I rounded out my perusal of Billy Collins's poetry by reading his collected works. One thing is for sure: Billy has guts for placing an author photo inside the dust jacket. If I met Billy on the street, I'd never suspect he was a great poet . . . I'd probably try to buy a used car off of him. But I guess that's why he is respected as a poet of the people.
Reading Billy's poems is like having a conversation with a friend. He writes smoothly, speaks effortlessly, provides insights into the smallest of events.
As a college English major, I used to write a lot of poetry, primarily to girls--which also explains why English majors have more Saturday night dates per capita than any college major. Girls love poetry, and I often moved them with lines like this:
Billy writes poems, and so do I.
He's a laureate, though I am not.
Sometimes his poems make a girl cry.
Mine can't, but it's the best that I've got.
So dear, I'll write a few lines about your eyes,
About that small dot at the nape of your neck,
Where the birds gather in the lonely skies
And I might just kiss you, what the heck!
Now that we are old and gray together
And our influence on the kids past its prime,
I might even knit you a cardigan sweater
Before I run out of time.
On Thanksgiving day, let's eat some fudge,
Some turkey and taters and noodles.
And if I can't say it, I'll give you a nudge,
To let you know I love you oodles.
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