Within the last week or so, a particular friend of mine introduced me to a poet of whom I'd not previously heard. Granted, my knowledge of the poets is considerably deficient, and when conversing with a poetry aficionado, I fear my contributions limit themselves to the knowledgeable nod and occasional neutral comment on their statements. Unfortunately, one direct question regarding an author of which I have not heard, and my bluffing is immediately cast into a depth where it falters and drowns in a sea of apologetic admissions of unenlightenment. Therefore, my ignorance of Billy Collins (U.S. Poet Laureate from 2001-2003) was not particularly surprising. After reading the selections emailed to me, I was intrigued and investigated the nearby bookstore. In an out-of-character act, I purchased one of the compilations of Billy Collins' work and meandered back to the office, feeling dreamy and intellectual. Ahem. Over the next several days, I spent some time over my lunch hours perusing the book. When my friend first inquired to my like/dislike of poetry, I expressed enjoyment but also my inability to read and enjoy more than one individual poem at a time. As I looked through the newly purchased volume, I began to wonder why. So shocking, that I would find yet another way to be introspective.... Regardless, I began to realize that I typically read the way I acted in life: quickly. Hm. As I considered, I realized it was true. I tend to do all things fast; perhaps because I am motivated by accomplishment, perhaps because I'm more high-strung than I'd thought, perhaps partly engineered and encouraged by my current geographical location. Who knows. I've read as fast as possible from childhood; it was how I began reading and has persisted into my adult years. (HA! I feel like I can say that now. "Adult years." *dances jig*) When I read, I read fast, and gather the information needed for comprehension as quickly as possible so I am able to continue onward. Poetry forces me to slow down. I must stop. I must allow the words to rise up around me, to cover me as opposed to racing along above them, perhaps stopping here and there for an occasional dip into a brilliant sentence or descriptive paragraph, but mostly moving rapidly along my way to comprehend the necessary as immediately as I am able. The reading of poetry cannot be done thus. So now I sit, read, reread, look up and pause as I think and observe humankind milling about my stationary position, and then return to reread again before moving to the next line. It's rather beautiful, and life ceases its rush for a moment, perhaps two, while I absorb the joy of aliveness. As for Billy Collins himself, I think part of my appreciation comes from the fact that he seems to find joy and fascination in the little things. Details, things assumed or taken for granted, and merely in elements of life that are rarely thought to carry anything of interest. For example, his Tuesday, June 4, 1991, or To a Stranger Born in Some Distant Country Hundreds of Years from Now: Nobody here likes a wet dog.
No one wants anything to do with a dog
that is wet from being out in the rain
or retrieving a stick from a lake.
Look how she wanders around the crowded pub tonight
going from one person to another
hoping for a pat on the head, a rub behind the ears,
something that could be given with one hand
without even wrinkling the conversation.
But everyone pushes her away,
some with a knee, others with the sole of a boot.
Even the children, who don’t realize she is wet
until they go to pet her,
push her away,
then wipe their hands on their clothes.
And whenever she heads toward me,
I show her my palm, and she turns aside.
O stranger of the future!
O inconceivable being!
whatever the shape of your house,
however you scoot from place to place,
no matter how strange and colorless the clothes you
may wear,
I bet nobody there likes a wet dog either.
I bet everybody in your pub,
even the children, pushes her away.
His way of personifying certain things also appeals to me, probably because I have a great tendency to write likewise. Excerpt from Piano Lessons: 5. I am learning to play “It Might As Well Be Spring” but my left hand would rather be jingling the change in the darkness of my pocket or taking a rest on an armrest. I have to drag him into the music like a difficult and neglected child. This is the revenge of the one who never gets to hold the pen or wave good-bye, and now, who never gets to play the melody. Poetry is not the only current element in my life assisting to slow me down and build more recognition and enjoyment of life's fascinating bits, and surely I will always feel the push towards speed and accomplishment, but I can no longer claim to only appreciate the work of poets in single doses. Here's to occasionally allowing oneself to fall face first into a work of written art and wander without deadlines. | 
) satin smoothly flows along the scalloped sides down to each delicately jeweled toe, ending with with a gold and burgundy flourish. Also, me looks verra gooood in 'em. *crooked grin*
