I was given a copy of these poems by Billy Collins recently, and they are a delightful companion. As such they cannot rightly ever be stowed in the already read file because I will return as often as my soul needs to. I highly recommend a copy by everyone's bedside. How can you not love a book of poems in which one can find these two stanzas in a poem called Forgetfulness?

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read, never
even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

I might as well begin by saying how much I like the title.
from the poem Workshop p65

And what better company for one's solitary journeys than Billy Collins with his tender resignation, wild humour, and the ability to make friends with the absurd. Perhaps because he is an American, even though he served as Poet Laureate for the USA for the 2001-2002 term, I only recently discovered his work in an anthology and was impressed with his illustrious backlist. This man has been a working poet for most of his life. This book covers a decade and four of his publications from 1988-1998; and includes a whole volume of new work.

It seems only yesterday I used to believe
there was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me I would shine.
But now when I fall on the sidewalks of life,
I skin my knees. I bleed.
from the poem On Turning Ten p66

BC uses plain words and familiar situations to reach across the page to directly connect with the readers heart, achieving a depth and an affirmation often lacking in more sophisticated presentations.

If there is only enough time in the final
minutes of the twentieth century for one last dance
I would like to be dancing it slowly with you....
...with the orchestra sliding into the sea
and our attention to humming
whatever it was they were playing.
from Dancing Towards Bethlehem. p70

This is one the best books I have ever read. Almost every poem in this collection is wonderful. A book I would want to read again and again. This might not be the best poem from this collection but it has that ability to persist in my memory which is not very good with poetry.

Introduction to Poetry

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

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a 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.

Sailing Alone Around the Room was recommended to me by a big fan of Billy Collins' work, particularly the poem "On Turning Ten." As usual when it comes to poetry, I had high hopes.

And this collection didn't exactly disappoint me, but it certainly didn't wow me, either. It was just average. I found a couple of poems I liked, but for the most part, I once again found that the poems in this book were really only written by the author, for the author and no other audience. Which is fine, but I found them boring because I couldn't relate. Not to mention the language was dull and not particularly memorable either. It's a shame, because I was really looking forward to reading this whole collection, and then it was just "meh."

I did like "Purity," "Lines Lost Among Trees," and "Insomnia," though. Those were my favorites.

I don't read a lot of poetry but I enjoyed this collection, particularly the poems dealing with nature.

---The History Teacher---

Trying to protect his students’ innocence
he told them the Ice Age was really just
the Chilly Age, a period of a million years
when everyone had to wear sweaters.

And the Stone Age became the Gravel Age,
named after the long driveways of the time.

The Spanish Inquisition was nothing more
than an outbreak of questions such as
“How far is it from here to Madrid?”
“What do you call the matador’s hat?”

The War of the Roses took place in a garden,
and the Enola Gay dropped one tiny atom
on Japan.

The children would leave his classroom
for the playground to torment the weak
and the smart,
mussing up their hair and breaking their glasses,

while he gathered up his notes and walked home
past flower beds and white picket fences,
wondering if they would believe that soldiers
in the Boer War told long, rambling stories
designed to make the enemy nod off.

(Membaca puisi Billy Collins di atas jadi teringat dengan guru sejarah yang kalau mengajar benar-benar menyenangkan. Kalu puisi di atas diterapkan di Indonesia mungkin akan seperti ini

-Perang Kemerdekaan itu sebenarnya sebuah acara perpisahan besar untuk melepas orang-orang londo ke negara asalnya dan tentu saja sedikit kemeriahan ribut-ribut suara tembakan, kebanyakankan tentara.

-Peristiwa tahun 66 hanyalah sebuah permainan besar petak umpet, sebagian orang menghilang untuk bersembunyi dan sebagian lainnya mencari dan permainan itu masih berlangsung hingga sekarang, buktinya masih banyak yang belum ditemukan.

-Kejadian tahun 98 cuma orang-orang yang ramai berkumpul di dekat gedung MPR untuk menunggu pidato sang presiden yang akan mengundurkan diri karena sudah bosan terlalu lama jadi presiden. Yah... beberapa orang terlalu berlebihan dengan sedikit bakar-bakar.)



---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 difficult 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.

(Entah kenapa habis baca puisi ini jadi terbayang sosok tengkorak yang sedang mengetik sambil mnghisap rokok dengan wajahnya yang tersenyum :), seperti sampul sebuah buku filssafat, tapi entah yang mana)

Billy Collins remains the leader of accessible, contemporary American poetry. This is a collection of some of his favorites and some new. A great overview of his anthology.

The book is a gift that keeps on giving. Billy Collins' observations and musings sound like they come from Dumbledore, complete with the twinkle in his eye. I read these aloud, by the way, the rhythms make it impossible not to.

Some of my favorites are in here--poems about teaching, forgetfulness, growing old, cats...this poet writes about it all.

last night my soul woke up
Thirsty, I call it
looking for something that I had
Missed, so I have named my memories

a memory came from the past
and led me forward
giving shore to my lost
soul,within the pages of...
Sailing Alone Around the Room

A couple of poems I drank then.
Savored another before breakfast.
One awaits me once
I am done with this review.

Meanwhile, for better use of words.
Please relish this.


Winter Syntax

A sentence starts out like a lone traveler
heading into a blizzard at midnight,
tilting into the wind, one arm shielding his face,
the tails of his thin coat flapping behind him.

There are easier ways of making sense,
the connoisseurship of gesture, for example.
You hold a girl's face in your hands like a vase.
You lift a gun from the glove compartment
and toss it out the window into the desert heat.
These cool moments are blazing with silence.

The full moon makes sense. When a cloud crosses it
it becomes as eloquent as a bicycle leaning
outside a drugstore or a dog who sleeps all afternoon
in a corner of the couch.

Bare branches in winter are a form of writing.
The unclothed body is autobiography.
Every lake is a vowel, every island a noun.

But the traveler persists in his misery,
struggling all night through the deepening snow,
leaving a faint alphabet of bootprints
on the white hills and the white floors of valleys,
a message for field mice and passing crows.

At dawn he will spot the vine of smoke
rising from your chimney, and when he stands
before you shivering, draped in sparkling frost,
a smile will appear in the beard of icicles,
and the man will express a complete thought.

-Billy Collins

Absolutely brilliant

tThe poet, Billy Collins is an acclaimed writer and notable poet laureate. In his book, Sailing Alone Around the Room, Collins explores different themes in a multitude of different poems. He plays with emotions, while also giving a sense of realism. He uses irony, desire, the necessity to express everyday occurrences such as books, insomnia, winter and night.

tOne of his poems, Some Final Words, gave a helpful perspective on what to do when things do not go well in your life. Collins gives excellent advice when he writes “The past is nothing. . .It is a fabrication, best forgotten. . .” He tells the reader to “Leave it behind.” Collins explains that when you make a mistake, you shouldn’t stress about it, and should move on. These are great words of advice and I have used these words in my own life. For example, when I have a bad race in track, I just simply move on and focus on improving. I do not let my poor performances get to my head. I can learn from my failures as much as from my successes.

tBilly Collins also uses humor in his poetry, such as in the poem Morning. He implores his readers, “Why do we bother with the rest of the day. . .This is the best-throwing off the light covers, feet on the cold floor.” Just like the author, I love the feeling of the morning sun and the way my feet hit the floor in the morning. His thoughts about starting his day are similar to mine, and he embraces the early morning light.

tMany of Collins’s poems are relatable and provide a great sense of humor and familiarity. I enjoyed reading his poems because they’re mostly short, and not drawn out. Although I don’t usually like to read poetry, this book gave me a new incite and might even make me look at poems in a different way.