebration of life.
And now, after various coffees and boozes stain the pages,
Only now have you thought to ask
how I have so much money
For a liquor cabinet,
but not for the preservation of the arts.
And I'd point you to
And It's Raining Outside, Which Always Adds (8), and argue
. . that one day, at least, we only drank water.
January 14, 2021
Reading poetry was not an instant shared pastime for my husband and me. I remember his eyes glazing over with boredom when I attempted to share favorite poems during our courtship and early months of marriage. How romantic.
How fortuitous then was the arrival of an anthology of Ogden Nash's poetry (gifted to me from my grandparents' eclectic home library) and the discovery that we each had some knowledge of Lewis Carroll. The reason we have the limerick is because of people like my husband--everything viewed with a lens to the ridiculous (but in my husband's case, without the bawdiness of course).
Enter Billy Collins. While the merits of Jack Gilbert and Mary Oliver may be forever lost on my husband, there is just enough whimsy in Collins' style to compensate for the occasional profundity. The day my husband recited "Forgetfulness" from memory for me as a birthday gift I knew I would love Billy Collins forever.
This collection was enjoyable and like picking up with an old friend and feeling as though no time has passed.
Favorites: English Roses, Sleeping on my Side, Massage, Down on the Farm, The Card Players, Imperial Garden, Identity, and Arizona.
How fortuitous then was the arrival of an anthology of Ogden Nash's poetry (gifted to me from my grandparents' eclectic home library) and the discovery that we each had some knowledge of Lewis Carroll. The reason we have the limerick is because of people like my husband--everything viewed with a lens to the ridiculous (but in my husband's case, without the bawdiness of course).
Enter Billy Collins. While the merits of Jack Gilbert and Mary Oliver may be forever lost on my husband, there is just enough whimsy in Collins' style to compensate for the occasional profundity. The day my husband recited "Forgetfulness" from memory for me as a birthday gift I knew I would love Billy Collins forever.
This collection was enjoyable and like picking up with an old friend and feeling as though no time has passed.
Favorites: English Roses, Sleeping on my Side, Massage, Down on the Farm, The Card Players, Imperial Garden, Identity, and Arizona.
February 17, 2021
Reading a poem by Billy Collins might bring a smile to your face or a tear to your eye. It might make you laugh out loud (see “Down on the Farm”about fainting goats!). This is another wonderful collection by our former Poet Laureate of the United States.
October 26, 2024
Collins uses simple words to show us how simple things are full of light.
"Today I was awakened by strong coffee / and the awareness that the earth is busy with whales / even though we can't see any."
"Today I was awakened by strong coffee / and the awareness that the earth is busy with whales / even though we can't see any."
May 19, 2020
I received a digital advance copy of "Whale Day," from Net Galley in exchange for a fair review. I am a fan of Billy Collins. I love how democratic his poems are and am genuinely happy that he expands the audience for poetry. A good Collins poem typically has an amusing or insightful first line, a well-developed middle section and a closing line that ties the poem's theme together that is relatable to most readers. He has a good sense of humor and in his pursuit of poetry that can be understood by the average reader, he more often than not avoids mawkish or treacly language. In this book of poems, the humor is less evident and is more focused on the end of life (not that it's necessarily immediate in the author) and the body's slow decline. Unfortunately, the writing is less sharp and some poems start with a premise that gets expanded on but there is no sharp ending to tie it all together. 'The Pregnant Man," a short poem, starts with the line "A man is pregnant," and suggests that he is capable and wants to "give birth" to something, anything, and then the last two lines end, "Look at him now playing cards/while the old waiter goes about his business." The last two lines are a deliberate misdirection that perhaps aborts a sense of something beautiful being born--an idea, a poem, etc.-- and collapses into the dullness or sameness of everyday life. But I think in this particular case, the poem just ends on discordant note.
Similarly, poems about particular paintings from Bonnard or Hopper don't encapsulate the particular painting in a vivid enough way so that Collins' lines can resonate with the reader. I stand in awe of poets who can verbally describe particular paintings so that the reader can attempt to see what the poet is "seeing" as he/she makes the imaginative leap into what feeling or point the poet is trying to articulate. Here is Collin's ending of "Evening Wind," by Edward Hopper-- "...I could envision the evening wind,/not just the wind as revealed by the curtains,/but the invisible wind itself blowing/through the room of this ingeniously titled drawing."
However, not all is lost. there is some mordant wit about cremation, ("you could end up in a coffee can/on a high shelf, widow glancing up--/ but not frequently enough--from an armchair."). I also enjoyed, "Listening to Hank Mobley Around 11 O'Clock After a Long Fun Boozy Dinner, the Four of Us, at Captain Pig's, Our Favorite Restaurant in Town," because of how he contrasts being 15 or 16 years old with where he is at now in life: "But having sailed some time ago/into the quiet cardigan harbor of my life/out of earshot of the siren songs/that lure men onto reefs of foolishness/."
Two poems deserve special recognition. "On the Death of Friends," wittingly plays off the cycle of death and sickness toward the end of life but there is not only imminent death but also "everything else that was (still) pouring/over the mighty floodgates of the senses." The poem, "The Symphony Orchestra of San Miguel de Allende," should make it into a Selected Poems edition of Billy Collins. It starts with above title as its first line and goes on to mention it is comprised of "church bells, roosters, doves and barking dogs," and pays respect to the rooster "...who crowed even before the time of/Christ," before plaintively but gorgeously concluding: "The dogs are barking to be fed./ The roosters are beckoning us to the henhouse/where three eggs are still warm in the straw./ But the doves are mourning our awful losses,/and the bells are there to remind us of God."
Out of respect to the wonderful poetry Billy Collins has given us over the decades, he deserves to have this review conclude on what is great about him.
Similarly, poems about particular paintings from Bonnard or Hopper don't encapsulate the particular painting in a vivid enough way so that Collins' lines can resonate with the reader. I stand in awe of poets who can verbally describe particular paintings so that the reader can attempt to see what the poet is "seeing" as he/she makes the imaginative leap into what feeling or point the poet is trying to articulate. Here is Collin's ending of "Evening Wind," by Edward Hopper-- "...I could envision the evening wind,/not just the wind as revealed by the curtains,/but the invisible wind itself blowing/through the room of this ingeniously titled drawing."
However, not all is lost. there is some mordant wit about cremation, ("you could end up in a coffee can/on a high shelf, widow glancing up--/ but not frequently enough--from an armchair."). I also enjoyed, "Listening to Hank Mobley Around 11 O'Clock After a Long Fun Boozy Dinner, the Four of Us, at Captain Pig's, Our Favorite Restaurant in Town," because of how he contrasts being 15 or 16 years old with where he is at now in life: "But having sailed some time ago/into the quiet cardigan harbor of my life/out of earshot of the siren songs/that lure men onto reefs of foolishness/."
Two poems deserve special recognition. "On the Death of Friends," wittingly plays off the cycle of death and sickness toward the end of life but there is not only imminent death but also "everything else that was (still) pouring/over the mighty floodgates of the senses." The poem, "The Symphony Orchestra of San Miguel de Allende," should make it into a Selected Poems edition of Billy Collins. It starts with above title as its first line and goes on to mention it is comprised of "church bells, roosters, doves and barking dogs," and pays respect to the rooster "...who crowed even before the time of/Christ," before plaintively but gorgeously concluding: "The dogs are barking to be fed./ The roosters are beckoning us to the henhouse/where three eggs are still warm in the straw./ But the doves are mourning our awful losses,/and the bells are there to remind us of God."
Out of respect to the wonderful poetry Billy Collins has given us over the decades, he deserves to have this review conclude on what is great about him.
November 7, 2020
Vivace!
No man is lonely while eating spaghetti. —CHRISTOPHER MORLEY
This time, I was at a corner table at Pasta Vivace!
on that side street next to the old music store.
The place was not at all crowded.
Just enough young men and women
were coming and going to keep me
occupied as I sipped my Campari and soda
and waited for the waiter to arrive with my pasta.
I imagined what the parents of all these people
were doing this evening,
then I thought of all of the diners as babies
with looks of amazement on their tiny faces.
Then as they kept arriving and departing,
holding the door for one another,
they turned into skeletons in their caskets,
each being carried by six husky pallbearers,
who would also be dead by now,
as I would be before too long,
for death is the magnetic north of poetry.
But first, I must insist on having the pleasure
of eating my linguini con vongole,
dipping chunks of crusty bread into the briny sauce,
for this is also a poem about happiness,
a celebration of the senses
and of all the men and women coming and going.
And if you turn your head a little this way,
you can see me at a corner table,
twirling the pasta with a fork and spoon
like an infant with a bib tucked under his chin.
No man is lonely while eating spaghetti. —CHRISTOPHER MORLEY
This time, I was at a corner table at Pasta Vivace!
on that side street next to the old music store.
The place was not at all crowded.
Just enough young men and women
were coming and going to keep me
occupied as I sipped my Campari and soda
and waited for the waiter to arrive with my pasta.
I imagined what the parents of all these people
were doing this evening,
then I thought of all of the diners as babies
with looks of amazement on their tiny faces.
Then as they kept arriving and departing,
holding the door for one another,
they turned into skeletons in their caskets,
each being carried by six husky pallbearers,
who would also be dead by now,
as I would be before too long,
for death is the magnetic north of poetry.
But first, I must insist on having the pleasure
of eating my linguini con vongole,
dipping chunks of crusty bread into the briny sauce,
for this is also a poem about happiness,
a celebration of the senses
and of all the men and women coming and going.
And if you turn your head a little this way,
you can see me at a corner table,
twirling the pasta with a fork and spoon
like an infant with a bib tucked under his chin.
January 31, 2025
4.5 rounded up.
Whale Day: and Other Poems is about rainy days in foreign cities, the unvarying aspects of life that are still somehow beautiful, and the quiet sorrow of growing old and nearing death when one still finds life lovely.
Whale Day: and Other Poems is about rainy days in foreign cities, the unvarying aspects of life that are still somehow beautiful, and the quiet sorrow of growing old and nearing death when one still finds life lovely.
June 7, 2020
I came into this collection as someone not familiar with Billy Collins' poetry, and perhaps that's why I enjoyed it more than some of his fans who've reviewed it on Goodreads. I read it after reading far too many "Instagram poets" lately and was delighted by this collection after those.
Some of the poems are odd and whimsical, others more serious. Aging, mortality and death are frequent topics as Collins is not only losing loved ones but also facing his own end of life. There's also a lot of playfulness though, and I enjoyed his unique perspective.
Sample excerpt:
From "She's Gone":
leaving me here alone again,
feeling this time
like one of those pairs of drawings
featured in the colorful puzzle section
of the Sunday paper,
where you have to detect
the barely detectable differences between the two.
I read a digital ARC of this book for review.
Some of the poems are odd and whimsical, others more serious. Aging, mortality and death are frequent topics as Collins is not only losing loved ones but also facing his own end of life. There's also a lot of playfulness though, and I enjoyed his unique perspective.
Sample excerpt:
From "She's Gone":
leaving me here alone again,
feeling this time
like one of those pairs of drawings
featured in the colorful puzzle section
of the Sunday paper,
where you have to detect
the barely detectable differences between the two.
I read a digital ARC of this book for review.
December 17, 2020
A new collection from Billy Collins is always reason for me to rejoice. Part of me wanted to race through every poem at once, but I chose to savor them, only reading a few at a time in between other things. That is the other joy ... his poems are about things so seemingly mundane and easy that I don't have to steel myself before attempting to decipher his words.
There is coffee and a morning walk and a massage ... Billy Collins can write about a massage in a way that turns it into ... well ... poetry (not one of my gifts obviously).
His words are laid bare - approachable and often funny - and then, all of the sudden, I realized I was reading something deeply important about life and mortality. Therein lies the genius, and the poetry.
"And even though we would step back
to laugh at the silly pathos of ourselves,
there was always great intensity and joy in our playing."
There is coffee and a morning walk and a massage ... Billy Collins can write about a massage in a way that turns it into ... well ... poetry (not one of my gifts obviously).
His words are laid bare - approachable and often funny - and then, all of the sudden, I realized I was reading something deeply important about life and mortality. Therein lies the genius, and the poetry.
"And even though we would step back
to laugh at the silly pathos of ourselves,
there was always great intensity and joy in our playing."
June 21, 2020
Brilliant, as always! Collins knows how to express thoughts the reader didn't even know they were thinking/feeling. Ordinary days become extraordinary in this poet's hands. Thanks to Netgalley and the publisher for making my day a little brighter.
August 17, 2020
Poetry is not something I pick up to read ever. Probably not since it was assigned. But when a colleague says you have to read this I do and I was blown away. Maybe because of all the harshness of words in the world right now beautiful writing just feels like a balm.
January 1, 2021
I broke my ankle so instead of going snowboarding today, my friends dropped me off at the bookstore. I picked up this book, well knowing I’ve been wanting to read it for a while. Finished the whole thing at the bookstore. I could have put the book back, considering but I bought it. Says how good this one was.
I also bought second book by the same author because I see how much I enjoy the poems by Collins.
Here’s one of my favorites:
“Down on the Farm”
Whenever the conversation turns to the subject
of Tennessee Fainting goats,
the question that always comes up is why.
Are they so squeamish that they faint
like Victorian ladies whenever the farmer
uses language unbecoming a gentleman?
Or is it catching, one goat fainting
because he sees another one fainting,
but that still leaves open the question
of what makes the first goat faint.
Does the memory of having keeled
over one morning make one keel over again?
Are they in love? Or is it all just too much?
No one seems to know for sure
but it’s something to think about
when I’m trying to get to sleep at night
or when I’m looking out a window
at the barn and the fenced-in pastures beyond.
To see a goat stiffen before pitching over on its side
with a thump is truly unnerving,
but when he rises in a minute or two, as if from the dead,
and goes back to munching with his head down
in the sweet grass on these hillsides,
then everything seems okay again, just like before.
I also bought second book by the same author because I see how much I enjoy the poems by Collins.
Here’s one of my favorites:
“Down on the Farm”
Whenever the conversation turns to the subject
of Tennessee Fainting goats,
the question that always comes up is why.
Are they so squeamish that they faint
like Victorian ladies whenever the farmer
uses language unbecoming a gentleman?
Or is it catching, one goat fainting
because he sees another one fainting,
but that still leaves open the question
of what makes the first goat faint.
Does the memory of having keeled
over one morning make one keel over again?
Are they in love? Or is it all just too much?
No one seems to know for sure
but it’s something to think about
when I’m trying to get to sleep at night
or when I’m looking out a window
at the barn and the fenced-in pastures beyond.
To see a goat stiffen before pitching over on its side
with a thump is truly unnerving,
but when he rises in a minute or two, as if from the dead,
and goes back to munching with his head down
in the sweet grass on these hillsides,
then everything seems okay again, just like before.
November 25, 2020
"The Collected Works of Yeats" has a permanent place beside my bed these days. So I can't help but say Collins is just fine. (This is the first time I've read this author.) I do like the way Collins just drifts along and we wind up somewhere else away from where we started but in reality we are where we should be, playfully, after all. In "Prospect" we begin 'high up on a kitchen chair' and end up 'for the sake of the view.' Of course! But oh the cynical "Going for a Walk as the Drugs Kick In" just plain hurts and the fact that it ends the collection feels like Collins, for real, is in a bad place. At first read, I didn't much care for the opening poem in which the author tries to explain 'the function of poetry'. But after reading the first and then the last poems several times each, they compliment each other nicely and the negativity of "Going for a Walk" is lessened. I'll read more of Collins, certainly. Thing is, I don't much like poetry anyway (other than Yeats and Ginsberg) and I get sorta irritated when I say "But the name of the poem is 'The Road NOT Taken' so this poem has nothing to do with either of the two mentioned. It's really about..." and people look at me like I'm the one not getting it. But in reality I'm the only one who does. On the entire planet. Such a burden! So heavy that I don't much like poetry.
January 15, 2021
I just had to say that it was a bit of a thrill to be a witness to the composition of some of the additional poems added to the special editions of this book, since it came out this month (October) and I've been listening to and loving the Billy and Suzannah show on Facebook live. It's really been one of the very bright spots of this year.
Finished and loved reading a few poems every day.
Finished and loved reading a few poems every day.
February 1, 2023
In his long and illustrious career, which includes the honor of serving as Poet Laureate of the United States from 2001-2003, Billy Collins has become one of America’s very few bestselling poets. His success, I believe, has only somewhat to do with the many awards he’s received. What makes Collins so likeable, I think, is how accessible and relatable his poems can be even to readers typically dismissive of poetry. Experiencing the appeal of his verses is like enjoying a cup of perfect coffee or a glass of fine wine, or if you’re like me and don’t drink either, reading his books is like enjoying an entire box of the most delectable dark chocolates imaginable.
Having read every one of Collins’s books, I think Whale Day ranks among his best collections, arguably his best since Question About Angels over thirty years ago. His clever, observant verses are as wonderful as ever in offering immediate delight, but in vintage Collins fashion his poems are often sly and deceptive in their serious reflection on life’s most confounding questions: What is happiness? How do we deal with mortality? Is there an afterlife and where is it? For Collins, he finds meaning in simple joys and explorations that offer glimpses of the miraculous, the unknowable, the inexplicable. He is the quintessential poetical artisan at celebrating life by amplifying the ordinary into moments of something extraordinary to cherish.
Whale Book is divided into four parts, and most of my favorites appeared in the first grouping. The introductory piece “The Function of Poetry” is classic Collins surmising a poem out of seemingly nothing to make you smile at his clever craft. “Walking My Seventy-Five-Year-Old Dog” is a beautiful, touching tribute to anyone who has endless love for their pet. “And It’s Raining Outside, Which Always Adds” is a splendid dreamlike anecdotal piece that merges past and present with memories of a specific time and place. “Life Expectancy” is a solemn, lovely piece about our relation to living creatures in the world around us. “Down on the Farm” is a curious musing on the phenomena of animal behavior, specifically fainting goats. “Mice” is a wonderful homage linking memories from childhood to one’s elderly years. And perhaps my favorite is “Banana School” about the binary and evolutionary connection of intelligence between animals and humans.
“Banana School” appears in the second section, and I liked a few others from that point on, but the majority of the best pieces came in the opening twenty-five pages. Still, I enjoyed and appreciated the entirety of Whale Day as much as any of Collins’s previous collections. Maybe because the beginning was so good, I tended not to mark as many towards the end, but I will mention “The Symphony Orchestra of San Miguel de Allende” in part three as also one the volume’s best. Collins had me smiling with joy and my heart feeling sunny with gratitude at his rendition of everyday sounds as musical bliss from the most unlikely sources. In its totality, Whale Day is another strong addition to Collins’s formidable oeuvre.
Having read every one of Collins’s books, I think Whale Day ranks among his best collections, arguably his best since Question About Angels over thirty years ago. His clever, observant verses are as wonderful as ever in offering immediate delight, but in vintage Collins fashion his poems are often sly and deceptive in their serious reflection on life’s most confounding questions: What is happiness? How do we deal with mortality? Is there an afterlife and where is it? For Collins, he finds meaning in simple joys and explorations that offer glimpses of the miraculous, the unknowable, the inexplicable. He is the quintessential poetical artisan at celebrating life by amplifying the ordinary into moments of something extraordinary to cherish.
Whale Book is divided into four parts, and most of my favorites appeared in the first grouping. The introductory piece “The Function of Poetry” is classic Collins surmising a poem out of seemingly nothing to make you smile at his clever craft. “Walking My Seventy-Five-Year-Old Dog” is a beautiful, touching tribute to anyone who has endless love for their pet. “And It’s Raining Outside, Which Always Adds” is a splendid dreamlike anecdotal piece that merges past and present with memories of a specific time and place. “Life Expectancy” is a solemn, lovely piece about our relation to living creatures in the world around us. “Down on the Farm” is a curious musing on the phenomena of animal behavior, specifically fainting goats. “Mice” is a wonderful homage linking memories from childhood to one’s elderly years. And perhaps my favorite is “Banana School” about the binary and evolutionary connection of intelligence between animals and humans.
“Banana School” appears in the second section, and I liked a few others from that point on, but the majority of the best pieces came in the opening twenty-five pages. Still, I enjoyed and appreciated the entirety of Whale Day as much as any of Collins’s previous collections. Maybe because the beginning was so good, I tended not to mark as many towards the end, but I will mention “The Symphony Orchestra of San Miguel de Allende” in part three as also one the volume’s best. Collins had me smiling with joy and my heart feeling sunny with gratitude at his rendition of everyday sounds as musical bliss from the most unlikely sources. In its totality, Whale Day is another strong addition to Collins’s formidable oeuvre.
December 5, 2021
Billy Collins is like the kindly and eccentric neighbor you imagine having, the kind of older man in a quirky, but stylish, sweater who would probably invite you in for tea, but pour you a glass of scotch instead. I don’t know what that means, but it’s the vibe his poetry gives me, so I’m sticking with it.
I’ve been meaning to get back to reading poetry on a semi-regular basis, and Collins’ new book seemed like the gateway I needed. And it was! He has a knack for clever, pithy turns-of-phrase that strike the perfect balance between charm and sadness, and that remains the case throughout the poems collected here. But there was also something missing, for me. I usually find a lot of emotion and intention coursing through the veins of his poetry, but this book seems to have less of that than I was expecting and hoping for. Maybe it’s his very real, looming preoccupation with death, which permeates through most of these pages. It lends the work a more somber tone that I wasn’t entirely ready for, especially considering how much the concept of death already unsettles me. The issue isn’t that, though, but rather, that I didn’t get the impression that Collins is actually examining those sentiments from unique angles.
His free verse, casual, and stream-of-consciousness style doesn’t entirely lend itself to the kinds of meditations here. There’s an honest vulnerability I admire a lot, yet it often seems as though Collins ends a poem just before it gets to the heart of whatever emotion or experience he’s speaking to. For someone as talented and well-versed as him, I can only assume it’s intentional, and maybe a future re-read will help me connect the pieces more. For right now, though, I’m less enthused by this than I was hoping for. I want the cover art frames on my wall, though.
I’ve been meaning to get back to reading poetry on a semi-regular basis, and Collins’ new book seemed like the gateway I needed. And it was! He has a knack for clever, pithy turns-of-phrase that strike the perfect balance between charm and sadness, and that remains the case throughout the poems collected here. But there was also something missing, for me. I usually find a lot of emotion and intention coursing through the veins of his poetry, but this book seems to have less of that than I was expecting and hoping for. Maybe it’s his very real, looming preoccupation with death, which permeates through most of these pages. It lends the work a more somber tone that I wasn’t entirely ready for, especially considering how much the concept of death already unsettles me. The issue isn’t that, though, but rather, that I didn’t get the impression that Collins is actually examining those sentiments from unique angles.
His free verse, casual, and stream-of-consciousness style doesn’t entirely lend itself to the kinds of meditations here. There’s an honest vulnerability I admire a lot, yet it often seems as though Collins ends a poem just before it gets to the heart of whatever emotion or experience he’s speaking to. For someone as talented and well-versed as him, I can only assume it’s intentional, and maybe a future re-read will help me connect the pieces more. For right now, though, I’m less enthused by this than I was hoping for. I want the cover art frames on my wall, though.
August 21, 2025
It was poetry. I did like a few, like the Function of Poetry and Objectivity. Just not a poetry guy.
August 24, 2022
Yeah, it’s official. I really like Collins. Likely my favorite modern poet.
Does he rhyme? No. I’m learning to settle for rhythm alone.
I’ve been reading his poetry for a while, and I finally realized (to put in words that is) why I like it. It’s because its joyous.
Collins finds pleasure and beauty in life’s minutiae and serenades it.
As opposed to seemingly all the other modern poetry out there that mostly specializes in complaining, moaning, bitterly spewing, etc.
And sure, one might accuse Collins of being a white male of a certain age who simply has nothing to complain about wherein most other poetry that at least our library stocks seems to focus on female and minority authors, who in turn focus on female and minority experiences. And while, sure, it’s great to have a platform for that, may I just bravely say that it can’t be all there is? That’s it’s nice to read some poetry that’s just…well, nice. That not every poem has to be a complaint, diatribe, obloquy, denunciation, admonishment, etc. Just a thought, anyway.
This collection was lovely, especially the titular poem. Recommended.
Does he rhyme? No. I’m learning to settle for rhythm alone.
I’ve been reading his poetry for a while, and I finally realized (to put in words that is) why I like it. It’s because its joyous.
Collins finds pleasure and beauty in life’s minutiae and serenades it.
As opposed to seemingly all the other modern poetry out there that mostly specializes in complaining, moaning, bitterly spewing, etc.
And sure, one might accuse Collins of being a white male of a certain age who simply has nothing to complain about wherein most other poetry that at least our library stocks seems to focus on female and minority authors, who in turn focus on female and minority experiences. And while, sure, it’s great to have a platform for that, may I just bravely say that it can’t be all there is? That’s it’s nice to read some poetry that’s just…well, nice. That not every poem has to be a complaint, diatribe, obloquy, denunciation, admonishment, etc. Just a thought, anyway.
This collection was lovely, especially the titular poem. Recommended.
December 17, 2020
This small book of poetry was simply lovely. The Wild Barnacle, Arizona, Irish Spider, Dreaming of the Middle Ages and Listening to Hank Mobley Around 11 o'clock After a Long Fun Boozy Dinner, the Four of Us, at Captain Pig's, Our Favorite Restaurant in Town were my favorites.
November 20, 2020
Collins never disappoints me, though some of these poems are slighter than others. Not surprisingly, many focus on aging.
March 6, 2021
Ahhh—if you love a poignant poem—pick up Billy Collin’s new book. An absolute delight!
December 24, 2022
Ik kocht deze eigenlijk vooral op de voorkant 0:) iets met een walvis én omdat ik meer poezie wilde lezen in 2022.
Ik vond het gedicht Whale Day (wat ik opzocht voor ik t kocht) heel mooi. Billy Collins maakt je in zijn observaties bewuster van de wereld om je heen en laat je stil staan/even echt observeren. Dat vond ik er goed aan.
Wat ik er iets minder aan vond: heel veel name dropping. Het lijkt er op dat hij elke dag begint met een observatie van iets of iemand of bijv kunst die hij om zich heen ziet en daar een beetje omheen filosofeert. Alleen.. ik kende veel van die namen niet en op een gegeven moment had ik geen zin meer om te googlen. Ik heb nu nog allemaal papiertjes tussen de bladzijden zitten: van dingen en mensen die ik moet opzoeken omdat ik daardoor het gedicht niet snapte.
Daarbij vond ik ook veel gedichten een beetje een verzameling van gedachten met wat enters middenin zinnen om er ritme in te krijgen (als je snapt wat ik bedoel).
Niet helemaal mijn ding deze bundel (daarom 2 sterren of in goodreads rating 'it was okay'), maar er zaten zeker gedichten tussen die me aan het denken zaten of met goede observaties (met humor). Deze bijvoorbeeld die ik vanmorgen nog las :) gedicht cadeau ->
English Roses
In those weeks of late summer
when the roses in gardens begin to fade
the big red, white, and pink ones -
the inner enfolded petals growing cankerous
the petals at edges turning brown
or fallen already down their girlish backs
in the rough beds of turned-over soil.
then how terrible the expressions on their faces
a kind of was-it-all-really-worth-it-look
to die here in front of everybody
in the garden of a bed-and-breakfast
in a provincial English market town
to expire by degrees of corruption
in plain sight of all neighbours passing by
the thin mail carrier, the stocky butcher
(thank God the children pay no attention)
the swiveling faces in the windows of tall buses
and now this stranger staring over the wall
hair disheveled, a loose scarf around his neck
jotting in a notebook, something about us no doubt
about how terrible we must look now under the punishing sun.
Ik vond het gedicht Whale Day (wat ik opzocht voor ik t kocht) heel mooi. Billy Collins maakt je in zijn observaties bewuster van de wereld om je heen en laat je stil staan/even echt observeren. Dat vond ik er goed aan.
Wat ik er iets minder aan vond: heel veel name dropping. Het lijkt er op dat hij elke dag begint met een observatie van iets of iemand of bijv kunst die hij om zich heen ziet en daar een beetje omheen filosofeert. Alleen.. ik kende veel van die namen niet en op een gegeven moment had ik geen zin meer om te googlen. Ik heb nu nog allemaal papiertjes tussen de bladzijden zitten: van dingen en mensen die ik moet opzoeken omdat ik daardoor het gedicht niet snapte.
Daarbij vond ik ook veel gedichten een beetje een verzameling van gedachten met wat enters middenin zinnen om er ritme in te krijgen (als je snapt wat ik bedoel).
Niet helemaal mijn ding deze bundel (daarom 2 sterren of in goodreads rating 'it was okay'), maar er zaten zeker gedichten tussen die me aan het denken zaten of met goede observaties (met humor). Deze bijvoorbeeld die ik vanmorgen nog las :) gedicht cadeau ->
English Roses
In those weeks of late summer
when the roses in gardens begin to fade
the big red, white, and pink ones -
the inner enfolded petals growing cankerous
the petals at edges turning brown
or fallen already down their girlish backs
in the rough beds of turned-over soil.
then how terrible the expressions on their faces
a kind of was-it-all-really-worth-it-look
to die here in front of everybody
in the garden of a bed-and-breakfast
in a provincial English market town
to expire by degrees of corruption
in plain sight of all neighbours passing by
the thin mail carrier, the stocky butcher
(thank God the children pay no attention)
the swiveling faces in the windows of tall buses
and now this stranger staring over the wall
hair disheveled, a loose scarf around his neck
jotting in a notebook, something about us no doubt
about how terrible we must look now under the punishing sun.
December 26, 2025
4/4.5 stars
This is my first time reading Billy Collins, and I can confidently say it will not be my last time. There was only one poem I did not care for in this collection, and I cannot even remember the name of that poem at this moment. Collins' style is lovely. I appreciate poets who marry the ordinary images and moments of everyday life with profound emotional experiences while also connecting their work to other works of art and poetry. Collins checks all of those boxes with this collection. His poems made me cry, laugh, and think. The poem "Me First" really hit me in the chest. If you've ever lost loved ones, Collins captures grief so well. A beautiful and thoughtful collection that I hope to return to again.
This is my first time reading Billy Collins, and I can confidently say it will not be my last time. There was only one poem I did not care for in this collection, and I cannot even remember the name of that poem at this moment. Collins' style is lovely. I appreciate poets who marry the ordinary images and moments of everyday life with profound emotional experiences while also connecting their work to other works of art and poetry. Collins checks all of those boxes with this collection. His poems made me cry, laugh, and think. The poem "Me First" really hit me in the chest. If you've ever lost loved ones, Collins captures grief so well. A beautiful and thoughtful collection that I hope to return to again.
August 17, 2024
"Death is the magnetic north of poetry."
This is 3.5 stars rounded down instead of up because f you, Goodreads.
My favorite poem is either "A Sight" or "My Father's Office, John Street, New York City, 1953" (the latter commissioned by Xerox, no less).
Other lines I particularly like:
"... the sickness coming back / to take another bite of you / in the forest of your final hours."
"... death is only one of the five nightly hounds / that prowl in circles around my bed."
and
"I could see it now on a mountaintop, it's black shell shiny with water, no more than two inches tall, but dancing and riotous with joy and rage, shouting the anthem of the barnacle ..."
This is 3.5 stars rounded down instead of up because f you, Goodreads.
My favorite poem is either "A Sight" or "My Father's Office, John Street, New York City, 1953" (the latter commissioned by Xerox, no less).
Other lines I particularly like:
"... the sickness coming back / to take another bite of you / in the forest of your final hours."
"... death is only one of the five nightly hounds / that prowl in circles around my bed."
and
"I could see it now on a mountaintop, it's black shell shiny with water, no more than two inches tall, but dancing and riotous with joy and rage, shouting the anthem of the barnacle ..."
January 8, 2024
Didn’t spark a passion for poetry within me (this was a book club read), but I will say I LOL’ed at “Banana School” and “Me First” tugged at the old heart strings 😢
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