Billy Collins was US Poet Laureate from 2001–2003. He was replaced by Ted Kooser, a retired insurance executive. Both men are oozing academic credentials, adoring fans and accolades from all the right institutions. They are also bad poets. Their poems are safe like the dead organisms that inoculate and make people immune to the living ones. Naturally, its easy to take pot shots at famous people.
It's a lazy man's sport, like fishing a stocked lake. And it's sad in a blowsy way to criticize the successful. After all, do they not set the bar? Have they not risen above us all precisely because they are more worthy? But the husk also floats to the surface and all too often famous poets poison the art. A few years ago Drunken Boat published a wonderful critique of Billy Collins. Paul Stephens wrote it. I just read it today; a forward from BeatBaby, aka Mr. Lee. I'm posting an excerpt from it here. Perhaps it will help to inspire some someone to risk entering the cold fire.An Apology for Poetry, or, Why Bother With Billy Collins?
Billy Collins is to good poetry what Kenny G is to Charlie Parker; what sunset paintings at the mall are to Jackson Pollock; what Rod McKuen is to Walt Whitman; what Tori Spelling is to Lana Turner; what the burka is to lingerie; what the Backstreet Boys are to the Beatles; what George W. Bush is to the art of extemporaneous speech; what Osama bin Laden is to women’s liberation; what Dan Quayle is to spelling; Billy Collins is to poetry what the New Age/Mysticism section in the bookstore is to the Philosophy section, assuming that those two sections haven’t been conflated yet down at your local Barnes and Noble.
I could go on with list. But I don’t mean to suggest that Collins is kitsch, for though Collins may sometimes make gestures toward kitsch, he is very much working in a quasi-high culture mode, even if he occasionally tries to hide the fact. Many of his poems are supposedly witty responses to earlier famous poems (e.g. a poem titled "Dancing Towards Bethlehem").
Collins may not be a very learned poet, but he is not kitsch; Collins is much less interesting than kitsch–he is strictly banal, he wants us to know how uncomfortably banal poetry is, and he does a very good job of making us not want to read poetry any more. The banality of the title of his new Selected Poems, Sailing Alone Around the Room, pretty much says it all. The problem is that with his newfound prestige Collins is no longer sailing by himself."The New York Times recently published a review of Collins's latest book, 'The Trouble With Poetry'. Their articles get archived quickly so I'm including it here in its entirety. It's also worth a read.
Charming Billy
a review by DAVID ORR / published in the NYT January 8, 2006
I wonder how you are going to feel
when you find out
that I wrote this instead of you
is how the first poem begins
in the new book by Billy Collins
called "The Trouble with Poetry."
It is a typical Collins beginning -
a good-natured wave
across the echoing gulf that stretches
between writer and reader,
as if to suggest
the poem itself exists
in that uncertain, cloud-strewn gap,
and we, as readers,
are very nearly poets ourselves,
even if we are unlikely
to receive recognition as such
in the form of a generous grant
from the Guggenheim Foundation,
which is not to say
we would turn one down, mind you.
Anyway, it is a tribute
to the former Poet Laureate
that he is able to make us believe,
despite our anxious response to poetry,
that we are participating
in each Billy Collins poem,
and that the humorous touches -
like calling a book of poetry
"The Trouble With Poetry" -
are a kind of knowing salute,
one writer to another.
It is a technical achievement
all too easy to underestimate,
and it involves a special sensitivity
to the nature of reading, of hearing,
which is perhaps the reason
so many Billy Collins poems
are about the process of poetry,
as when, in his poem "Workshop,"
he makes the poem itself
a history of its own unfolding,
a strategy that appears again here
in slightly altered form
as the opening to "The Introduction":
I don't think this next poem
needs any introduction -
it's best to let the work speak for itself,
a suave parody
of the nervous preambles
one hears at so many poetry readings,
and exactly the kind of beginning
that allows us to chuckle gently
as a convention is tweaked,
almost as we chuckle gently
in anticipation when we realize
that the book review we've been reading
is about to turn the corner,
and begin placing a writer's shortcomings
alongside his virtues,
by observing, for instance,
that Billy Collins too often relies
on the same blandly ironic tone
and the same conversational free verse,
loosely organized in tercets
or the occasional quatrain
when an extra line jogs onto the page,
or that his poems often begin well
and then spiral down
into unsurprising images
like exhausted birds
unable to stand for anything
beyond the simple fact of exhaustion,
or that, most important,
he is often humorous
without actually being funny,
a difference that depends largely
on a writer's willingness
to let his violent, comic sensibility
turn its knives on the reader,
on the poem,
and on poetry itself,
which may seem like an odd complaint,
given Collins's reputation
for teasing our stuffy poetic traditions.
But the teasing this writer does
is harmless, really, and contrary
to what some critics have suggested,
the problem with his work
is not that it is disrespectful,
but that it is not disrespectful enough;
it never cracks wise
to the teacher's face,
but meekly returns to its desk,
lending itself with disappointing ease
to the stale imagery
of teachers, desks and wisecracking.
In the end, what we need
from a poet with Collins's talent
is not a good-natured wave
from writer to reader,
or a literary joke, or a mild chuckle;
what we need is to be drawn
high into the poem's cloud-filled air
and allowed to fall
on rocks real enough to hurt.
