What would be required of a poet to be successful? It is the capturing of different emotions in different places at different timings. And this has been done by Billy Collins. In his poems, his own personal emotions are included so that readers understand it easier. Different settings are also introduced, besides just emotions. Combined, these two elements are the very things that make Billy Collins' poems so simple, so interesting, so different from others.
Born in New york City in 1941, Billy Collins is the author of several books of poetry, including Ballistics (2008), She Was Just Seventeen (2006), The Trouble with Poetry (2005); Nine Horses (2002); Sailing Alone Around the Room: New and Selected Poems (2001); Picnic, Lightning (1998); The Art of Drowning (1995), which was a finalist for the Lenore Marshall Poetry Prize; Questions About Angels (1991), which was selected by Edward Hirsch for the National Poetry Series; The Apple That Astonished Paris (1988); Video Poems (1980); and Pokerface (1977).
Collins's poetry has appeared in anthologies, textbooks, and a variety of periodicals, including Poetry, American Poetry Review, American Scholar, Harper's, Paris Review, and The New Yorker. His work has been featured in the Pushcart Prize anthology and has been chosen several times for the annual Best American Poetry series. Collins has edited Poetry 180: A Turning Back to Poetry (Random House, 2003), an anthology of contemporary poems for use in schools and was a guest editor for the 2006 edition of The Best American Poetry.
Another poet, Stephen Dunn, said, "We seem to always know where we are in a Billy Collins poem, but not necessarily where he is going. I love to arrive with him at his arrivals. He doesn't hide things from us, as I think lesser poets do. He allows us to overhear, clearly, what he himself has discovered." I feel that his comments are true; Billy Collins' poems do not contain the element of mystery, but instead allow us to understand the actions, the feelings of himself.
From his poems, I find that Billy Collins is a rather easygoing and open person. He expresses his feelings openly in his poems; unlike other poets. He also varies with different types of poems; some of them are vibrant yet some give the feeling of loneliness. However, reading the poems yourself is better than having me tell you about them. Therefore, below are three poems written exquisitely by Billy Collins.
=======================================================
Fishing on the Susquehanna in July
I have never been fishing on the Susquehanna
or on any river for that matter
to be perfectly honest.
Not in July or any month
have I had the pleasure--if it is a pleasure--
of fishing on the Susquehanna.
I am more likely to be found
in a quiet room like this one--
a painting of a woman on the wall,
a bowl of tangerines on the table--
trying to manufacture the sensation
of fishing on the Susquehanna.
There is little doubt
that others have been fishing
on the Susquehanna,
rowing upstream in a wooden boat,
sliding the oars under the water
then raising them to drip in the light.
But the nearest I have ever come to
fishing on the Susquehanna
was one afternoon in a museum in Philadelphia
when I balanced a little egg of time
in front of a painting
in which that river curled around a bend
under a blue cloud-ruffled sky,
dense trees along the banks,
and a fellow with a red bandanna
sitting in a small, green
flat-bottom boat
holding the thin whip of a pole.
That is something I am unlikely
ever to do, I remember
saying to myself and the person next to me.
Then I blinked and moved on
to other American scenes
of haystacks, water whitening over rocks,
even one of a brown hare
who seemed so wired with alertness
I imagined him springing right out of the frame.
=======================================================
Litany
You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine...
—Jacques Crickillon
You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.
However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.
It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.
And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.
It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.
I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.
I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and—somehow—the wine.
=======================================================
Some Days
Some days I put the people in their places at the table,
bend their legs at the knees,
if they come with that feature,
and fix them into the tiny wooden chairs.
All afternoon they face one another,
the man in the brown suit,
the woman in the blue dress,
perfectly motionless, perfectly behaved.
But other days, I am the one
who is lifted up by the ribs,
then lowered into the dining room of a dollhouse
to sit with the others at the long table.
Very funny,
but how would you like it
if you never knew from one day to the next
if you were going to spend it
striding around like a vivid god,
your shoulders in the clouds,
or sitting down there amidst the wallpaper,
staring straight ahead with your little plastic face?
=======================================================
Sources: http://poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/278
http://poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/16497
http://poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19797
http://poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19797
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
IT Home Learning Lesson 1: Figurative Language
Below is a poem that I found interesting.
Source : http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/pablo_neruda/poems/15708
Author : Pablo Neruda
====================================================================
It so happens I am sick of being a man.
And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and moviehouses
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.
The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarsesobs.
The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.
The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,
no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.
It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It so happens I am sick of being a man.
Still it would be marvelous
to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,
or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.
It would be great
to go through the streets with a green knife
letting out yells until I died of the cold.
I don't want to go on being a root in the dark,
insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,
taking in and thinking, eating every day.
I don't want so much misery.
I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb,
alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,
half frozen, dying of grief.
That's why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel, and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the night.
And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moisthouses,
into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,
into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,
and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.
There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines
hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,
and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,
there are mirrors
that ought to have wept from shame and terror,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical cords.
I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,
my rage, forgetting everything,
I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedicshops,
and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:
underwear, towels and shirts from which slow
dirty tears are falling.
====================================================================
Hyperboles used - Paragraph 5, "insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep".
These hyberboles show the despair and hopelessness the author was experiencing at that moment.
Metaphors used - Paragraph 5, "I don't want to go on being a root in the dark".
The author's current situation is compared to "a root in the dark".
Similes used - Paragraph 1, "dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt".
The author's current situation is compared to "a swan made of felt".
Symbolisms used - Paragraph 8, "certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin".
This shows how old the streets are, by comparing it with cracks in the skin.
===========================================================================
I chose this poem because I found it very interesting. The author shows that he is tired of life by giving different examples, such as "The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators." From this, we can tell that he is looking for something else other than the usual city life.
The author also expresses his feelings by providing comparisons in the form of similes and metaphors. This makes the poem easier to comprehend. Although this poem may be gross on the outside, using words such as "corpses", "blood" and such, I feel that this is just the author's way of expressing his thoughts to readers. Overall, I find this poem simple and yet full of feelings.
Source : http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/pablo_neruda/poems/15708
Author : Pablo Neruda
====================================================================
It so happens I am sick of being a man.
And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and moviehouses
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.
The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarsesobs.
The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.
The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,
no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.
It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It so happens I am sick of being a man.
Still it would be marvelous
to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,
or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.
It would be great
to go through the streets with a green knife
letting out yells until I died of the cold.
I don't want to go on being a root in the dark,
insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,
taking in and thinking, eating every day.
I don't want so much misery.
I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb,
alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,
half frozen, dying of grief.
That's why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel, and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the night.
And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moisthouses,
into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,
into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,
and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.
There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines
hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,
and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,
there are mirrors
that ought to have wept from shame and terror,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical cords.
I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,
my rage, forgetting everything,
I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedicshops,
and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:
underwear, towels and shirts from which slow
dirty tears are falling.
====================================================================
Hyperboles used - Paragraph 5, "insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep".
These hyberboles show the despair and hopelessness the author was experiencing at that moment.
Metaphors used - Paragraph 5, "I don't want to go on being a root in the dark".
The author's current situation is compared to "a root in the dark".
Similes used - Paragraph 1, "dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt".
The author's current situation is compared to "a swan made of felt".
Symbolisms used - Paragraph 8, "certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin".
This shows how old the streets are, by comparing it with cracks in the skin.
===========================================================================
I chose this poem because I found it very interesting. The author shows that he is tired of life by giving different examples, such as "The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators." From this, we can tell that he is looking for something else other than the usual city life.
The author also expresses his feelings by providing comparisons in the form of similes and metaphors. This makes the poem easier to comprehend. Although this poem may be gross on the outside, using words such as "corpses", "blood" and such, I feel that this is just the author's way of expressing his thoughts to readers. Overall, I find this poem simple and yet full of feelings.
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