The Trouble with Poetry = 82 down, 18 to go

22 Aug

The Trouble with Poetry and Other Poems
Billy Collins
85 pages

I first heard Billy Collins on NPR a couple of years ago talking, at the time, about his new book, The Trouble with Poetry. His was not just refreshing approach to poetry, but invigorating approach. At the time he was the poet laureate of New York state, and he had previously served as poet laureate of the United States, where he introduced Poetry 180, a poem-of-the-day program for high school students.

This book skirts the rules of my challenge in that I can’t reread any books. Since I purchased the book, I have often read from its pages, marking those poems I enjoyed the most. But I never read all of the poems contained between its covers until this challenge, which is why I am permitting myself to include it here.

If you think you don’t like poetry you should read from the pages of this book. Its title poem is a nice hint of the joy you’ll find as you wander from page to page.

The Trouble with Poetry

The trouble with poetry, I realized
as I walked along a beach one night–
cold Florida sand under my bare feet,
a show of stars in the sky–

the trouble with poetry is
that it encourages the writing of more poetry,
more guppies crowding the fish tank,
more baby rabbits
hopping out of their mothers into the dewy grass.

And how will it ever end?
unless the day finally arrives
when we have compared everything in the world
to everything else in the world,

and there is nothing left to do
but quietly close our notebooks
and sit with our hands folded on our desks.

Poetry fills me with joy
and I rise like a feather in the wind.
Poetry fills me with sorrow
and I sink like a chain flung from a bridge.

But mostly poetry fills me
with the urge to write poetry,
to sit in the dark and wait for a little flame
to appear at the tip of my pencil.

And along with that, the longing to steal,
to break into the poems of others
with a flashlight and a ski mask.

And what an unmerry band of thieves we are,
cut-purses, common shoplifters,
I thought to myself
as a cold wave swirled around my feet
and the lighthouse moved its megaphone over the sea,
which is an image I stole directly
from Lawrence Ferlinghetti–
to be perfectly honest for a moment–

the bicycling poet of San Francisco
whose little amusement park of a book
I carried in a side pocket of my uniform
up and down the treacherous halls of high school.


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