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Ballistics
While 'Ballistics' addresses the most grave and serious of subjects - death and love, solitude and aging - Collins' light touch and lighter spirit never desert him. Even in his darkest verses, Collins never fails to remind us of the sheer miracle, comedy and strangeness of our simply being here.
112 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2008
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About the author
Billy Collins
150 books1,610 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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November 2, 2012
Collins once told an interviewer, “I think what really happened psychologically is that I started off writing in the voice of my father (wise-cracking) and only later did I find a way to admit my mother (generous, empathetic). And I didn’t even need long sessions on the couch to figure that out.” The humor is what’s always drawn me to him, but he’s deceptively serious at times, too. Interviews also show that he’s completely dedicated to his craft. Poet laureates are bound to be.
Now that I’ve read two of his books (thereby allowing me to feign expertise), I’ll say that this recent one from 2008 has a slightly lonelier, edgier tone – maybe a Bronx cheer to his advancing years. The playfulness, the self-deprecation, and the unhurried contemplation are all still in evidence, though, as some of my favorites will show.
Hippos on Holiday
is not really the title of a movie
but if it was I would be sure to see it.
I love their short legs and big heads,
the whole hippo look.
Hundreds of them would frolic
in the mud of a wide, slow-moving river,
and I would eat my popcorn
in the dark of a neighborhood theater.
When they opened their enormous mouths
lined with big stubby teeth
I would drink my enormous Coke.
I would be both in my seat
and in the water playing with the hippos,
which is the way it is
with a truly great movie.
Only a mean-spirited reviewer
would ask on holiday from what?
Billy told George Plimpton in a Paris Review interview that his mom used to read him Black Beauty and The Yearling -- sentimental animal fiction. And his dad brought him all the Lassie books. It must have made an impression.
A Dog on His Master
As young as I look,
I am growing older faster than he,
seven to one
is the ratio they tend to say.
Whatever the number,
I will pass him one day
and take the lead
the way I do on our walks in the woods.
And if this ever manages
to cross his mind,
it would be the sweetest
shadow I have ever cast on snow or grass.
And here he is with a bit of play:
Adage
When it’s late at night and branches
are banging against the windows,
you might think that love is just a matter
of leaping out of the frying pan of yourself
into the fire of someone else,
but it’s a little more complicated than that.
It’s more like trading the two birds
who might be hiding in that bush
for the one you are not holding in your hand.
A wise man once said that love
was like forcing a horse to drink
but then everyone stopped thinking of him as wise.
Let us be clear about something.
Love is not as simple as getting up
on the wrong side of the bed wearing the emperor’s clothes.
No, it’s more like the way the pen
feels after it has defeated the sword.
It’s a little like the penny saved or the nine dropped stitches.
You look at me through the halo of the last candle
and tell me love is an ill wind
that has no turning, a road that blows no good,
but I am here to remind you,
as our shadows tremble on the walls,
that love is the early bird who is better late than never.
Not all the commentary on older age was negative. This one, I thought, was nuanced with a more accepting view.
Old Man Eating Alone in a Chinese Restaurant
I am glad I resisted the temptation,
if it was a temptation when I was young,
to write a poem about an old man
eating alone at a corner table in a Chinese restaurant.
I would have gotten it all wrong
thinking: the poor bastard, not a friend in the world
and with only a book for a companion.
He'll probably pay the bill out of a change purse.
So glad I waited all these decades
to record how hot and sour the hot and sour
soup is here at Chang's this afternoon
and how cold the Chinese beer in a frosted glass.
And my book –– José Saramago's Blindness
as it turns out –– is so absorbing that I look up
from its escalating horrors only
when I am stunned by one of his gleaming sentences.
And I should mention the light
that falls through the big windows this time of the day
italicizing everything it touches ––
the plates and teapots, the immaculate tablecloths,
as well as the soft brown hair of the waitress
in the white blouse and short black skirt,
the one who is smiling now as she bears a cup of rice
and shredded beef with garlic to my favorite table in the corner.
But sometimes the edginess was clear, and even literal.
Divorce
Once, two spoons in bed,
now tined forks
across a granite table
and the knives they have hired.
One of his most common subjects was poetry itself. Billy at his meta-magnificent best:
The Effort
Would anyone care to join me
in flicking a few pebbles in the direction
of teachers who are fond of asking the question:
"What is the poet trying to say?"
as if Thomas Hardy and Emily Dickinson
had struggled but ultimately failed in their efforts—
inarticulate wretches that they were,
biting their pens and staring out the window for a clue.
Yes, it seems that Whitman, Amy Lowell
and the rest could only try and fail
but we in Mrs. Parker's third-period English class
here at Springfield High will succeed
with the help of these study questions
in saying what the poor poet could not,
and we will get all this done before
that orgy of egg salad and tuna fish known as lunch.
Tonight, however, I am the one trying
to say what it is this absence means,
the two of us sleeping and waking under different roofs.
The image of this vase of cut flowers,
not from our garden, is no help.
And the same goes for the single plate,
the solitary lamp, and the weather that presses its face
against these new windows--the drizzle and the
morning frost.
So I will leave it up to Mrs. Parker,
who is tapping a piece of chalk against the blackboard,
and her students—a few with their hands up,
others slouching with their caps on backwards—
to figure out what it is I am trying to say
about this place where I find myself
and to do it before the noon bell rings
and that whirlwind of meatloaf is unleashed.
Or this, the last one in the book:
Envoy
Go, little book,
out of this house and into the world,
carriage made of paper rolling toward town
bearing a single passenger
beyond the reach of this jitter pen,
far from the desk and the nosy gooseneck lamp.
It is time to decamp,
put on a jacket and venture outside,
time to be regarded by other eyes,
bound to be held in foreign hands.
So, off you go, infants of the brain,
with a wave and some bits of fatherly advice:
stay out a late as you like,
don’t bother to call or write
and talk to as many strangers as you can.
With certain previews my wife will lean over and whisper, “It's like we've seen the whole movie now.” We both hate when they do that. Shoot, now I can’t remember where I was going with this. I must be getting to that age where I forget things more and more. But as Billy would advise, it's good to see the humor.
Now that I’ve read two of his books (thereby allowing me to feign expertise), I’ll say that this recent one from 2008 has a slightly lonelier, edgier tone – maybe a Bronx cheer to his advancing years. The playfulness, the self-deprecation, and the unhurried contemplation are all still in evidence, though, as some of my favorites will show.
Hippos on Holiday
is not really the title of a movie
but if it was I would be sure to see it.
I love their short legs and big heads,
the whole hippo look.
Hundreds of them would frolic
in the mud of a wide, slow-moving river,
and I would eat my popcorn
in the dark of a neighborhood theater.
When they opened their enormous mouths
lined with big stubby teeth
I would drink my enormous Coke.
I would be both in my seat
and in the water playing with the hippos,
which is the way it is
with a truly great movie.
Only a mean-spirited reviewer
would ask on holiday from what?
Billy told George Plimpton in a Paris Review interview that his mom used to read him Black Beauty and The Yearling -- sentimental animal fiction. And his dad brought him all the Lassie books. It must have made an impression.
A Dog on His Master
As young as I look,
I am growing older faster than he,
seven to one
is the ratio they tend to say.
Whatever the number,
I will pass him one day
and take the lead
the way I do on our walks in the woods.
And if this ever manages
to cross his mind,
it would be the sweetest
shadow I have ever cast on snow or grass.
And here he is with a bit of play:
Adage
When it’s late at night and branches
are banging against the windows,
you might think that love is just a matter
of leaping out of the frying pan of yourself
into the fire of someone else,
but it’s a little more complicated than that.
It’s more like trading the two birds
who might be hiding in that bush
for the one you are not holding in your hand.
A wise man once said that love
was like forcing a horse to drink
but then everyone stopped thinking of him as wise.
Let us be clear about something.
Love is not as simple as getting up
on the wrong side of the bed wearing the emperor’s clothes.
No, it’s more like the way the pen
feels after it has defeated the sword.
It’s a little like the penny saved or the nine dropped stitches.
You look at me through the halo of the last candle
and tell me love is an ill wind
that has no turning, a road that blows no good,
but I am here to remind you,
as our shadows tremble on the walls,
that love is the early bird who is better late than never.
Not all the commentary on older age was negative. This one, I thought, was nuanced with a more accepting view.
Old Man Eating Alone in a Chinese Restaurant
I am glad I resisted the temptation,
if it was a temptation when I was young,
to write a poem about an old man
eating alone at a corner table in a Chinese restaurant.
I would have gotten it all wrong
thinking: the poor bastard, not a friend in the world
and with only a book for a companion.
He'll probably pay the bill out of a change purse.
So glad I waited all these decades
to record how hot and sour the hot and sour
soup is here at Chang's this afternoon
and how cold the Chinese beer in a frosted glass.
And my book –– José Saramago's Blindness
as it turns out –– is so absorbing that I look up
from its escalating horrors only
when I am stunned by one of his gleaming sentences.
And I should mention the light
that falls through the big windows this time of the day
italicizing everything it touches ––
the plates and teapots, the immaculate tablecloths,
as well as the soft brown hair of the waitress
in the white blouse and short black skirt,
the one who is smiling now as she bears a cup of rice
and shredded beef with garlic to my favorite table in the corner.
But sometimes the edginess was clear, and even literal.
Divorce
Once, two spoons in bed,
now tined forks
across a granite table
and the knives they have hired.
One of his most common subjects was poetry itself. Billy at his meta-magnificent best:
The Effort
Would anyone care to join me
in flicking a few pebbles in the direction
of teachers who are fond of asking the question:
"What is the poet trying to say?"
as if Thomas Hardy and Emily Dickinson
had struggled but ultimately failed in their efforts—
inarticulate wretches that they were,
biting their pens and staring out the window for a clue.
Yes, it seems that Whitman, Amy Lowell
and the rest could only try and fail
but we in Mrs. Parker's third-period English class
here at Springfield High will succeed
with the help of these study questions
in saying what the poor poet could not,
and we will get all this done before
that orgy of egg salad and tuna fish known as lunch.
Tonight, however, I am the one trying
to say what it is this absence means,
the two of us sleeping and waking under different roofs.
The image of this vase of cut flowers,
not from our garden, is no help.
And the same goes for the single plate,
the solitary lamp, and the weather that presses its face
against these new windows--the drizzle and the
morning frost.
So I will leave it up to Mrs. Parker,
who is tapping a piece of chalk against the blackboard,
and her students—a few with their hands up,
others slouching with their caps on backwards—
to figure out what it is I am trying to say
about this place where I find myself
and to do it before the noon bell rings
and that whirlwind of meatloaf is unleashed.
Or this, the last one in the book:
Envoy
Go, little book,
out of this house and into the world,
carriage made of paper rolling toward town
bearing a single passenger
beyond the reach of this jitter pen,
far from the desk and the nosy gooseneck lamp.
It is time to decamp,
put on a jacket and venture outside,
time to be regarded by other eyes,
bound to be held in foreign hands.
So, off you go, infants of the brain,
with a wave and some bits of fatherly advice:
stay out a late as you like,
don’t bother to call or write
and talk to as many strangers as you can.
With certain previews my wife will lean over and whisper, “It's like we've seen the whole movie now.” We both hate when they do that. Shoot, now I can’t remember where I was going with this. I must be getting to that age where I forget things more and more. But as Billy would advise, it's good to see the humor.
June 27, 2019
[3.5 stars] I adore Billy Collins. His cleverness will always be his strongest asset, along with his ability to write in a concise way that still manages to say so much. However, I felt that this collection as a whole fell a bit flat. There are a lot more self-centered (and I don't mean that as solipsistic but literally focused on himself as the writer, human being, etc.) rather than outward-looking poems in this collection; he thrives, I believe, when he looks beyond.
January 29, 2018
Oh,My God!
Not only in church
and nightly by their bedsides
do young girls pray these days.
Wherever they go,
prayer is woven into their talk
Like a bright thread of awe.
Even at the pedestrian mall
outbursts of praise
Spring unbidden from their glossy lips.
OMG!Billy Collins is so good.
Not only in church
and nightly by their bedsides
do young girls pray these days.
Wherever they go,
prayer is woven into their talk
Like a bright thread of awe.
Even at the pedestrian mall
outbursts of praise
Spring unbidden from their glossy lips.
OMG!Billy Collins is so good.
July 17, 2013
What can I say?
It's another volume of wonderful poetry from Billy Collins, a man who notices the tiniest detail and bothers to remark on it. He makes the quiet and mundane seem magnificent and precious. And you know what? It damn well is!
My favorite was the title poem.
I'm someone who sees those altered book "art" projects and wonders which books are okay to ruin in the name of art. (Reader's Digest Condensed Books are the only ones that come to my mind, as in my opinion, books AND soup should NEVER be condensed!) I like that Collins has similar thoughts when he sees a book destroyed.
Ballistics
When I came across the high-speed photograph
of a bullet that had just pierced a book -
the pages exploding with the velocity -
I forgot all about the marvels of photography
and began to wonder which book
the photographer had selected for the shot.
Many novels sprang to mind
including those of Raymond Chandler
where an extra bullet would hardly be noticed.
Nonfiction offered many choices -
a history of Scottish lighthouses,
a biography of Joan of Arc and so forth
Or it could be an anthology of medieval literature,
the bullet having just beheaded Sir Gawain
and scattered the band of assorted pilgrims.
But later, as I was drifting off to sleep,
I realized that the executed book
was a recent collection of poems written
by someone of whom I was not fond
and that the bullet must have passed through
his writing with little resistance
at twenty-eight hundred feet per second,
through the poems about his childhood
and the ones about the dreary state of the world,
and then through the author's photograph.
through the beard, the round glasses,
and that special poet's hat he loves to wear.
Snerk!
It's another volume of wonderful poetry from Billy Collins, a man who notices the tiniest detail and bothers to remark on it. He makes the quiet and mundane seem magnificent and precious. And you know what? It damn well is!
My favorite was the title poem.
I'm someone who sees those altered book "art" projects and wonders which books are okay to ruin in the name of art. (Reader's Digest Condensed Books are the only ones that come to my mind, as in my opinion, books AND soup should NEVER be condensed!) I like that Collins has similar thoughts when he sees a book destroyed.
Ballistics
When I came across the high-speed photograph
of a bullet that had just pierced a book -
the pages exploding with the velocity -
I forgot all about the marvels of photography
and began to wonder which book
the photographer had selected for the shot.
Many novels sprang to mind
including those of Raymond Chandler
where an extra bullet would hardly be noticed.
Nonfiction offered many choices -
a history of Scottish lighthouses,
a biography of Joan of Arc and so forth
Or it could be an anthology of medieval literature,
the bullet having just beheaded Sir Gawain
and scattered the band of assorted pilgrims.
But later, as I was drifting off to sleep,
I realized that the executed book
was a recent collection of poems written
by someone of whom I was not fond
and that the bullet must have passed through
his writing with little resistance
at twenty-eight hundred feet per second,
through the poems about his childhood
and the ones about the dreary state of the world,
and then through the author's photograph.
through the beard, the round glasses,
and that special poet's hat he loves to wear.
Snerk!
November 11, 2020
Another wonderful collection by Billy Collins. I read this right after Horoscopes for the Dead, and at first I felt there were fewer poems I connected with in this book, but after section one, I liked a lot more. Collins has a way of making quiet, ordinary moments and scenes seem significant. I would be nervous to spend time with him, because he seems to have such a keen eye and intuition that he notices everything;-)
My favorites were:
No Things
Greek and Roman Statuary
The Future (probably my favorite in the whole collection)
Carpe Diem
New Year's Day
Details
Adage
Baby Listenings
What Love Does
Find my book reviews and more at http://www.princessandpen.com
My favorites were:
No Things
Greek and Roman Statuary
The Future (probably my favorite in the whole collection)
Carpe Diem
New Year's Day
Details
Adage
Baby Listenings
What Love Does
Find my book reviews and more at http://www.princessandpen.com
January 1, 2009
I enjoyed Collins' book PICNIC, LIGHTNING, but this new one--while having a few strong lines--seems more self-indulgent than usual. There's almost a whining quality to it that bothered me. He's often compared to Frost, since he uses very accessible language and images, but Frost saw the "bigger picture" within and behind the world. Collins knows the "big picture"--the flow of time, life, death--but he constantly filters it through a personal lens clouded with his own fear, sarcasm, lost loves, and approaching death. In one poem, "Quiet", he remembers visiting a monestary in Big Sur for one afternoon, and says:
"Out of a lifetime of running my mouth
and leaning on the horn of the ego,
only a single afternoon of being truly quiet."
He goes on to say:
"Yet since then--
nothing but the racket of self-advertisement,
the clamor of noisy restaurants,
the classroom proclamations,
the little king of the voice having its say,
and today the pride of writing this down,
which must be the reason my pen
has turned its back on me to hide its face in its hands."
Collins needs to return to silence for awhile.
"Out of a lifetime of running my mouth
and leaning on the horn of the ego,
only a single afternoon of being truly quiet."
He goes on to say:
"Yet since then--
nothing but the racket of self-advertisement,
the clamor of noisy restaurants,
the classroom proclamations,
the little king of the voice having its say,
and today the pride of writing this down,
which must be the reason my pen
has turned its back on me to hide its face in its hands."
Collins needs to return to silence for awhile.
May 13, 2020
Billy Collins And Wallace Stevens At Key West
Billy Collins is unique in his ability to make poetry accessible to many readers. He writes short poems in a simple, witty style that manages to include a good deal of reflection. His volume of poetry "Ballistics" (2008) includes over 50 poems divided into four parts. The poems cover themes such as death and the necessity it brings to make of life what one can and when one can, love, and loneliness. There are little satirical poems such as "Oh, my God!" which mimic the careless ways with language, among other things, of many Americans. Collins' poems also include self-reflexive themes such as the relationship between reader and writer in poetry, (in the poem "August in Paris" and "The Great American Poem" among several others) and the relationship between Collins and other poets, a relationship which involves the nature of writing poetry.
For all its accessibility, Collins' poetry makes substantial use of allusions to earlier poets including, in this volume, Valery, ("January in Paris"), Robert Frost, (several poems including "The Four Moon Planet"); Philip Larkin, ("Aubade", a title shared with a famous Larkin poem) and Wallace Stevens (in the poem "August", Collins refers to his fascination with Stevens. He says:"I went to grammar school for Jesus/and to graduate school for Wallace Stevens.") There are many informative reader reviews and thoughts on the poems in "Ballistics", and I would like to write a review that points out the relationship between Collins and Stevens in this volume by looking at a single poem.
Both Stevens (1879 -- 1955) and Collins set many poems in Florida. "Ballistics" includes a poem called "The Idea of Natural History at Key West". The title is a clear echo of one of Stevens' best poems "The Idea of Order at Key West" and the poems and styles illuminate each other.
Wallace Stevens is a difficult writer, but he has become a revered American poet. "The Idea of Order at Key West" is a meditation on the relationship between imagination and creativity and reality. The major figure in the poem is a beautiful unnamed young woman standing seaside. "She sang beyond the genius of the sea", Stevens begins. He then explores the complex relationship between the girl and her song of the sea and the sea itself. At one point he says:
"then we,
as we beheld her striding there alone,
Knew that there never was a world for her
Except the one she sang and, singing, made."
There is more to it, but let us turn to Collins' poem which takes a deflationary approach to Stevens' lofty theme and language. Collins pokes fun at himself. Instead of a beautiful, singing girl, Collins gives us himself:
"When I happened to notice myself
walking naked past a wall-length mirror
.........
I looked like one of those silhouettes
that illustrate the evolution of man"
The poet observes his pot-bellied self: "Was this the beginning of the Great Regression/as the anthropologists of tomorrow would call it?" while he speculates that a "man of the future" might step forward possessing,"a more ample cranium", "a set of talons" or "a pair of useless cherubic wings." Collins' biting conclusion contrasts with Stevens' closing observations in his poem:
"Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon,
The makers rage to order words of the sea,
Words of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred,
And of ourselves and of our origins,
In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds."
I hope this short discussion will show how Collins' poetry makes use of the work of his great predecessors, especially Wallace Stevens. It suggests that there is more to Collins' poetry than might appear on the surface. I hope the comparison might also encourage, as Collins would wish, readers to explore other poetry beginning perhaps with Stevens' great poem, "The Idea of Order at Key West".
Robin Friedman
Billy Collins is unique in his ability to make poetry accessible to many readers. He writes short poems in a simple, witty style that manages to include a good deal of reflection. His volume of poetry "Ballistics" (2008) includes over 50 poems divided into four parts. The poems cover themes such as death and the necessity it brings to make of life what one can and when one can, love, and loneliness. There are little satirical poems such as "Oh, my God!" which mimic the careless ways with language, among other things, of many Americans. Collins' poems also include self-reflexive themes such as the relationship between reader and writer in poetry, (in the poem "August in Paris" and "The Great American Poem" among several others) and the relationship between Collins and other poets, a relationship which involves the nature of writing poetry.
For all its accessibility, Collins' poetry makes substantial use of allusions to earlier poets including, in this volume, Valery, ("January in Paris"), Robert Frost, (several poems including "The Four Moon Planet"); Philip Larkin, ("Aubade", a title shared with a famous Larkin poem) and Wallace Stevens (in the poem "August", Collins refers to his fascination with Stevens. He says:"I went to grammar school for Jesus/and to graduate school for Wallace Stevens.") There are many informative reader reviews and thoughts on the poems in "Ballistics", and I would like to write a review that points out the relationship between Collins and Stevens in this volume by looking at a single poem.
Both Stevens (1879 -- 1955) and Collins set many poems in Florida. "Ballistics" includes a poem called "The Idea of Natural History at Key West". The title is a clear echo of one of Stevens' best poems "The Idea of Order at Key West" and the poems and styles illuminate each other.
Wallace Stevens is a difficult writer, but he has become a revered American poet. "The Idea of Order at Key West" is a meditation on the relationship between imagination and creativity and reality. The major figure in the poem is a beautiful unnamed young woman standing seaside. "She sang beyond the genius of the sea", Stevens begins. He then explores the complex relationship between the girl and her song of the sea and the sea itself. At one point he says:
"then we,
as we beheld her striding there alone,
Knew that there never was a world for her
Except the one she sang and, singing, made."
There is more to it, but let us turn to Collins' poem which takes a deflationary approach to Stevens' lofty theme and language. Collins pokes fun at himself. Instead of a beautiful, singing girl, Collins gives us himself:
"When I happened to notice myself
walking naked past a wall-length mirror
.........
I looked like one of those silhouettes
that illustrate the evolution of man"
The poet observes his pot-bellied self: "Was this the beginning of the Great Regression/as the anthropologists of tomorrow would call it?" while he speculates that a "man of the future" might step forward possessing,"a more ample cranium", "a set of talons" or "a pair of useless cherubic wings." Collins' biting conclusion contrasts with Stevens' closing observations in his poem:
"Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon,
The makers rage to order words of the sea,
Words of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred,
And of ourselves and of our origins,
In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds."
I hope this short discussion will show how Collins' poetry makes use of the work of his great predecessors, especially Wallace Stevens. It suggests that there is more to Collins' poetry than might appear on the surface. I hope the comparison might also encourage, as Collins would wish, readers to explore other poetry beginning perhaps with Stevens' great poem, "The Idea of Order at Key West".
Robin Friedman
January 19, 2016
I had no idea I would love this as much as I did, when I picked it up from my university's library. I just wanted to read some poetry, something that I haven't seen before, and definitely not classics, because I usually don't read poetry in book format, I read the online or e-printed versions. But my God (irony), is Collins an amazing poet. I can't even describe his style, except maybe by using the very allusive term of "modern". That's true of his writing, but probably not of his themes, which are all universal to humanity, but which he manages to tackle in a completely innovative way. Loved, loved, loved this, and I really want to read his other works now.
July 26, 2016
I was actually fairly worried this go-round with Collins at first. The first three parts contained a handful of great pieces ("The Four-Moon Planet", "Quiet", "New Year's Day", etc.), and I feared I'd have to give my favorite poet a 3 or 4 star.
Then, part four. Holy goodness. Collins lays it thick with his final thrust in Ballistics with the following diamonds:
"Baby Listening"
"The Fish"
"The Great American Poem"
"Divorce"
"The Breather"
"The Mortal Coil"
"Envoy"
"Old Man Eating Alone in a Chinese Restaurant"
Billy Collins has certainly still got it. Take and read part four at least.
Then, part four. Holy goodness. Collins lays it thick with his final thrust in Ballistics with the following diamonds:
"Baby Listening"
"The Fish"
"The Great American Poem"
"Divorce"
"The Breather"
"The Mortal Coil"
"Envoy"
"Old Man Eating Alone in a Chinese Restaurant"
Billy Collins has certainly still got it. Take and read part four at least.
July 5, 2022
Out of all my poetry reading experiments, Collins stands out. Significantly. Might be one of my favorite modern poets, although generally the preference is still toward the more classic ones.
But Collins’ poems are a delight. This book was just as good as The Rain in Portugal, maybe more so. The man writes purely observational verses, not overloaded with heavy sociopolitical messages or agendas. Gotta love that.
Also, his poetry has nice rhythms (still no rhymes) and great imagery and an occasional absolutely lovely turn of phrase.
From the perfect, perfectly clever four (cutting cutlery) lines of Divorce to the charming closing of Envoy, this was a a pleasure to read. Recommended.
But Collins’ poems are a delight. This book was just as good as The Rain in Portugal, maybe more so. The man writes purely observational verses, not overloaded with heavy sociopolitical messages or agendas. Gotta love that.
Also, his poetry has nice rhythms (still no rhymes) and great imagery and an occasional absolutely lovely turn of phrase.
From the perfect, perfectly clever four (cutting cutlery) lines of Divorce to the charming closing of Envoy, this was a a pleasure to read. Recommended.
March 16, 2009
Billy Collins does it again. His most recent collection of poems hits it out of the ballpark. Collins is witty and sardonic, he takes the mundane and transforms it into extraordinary. After reading his poems, I often find myself wanting to examine the inner recesses of his brain so that I can see the world at the angle he does.
In my humble opinion, Billy Collins is one of the great poets of our time. I confirmed this a few years back when Daniel and I had the absolute pleasure of hearing him read. Collins is unassumingly hilarious, though he also has his moments of profundity.
A couple snippets:
‘This Little Piggy Went to Market’
is the usual thing to say when you begin
pulling on the toes of a small child,
and I have never had a problem with that.
I could easily picture the piggy with the basket
and his trotters kicking up the dust on an imaginary
road
What always stopped me in my tracks was
the middle toe—this little piggy ate roast beef.
I mean I enjoy a roast beef sandwich
with lettuce and tomato and a dollop of horseradish,
but I cannot see a pig ordering that in a delicatessen.
‘Baby Listening’
According to the guest information directory,
baby listening is a service offered by this seaside hotel.
Baby listening—not a baby who happens to be listening,
as I thought when I first checked in.
Leave the receiver off the hook,
the directory advises,
and your infant can be monitored by the staff,
though the staff, the entry continues,
cannot be held responsible for the well-being
of the baby in question.
Fair enough, someone to listen to the baby.
But the phrase did suggest a baby who is listening,
lying there in the room next to mine
listening to my pen scratching against the page…
Collins is wonderful. I daresay even people who don’t do cartwheels over poetry will like him.
In my humble opinion, Billy Collins is one of the great poets of our time. I confirmed this a few years back when Daniel and I had the absolute pleasure of hearing him read. Collins is unassumingly hilarious, though he also has his moments of profundity.
A couple snippets:
‘This Little Piggy Went to Market’
is the usual thing to say when you begin
pulling on the toes of a small child,
and I have never had a problem with that.
I could easily picture the piggy with the basket
and his trotters kicking up the dust on an imaginary
road
What always stopped me in my tracks was
the middle toe—this little piggy ate roast beef.
I mean I enjoy a roast beef sandwich
with lettuce and tomato and a dollop of horseradish,
but I cannot see a pig ordering that in a delicatessen.
‘Baby Listening’
According to the guest information directory,
baby listening is a service offered by this seaside hotel.
Baby listening—not a baby who happens to be listening,
as I thought when I first checked in.
Leave the receiver off the hook,
the directory advises,
and your infant can be monitored by the staff,
though the staff, the entry continues,
cannot be held responsible for the well-being
of the baby in question.
Fair enough, someone to listen to the baby.
But the phrase did suggest a baby who is listening,
lying there in the room next to mine
listening to my pen scratching against the page…
Collins is wonderful. I daresay even people who don’t do cartwheels over poetry will like him.
August 12, 2010
I don't remember Billy Collins showing a dark side. But Ballistics does throw a shadow. I'd guess he's experienced a personal setback. More than one poem here concerns death, one is entitled "Separation," and it's followed by "Despair" and "The Mortal Coil." But I've always thought his poetry a pleasure to read because of his wry perspectives and quirky humor. That's here, too, and those poems are among my favorites. In fact, the mood does brighten at the end of the book so that it ends sunnily amid the rumpled sheets of a new relationship. A typical Collins twist is that of an old man eating alone in a Chinese restaurant revealed in the last stanza to be himself. Another is concerned with the rhyme "This Little Piggy Went to Market" played on a child's toes. A point the poem "No Things" seems to be making is that language is better than reality, that the poet's (and our) search is worth the effort. I think the humorous poems demonstrate this best by encouraging readers to see the situations he writes are better than reality. He pictures the poet "banging away on the mystery" with "the raised jawbone of poetry." I much prefer that Collins to the one revealed in the vicious, powerful "Divorce": Once, two spoons in bed/now tined forks//across a granite table/and the knives they have hired.
April 24, 2016
Boy oh boy this solipsist is doing some hardcore navel-gazing. All I ask of poetry is that it make me want to write more poetry and here, all I can think to ask is 'is he dialing it in?' A bit too soft, white and normal for me.
December 19, 2021
Where has Billy Collins been my whole life? I've always had a confusion-hate relationship with poetry. I try, I really do. I watched Collins' Masterclass on writing and reading poetry and felt a great affinity for him. I shared the class with several others, who I hope got as much out of it as I. I went and picked up "Ballistics" to see if he could sustain me for a whole collection of poetry. He did and then some. I've just picked up another of his books.
As the child of English teachers, I am angered that I was not exposed to Collins in school. Why are they jamming Dickinson and Frost and others down kids' throats. It's either Dr. Seuss or something utterly impenetrable. Collins pokes fun at this in several pieces, and his Masterclass, but the bottom line is, I've spent decades thinking poetry has little for me. And yet here all 55 of the 56 poems in this collection spoke directly to me. How much time I wasted!
In addition to the clear and direct language he is known for, he does something at times where he prints a line of other poetry or a fact above his poem - it's a Forward almost. And it helps clear away cobwebs of confusion that other poets seems to thrill in.
A perfect example is his poem "Orinthography."
On its face, the poem seems to be about birds "writing short stories, poems, and letters to their mothers," and more. What? But when you read the fact he includes above, "The legendary Cang Jie was said to have invented writing after observing the tracks of birds.
Suddenly the 20 lines are opened wide before the reader. Such a small thing, but the difference between "unproductively scratching your head" (as he said in his class) and feeling the full meaning of the poem and imagery on offer.
If you think poetry isn't quite for you because of the lions and lionesses you were forced to read growing up, I recommend Billy Collins for his straightforward approach to sharing beautiful words, images, and thoughts with you.
As the child of English teachers, I am angered that I was not exposed to Collins in school. Why are they jamming Dickinson and Frost and others down kids' throats. It's either Dr. Seuss or something utterly impenetrable. Collins pokes fun at this in several pieces, and his Masterclass, but the bottom line is, I've spent decades thinking poetry has little for me. And yet here all 55 of the 56 poems in this collection spoke directly to me. How much time I wasted!
In addition to the clear and direct language he is known for, he does something at times where he prints a line of other poetry or a fact above his poem - it's a Forward almost. And it helps clear away cobwebs of confusion that other poets seems to thrill in.
A perfect example is his poem "Orinthography."
On its face, the poem seems to be about birds "writing short stories, poems, and letters to their mothers," and more. What? But when you read the fact he includes above, "The legendary Cang Jie was said to have invented writing after observing the tracks of birds.
Suddenly the 20 lines are opened wide before the reader. Such a small thing, but the difference between "unproductively scratching your head" (as he said in his class) and feeling the full meaning of the poem and imagery on offer.
If you think poetry isn't quite for you because of the lions and lionesses you were forced to read growing up, I recommend Billy Collins for his straightforward approach to sharing beautiful words, images, and thoughts with you.
June 2, 2010
In Ballistics, the reader will happily find the Billy Collins of his or her previous acquaintance: whimsical, thoughtful, and hauntingly eloquent. As a collection, the poems of Ballistics flow together nicely, but then, there's always something so clearly Collins about his work that I imagine this effect could be achieved with any grouping.
While I love poetry, I admit that I'm never quite sure how one should "review" a book of it. I tend to be introduced to poets by others and only then do I purchase a book by a single poet, confident that I enjoy their voice and will eagerly listen to whatever it is he or she has to say. Such is the case with Billy Collins, who is one of my favorite living poets. I almost wish he was more obscure so that such an observation could be deemed interesting, but Collins is well-respected and rightfully so. Since poetry always feels so personal, I find it hard to write up a true review, so I will simply say that I quite enjoyed this collection and here are three of my favorite poems from this work that will have to represent what I love about Billy Collins's poetry.
"Envoy"
Go, little book,
out of this house and into the world,
carriage made of paper rolling toward town
bearing a single passenger
beyond the reach of this jittery pen,
far from the desk and the nosy gooseneck lamp.
It is time to decamp,
put on a jacket and venture outside,
time to be regarded by other eyes,
bound to be held in foreign hands.
So off you go, infants of the brain,
with a wave and some bits of fatherly advice:
stay out as late as you like,
don't bother to call or write,
and talk to as many strangers as you can.
"Oh, My God!"
Not only in church
and nightly by their bedsides
do young girls pray these days.
Wherever they go,
prayer is woven into their talk
like a bright thread of awe.
Even at the pedestrian mall
outbursts of praise
spring unbidden from their glossy lips.
"The Mortal Coil"
One minute you are playing the fool,
strumming a tennis racquet as if it were a guitar
for the amusement of a few ladies
and the next minute you are lying on your deathbed,
arms stiff under the covers,
the counterpane tucked tight across your chest.
Or so seemed the progress of life
as I was flipping through the photographs
in Proust: The Later Years by George Painter.
Here he is at a tennis party, larking for the camera,
and 150 pages later, nothing but rictus on a pillow,
and in between; a confection dipped
into a cup of lime tea and brought to the mouth.
Which is why, instead of waiting
for our date this coming weekend,
I am now speeding to your house at 7:45 in the morning
where I hope to catch you half dressed--
and I am wondering which half
as I change lanes without looking --
with the result that we will be lifted
by the urgent pull of the flesh
into a state of ecstatic fusion, and you will be late for work.
And as we lie there
in the early, latticed light,
I will suggest that you take George Painter's
biography of Proust
to the office so you can show your boss
the pictures that caused you to arrive shortly before lunch
and he will understand perfectly,
for I imagine him to be a man of letters,
maybe even a devoted Proustian,
but at the very least a fellow creature,
ensnared with the rest of us in the same mortal coil,
or so it would appear from the wishful
vantage point of your warm and rumpled bed.
While I love poetry, I admit that I'm never quite sure how one should "review" a book of it. I tend to be introduced to poets by others and only then do I purchase a book by a single poet, confident that I enjoy their voice and will eagerly listen to whatever it is he or she has to say. Such is the case with Billy Collins, who is one of my favorite living poets. I almost wish he was more obscure so that such an observation could be deemed interesting, but Collins is well-respected and rightfully so. Since poetry always feels so personal, I find it hard to write up a true review, so I will simply say that I quite enjoyed this collection and here are three of my favorite poems from this work that will have to represent what I love about Billy Collins's poetry.
"Envoy"
Go, little book,
out of this house and into the world,
carriage made of paper rolling toward town
bearing a single passenger
beyond the reach of this jittery pen,
far from the desk and the nosy gooseneck lamp.
It is time to decamp,
put on a jacket and venture outside,
time to be regarded by other eyes,
bound to be held in foreign hands.
So off you go, infants of the brain,
with a wave and some bits of fatherly advice:
stay out as late as you like,
don't bother to call or write,
and talk to as many strangers as you can.
"Oh, My God!"
Not only in church
and nightly by their bedsides
do young girls pray these days.
Wherever they go,
prayer is woven into their talk
like a bright thread of awe.
Even at the pedestrian mall
outbursts of praise
spring unbidden from their glossy lips.
"The Mortal Coil"
One minute you are playing the fool,
strumming a tennis racquet as if it were a guitar
for the amusement of a few ladies
and the next minute you are lying on your deathbed,
arms stiff under the covers,
the counterpane tucked tight across your chest.
Or so seemed the progress of life
as I was flipping through the photographs
in Proust: The Later Years by George Painter.
Here he is at a tennis party, larking for the camera,
and 150 pages later, nothing but rictus on a pillow,
and in between; a confection dipped
into a cup of lime tea and brought to the mouth.
Which is why, instead of waiting
for our date this coming weekend,
I am now speeding to your house at 7:45 in the morning
where I hope to catch you half dressed--
and I am wondering which half
as I change lanes without looking --
with the result that we will be lifted
by the urgent pull of the flesh
into a state of ecstatic fusion, and you will be late for work.
And as we lie there
in the early, latticed light,
I will suggest that you take George Painter's
biography of Proust
to the office so you can show your boss
the pictures that caused you to arrive shortly before lunch
and he will understand perfectly,
for I imagine him to be a man of letters,
maybe even a devoted Proustian,
but at the very least a fellow creature,
ensnared with the rest of us in the same mortal coil,
or so it would appear from the wishful
vantage point of your warm and rumpled bed.
October 28, 2013
I think for the most part we have all figured out where we stand on Billy Collins. His poems either work for you or they don't. I dearly love him. I've known others, people who have earned my respect and continue to to this day, that cannot stand his stuff. Too droll, they say; meekly funny, at best, and the "pondering the small things that reveal the large stuff" bit has been done to death. When I was younger I would stand my ground and shout myself hoarse defending the merits of Collins' work. Now I just say, okay, if that's how you feel.
To me, the best stuff in life either hits you squarely or it doesn't. You can learn to appreciate something through continued exposure and study but you can't really learn to love it. Ballistics isn't going to change minds or create new disciples. It's Billy Collins writing very good Billy Collins poems. If you feel you might be predisposed to enjoying Collins then, by all means, pick it up. The humor is still there along with the deceptively powerful and quiet insights that are something of his trademark. However,it's also a more personal work than previous releases. Themes of marriage, separation, stumbling attempts at love, and a sense of mortality that every day grows increasingly more difficult to ignore, permeate the book. Collins clearly seems to have undergone a period of serious transition during the writing of these poems and makes no attempt to hide it. It's self-examining without being self-indulgent.
It's a fantastic Billy Collins book, whatever that might mean to you.
To me, the best stuff in life either hits you squarely or it doesn't. You can learn to appreciate something through continued exposure and study but you can't really learn to love it. Ballistics isn't going to change minds or create new disciples. It's Billy Collins writing very good Billy Collins poems. If you feel you might be predisposed to enjoying Collins then, by all means, pick it up. The humor is still there along with the deceptively powerful and quiet insights that are something of his trademark. However,it's also a more personal work than previous releases. Themes of marriage, separation, stumbling attempts at love, and a sense of mortality that every day grows increasingly more difficult to ignore, permeate the book. Collins clearly seems to have undergone a period of serious transition during the writing of these poems and makes no attempt to hide it. It's self-examining without being self-indulgent.
It's a fantastic Billy Collins book, whatever that might mean to you.
March 19, 2009
Billy Collins used to be my hero. And maybe he still is. Maybe I've been tainted by reading some of the other reviews which said he's been recycling himself too much. He's overdone, redundant...
He does use the same symbolism and style often - it is the same death personified in On the Death of a Next-Door Neighbor as in My Number from a previous collection. He still uses a quote or the title of the poem to define it.
Someone on goodreads said he should branch out - that he's certainly capable. I agree. Maybe he should write another paradelle... or invent a NEW new form of writing poetry.
I also disagree. What draws me to Collins more than anything else is his clarity. If he tries to go all E.E. Cummings or Ezra Pound on me, I think I'll go nuts. (That's not intended to be a knock on those guys - they have their place - and I'm occasionally a fan.) It's his simplicity and the fact that his poetry comes across as unpretentious. (Even though the poet, at times, comes across as a little conceited...)
In writing this review, I've found that Collins is still my hero and I'm bumping it up from 3 stars to 4. So he always writes poems about poems. So he writes about death and love. I'd much rather go back and read Billy Collins again and again and again than any other poet.
He does use the same symbolism and style often - it is the same death personified in On the Death of a Next-Door Neighbor as in My Number from a previous collection. He still uses a quote or the title of the poem to define it.
Someone on goodreads said he should branch out - that he's certainly capable. I agree. Maybe he should write another paradelle... or invent a NEW new form of writing poetry.
I also disagree. What draws me to Collins more than anything else is his clarity. If he tries to go all E.E. Cummings or Ezra Pound on me, I think I'll go nuts. (That's not intended to be a knock on those guys - they have their place - and I'm occasionally a fan.) It's his simplicity and the fact that his poetry comes across as unpretentious. (Even though the poet, at times, comes across as a little conceited...)
In writing this review, I've found that Collins is still my hero and I'm bumping it up from 3 stars to 4. So he always writes poems about poems. So he writes about death and love. I'd much rather go back and read Billy Collins again and again and again than any other poet.
November 18, 2013
These are the first poems I've read by this poet. I remember when his work was required reading among high schools. While working as a bookseller, years ago, his books were well sought after. Somehow I missed reading him myself until recently. I can see how his way of simply telling the feelings and observations found in everyday, but with wise and profound eyes ... both visually and spiritually make him so well loved. I liked the poem Adage best. It gave me a new understanding of love ...
... from Adage
You look at me through the halo of the last candle
And tell me love is an ill wind
That has no turning, a road that blows no good,
But I am here to remind you,
As our shadows tremble on the walls,
That love is the early bird who is better late than never.
Another look at The Day Lassie Died and I was reminded of a Frank O'Hara poem The Day Lady Died.
... from Adage
You look at me through the halo of the last candle
And tell me love is an ill wind
That has no turning, a road that blows no good,
But I am here to remind you,
As our shadows tremble on the walls,
That love is the early bird who is better late than never.
Another look at The Day Lassie Died and I was reminded of a Frank O'Hara poem The Day Lady Died.
June 22, 2010
I'm not sure if I liked this collection less than previous ones because Collins' style has become somewhat predictable for me, or if these poems really do lack the oomph of his earlier work. If this were the first book of his I had read, I might have been more startled by his word-play, his punchlines, and his easy grace with descriptions of everyday life. But I've read every book he's published, including his early Video Poems, and I'd like to see him push in a new direction rather than writing the same (admittedly charming) poems he always has. This is not to say that there aren't some amazing stand-outs in this book or that there aren't wonderful turns of phrase in even the lesser poems. But I do think his ego and his too-professional polish are keeping him from taking chances and producing fresher work.
September 15, 2013
Billy Collin’s work does not carry the stereotypical connotation of contemporary poetry. Instead Collins takes simple everyday circumstances and thoughts, he then writes about them in a romantic caring context. Collins’ tone and language is eloquent yet down to earth, he carries the attitude of a mature soul. His poems contain unique imagery in the way that they are not confusing but captivating. His works do not contain techniques like crazy spacing, but he does he tools such as enjambment in an appropriate understanding condition. Billy Collins keeps his poems at a length that is long enough to express deep emotions and short enough to keep it interesting. Each poem has a moral or theme that is fairly accessible to the reader without being obnoxiously blunt. The poems are provoking, but thankfully Collins language, tone, and honesty makes them inviting and non offense to readers.
September 24, 2008
As with all of Billy Collins' work, the poems are highly accessible by the "lay" reader while rewarding to the poetry fan who can see them in a different light.
December 16, 2014
Wonderful....my bookmark has gone straight back to the beginning, ready to start again.
February 3, 2018
Another winner by Collins.... part funny, part insightful, part clever....and all joy to read. There is a lot to learn from Collins. He blends art and science. He is witty. He is understandable. And authentic.
I like reading about the diverse domains of knowledge he writes about it. I've included my notes below
-- Four Moon Planet: surprise and delight of an unexpected ending.
-- The First Night introduced me to Spanish poet who compared music & color to love & lust.
-- January in Paris: such a great story of writing the final stanza of an unfinished poem.
-- New Year's Day: a "train of time"
-- The Day Lassie Died: note the vivid details of the story. Nothing flowery. Incredible observation. Who says poets are not scientists too?
-- The Effort: awesome
-- Looking Forward: powerful poem about mortality
-- Addendum: Inverts the trope
-- One the Death of a Next-Door Neighbor: great one
-- Ornithography: let's learn about Cang Jie
-- Baby Listening: so perceptive about poetry. Meta.
-- What Love Does: bee as love. Adds punch to an overused analogy.
-- Old Man Eating Alone: clever
-- Oh, My God!: clever. "like a bright thread of awe"
-- Ballistics: time to learn about super high speed photography
I like reading about the diverse domains of knowledge he writes about it. I've included my notes below
-- Four Moon Planet: surprise and delight of an unexpected ending.
-- The First Night introduced me to Spanish poet who compared music & color to love & lust.
-- January in Paris: such a great story of writing the final stanza of an unfinished poem.
-- New Year's Day: a "train of time"
-- The Day Lassie Died: note the vivid details of the story. Nothing flowery. Incredible observation. Who says poets are not scientists too?
-- The Effort: awesome
-- Looking Forward: powerful poem about mortality
-- Addendum: Inverts the trope
-- One the Death of a Next-Door Neighbor: great one
-- Ornithography: let's learn about Cang Jie
-- Baby Listening: so perceptive about poetry. Meta.
-- What Love Does: bee as love. Adds punch to an overused analogy.
-- Old Man Eating Alone: clever
-- Oh, My God!: clever. "like a bright thread of awe"
-- Ballistics: time to learn about super high speed photography
January 7, 2024
Would anyone care to join me
in flicking a few pebbles in the direction
of teachers who are fond of asking the question:
"What is the poet trying to say?"
Those lines, from the start of "The Effort," should be enough to make anyone mindful about explication, but I think at least one of the recurring themes in this collection is a safe bet: Life is short--it goes by in a blink or at least in the turn of a few pages, so we should take time to notice the details and enjoy whilst we may. The table of contents verifies there are somehow 56 poems (or "infants of the brain," as Collins refers to them at one point) in this little book, but it seems merely half that number. Many self-reflexively focus on language or the writing and primacy of poetry and/or even the poet himself, the distilling of thought down to essentials, but even in these there's often an undercurrent of carpe diem. I'm hard pressed to choose a favorite--after one read, almost all of them already seem worth revisiting--but this is one whose ballistics pierced my heart:
A Dog on His Master
As young as I look,
I am growing older faster than he,
seven to one
is the ratio they tend to say.
Whatever the number,
I will pass him one day
and take the lead
the way I do on our walks in the woods.
And if this ever manages
to cross his mind,
it would be the sweetest
shadow I have ever cast on snow or grass.
April 6, 2020
Billy Collins is a wonder. In this age of what seems like an endless pandemic, one needs a kind and calm voice every once in a while. It's such a relief from the screeching of the yellow-haired, lying, nincompoop in the White House and even from the bellowing talking heads on TV. It's a joy to pick up Billy Collins again and read "The Poems of Others" or "January in Paris," or......
My antidote to pandemic pandemonium: make yourself some tea, sit down, grab a Billy Collins, read anything. The world will get better immediately.
My antidote to pandemic pandemonium: make yourself some tea, sit down, grab a Billy Collins, read anything. The world will get better immediately.
February 2, 2021
Took me a while to really click with Billy Collins' work - all the while know he was great of course. But I really loved this. Thoughtful poems that take their time to unfold and so often with a wonderful surprise. Great humour, brilliant set-ups and reactions. Absolute master at the peak of his powers.
October 7, 2019
Love Billy Collins. My favorites from this collection: Hippos on Holiday and Baby Listening, The Great American Poem. Some darker stuff in here about a relationship that ended including a poem just titled "Divorce."
July 2, 2020
I only picked this up because I vaguely recall one of my New York roommates leaving a copy of it on the toilet for bathroom reading. I finally got around to it twelve years later.
Favorite poems: No Things, Tension
Favorite poems: No Things, Tension
August 5, 2021
this helped me get out of my reading slump! favorite poems in this collection were envoy, the flight of statues, the four moon planet, and august in paris!
October 1, 2024
Always a delight, Collins! His writing is funny and warm and reminds you to live life with wide eyed humor and curiosity, both the good and the bad!
Displaying 1 - 30 of 340 reviews