Billy Collins is a renowned poet loved by millions for his accessible yet profound exploration of everyday life and the human condition. His unique ability to blend humor with poignant insights has captured the hearts of readers across generations.

Among his admirers is Poetry Pop subscriber, Judy Zalesne, who has taken the time to reflect on her personal connection to Collins’ work. I’m pleased to share her beautiful essay on Billy Collins, which delves into the themes and emotions present in his poetry while illustrating how his words resonate in her own life. I think you’ll love this piece as it not only highlights Collins’ literary prowess but also invites you to consider the impact of poetry in our daily experiences.

an essay on billy collins by Judy Zalesne

BILLY COLLINS SPEAKS TO ME

I just read a poet who knows me well.  It’s almost eerie how Billy Collins’ poems mirror my own memories and mind-sets.   But, ah, how effectively this former poet laureate imparts them.  Reading him is like finding the threads of my own plain thoughts and stories magically refined into strands of gold.  I feel a satisfaction in just knowing we share some similar sensitivities.  

In “Aimless Love,” Collins claims:

“This morning as I walked along the lakeshore,

I fell in love with a wren

and later in the day with a mouse

the cat had dropped under the dining room table.

In the shadows of an autumn evening,

I fell for a seamstress

still at her machine in the tailor’s window,

and later for a bowl of broth,

steam rising like smoke from a naval battle.

This is the best kind of love, I thought,

without recompense, without gifts,

or unkind words, without suspicion,

or silence on the telephone.”

And Collins goes on to admire other ordinary things, commonplace scenes that cause surges of unencumbered love — the trifling, take-for-granted things that most people catch glimpses of but don’t really see, hear echoes of but don’t really heed.   Collins is in love with life around him, and I think I know how he feels.  But in my words, splendor that incites bursts of passion – perhaps clumps of lanky snapdragons, horses galloping in split-railed green pastures, elderly couples strolling hand-in-hand — would seem naïve, trivial.  In my words, sudden infatuation with the sounds of city kids cavorting in the spray of an open fire hydrant, or a torrential downpour on the roof of a camp cabin would seem effusive.  My flood of feelings would have too many adjectives, too many adverbs, too many words.

Here’s Collins, continuing his aptitude for unlimited love:   

“But my heart is always propped up

in a field on its tripod

ready for the next arrow.”

Can any words  be more succinctly effective?

In a poem called “Night Letter to the Reader,” Collins writes:

 “I get up from the tangled bed and go outside,

a bird leaving its nest,

a snail taking a holiday from its shell, 

.  .  .

If I were younger, I might be thinking

about something I heard at a party,

about an unusual car,

or the press of Saturday night,

but as it is, I am simply conscious,

an animal in pajamas,

.  .  .

The dog has followed me out

And stands a little ahead,

Her nose lifted as if she were inhaling

The tall white flowers,

Visible tonight in the darkened garden,

.  .  .  “

Standing outside in pajamas, late at night in the moon-shadowed garden, accompanied by the dog  

 —   not an experience familiar to most, but significant to Billy Collins — and to me.   He, too, had the key to a vividly etched memory:

It’s two a.m.   Pepper, my part-Dalmation fourth child,  is barking at the door to the garden, an explicit plea to let him out.  

Groggy, stumbling downstairs to that door, I fling it open, hoping he’ll dash out and dash back, so I can go back to sleep.  But Pepper stands at the door, next to me, looking out at black space. 

“Go out, Pepper, go,” I urge, actually giving him a little shove to remind him why we are there.  “Go on, Pepper,” my raspy, yawning voice instructs.  Pepper stands still.  Finally, I step out into the garden, walk about twenty feet, and turn to him.  “Come, Pepper.  Come.  Here, boy.  Come here, Pepper.”  Pepper remains immobile.  Something is wrong with this picture:  I’m standing outside, barefoot on wet grass at two a.m., and the dog is inside looking out at me. 

But the longer I stand there, the more the garden comes into focus.  And as clouds now bypass the moon, oak tree branches become silhouettes against the drab sky, evergreen shrubs reveal their darkened cone or rotund shapes, and white mums take on an almost luminous glow against pervading grayness.  I realize I am standing amidst an astonishing natural work of art, a composition of various shapes in shades of black and gray.   

Besides the humor in the juxtaposition of Pepper and me, the revelation of that colorless, moonlit site remained a stored-away vision until Billy Collins called it up with his own memory image of standing outside at night, in pajamas, with his dog.

In a poem called “Birthday,” Collins contemplates what is left of his life. 

 . . .

“a small box of Octobers, a handful of Aprils,

little time to waste reading a large novel

on the couch every evening,

a few candles flaming in the corners of the room.

A fishbowl of Mondays, a row of Fridays —

yet I cannot come up with anything

better than to strike a match,

settle in under a light blanket,

and open to the first sentence of Clarissa.

Several of Collins’ poems show that brevity of life is never far from the front of his mind.  Nor is it from mine. There is “little time to waste reading a large novel,” or a small one for that matter — or typing away and deleting and backspacing and retyping and printing.  While Clarissa doesn’t compel me (though a Henry James book might), the computer does.  Are the situations similar?  How valuable are any of these pursuits in light of life’s ebbing tide?  

No matter.  Collins speaks to my inclinations. I concur with his.  And if I’m going to spend precious waning time in useless endeavors, what is better than to revel in the plain language, calm rhythms and heady insights of a brilliant poet who talks to me.   

Keep talking, Billy Collins.  I’m listening.

©Judy Zalesne all rights reserved

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Thank you for sharing, Judy. I know my readers will love this essay as much as I do! It’s a beautifully crafted piece that touches on important themes and offers unique insights. I am excited to see how it will spark discussions and inspire others to reflect on their own experiences and viewpoints. The depth and clarity of your writing truly shine through, making it a joy to read and share!

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