I don’t read much poetry, although I have a place in my heart for certain English poets, for Emily Dickinson, and a smattering of others. My two favorite contemporary poems are from Billy Collins, a former U.S. Poet Laureate. They are Forgetfulness, and Another Reason I Don’t Keep a Gun in the House. They are both worth Googling and reading, but I’ll include the former below, because I cannot resist sharing:

Forgetfulness, by Bill Collins

The name of the author is the first to go

followed obediently by the title, the plot,

the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel

which suddenly becomes one you have never read, never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor

decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,

to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine muses goodbye

and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,

and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,

the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,

it is not poised on the tip of your tongue

or even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river

whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall

well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those

who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night

to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.

No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted

out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

I include this not simply because it tickles me, as I am living that reality more every day, but also because it exemplifies what I love about Billy Collins’ poetry. He is humorous in that delicate, subtle (or not too subtle), sharp, and clever manner. He is real and truthful, about issues great and small, although he manages to hint at the great within the small. His metaphors are unique, not obvious, and are a wonderful means of revealing those truths, exposing the humor of us, of being alive.

And so when I saw he had a new book of poetry out in 2024, I felt this was a good time to introduce you to him, to poetry that it is easy to relate to, to find common ground with, that anyone can explicate, enjoy, find meaning in. Some of the poems in this volume do relate to water in some way, such as the delightful

Adam Names The Fish

Genesis 2:20

Exhausted,

after coming up with giraffe,

buffalo, and butterfly,

then ocelot and kangaroo

he begs the sky for a breather.

But there is nothing

but the silence

of the low clouds,

then a trace of wind,

the tweet of a wren,

the moo of a cow,

two of the many

he is most proud of

for their simplicity,

and the hint of onomatopoeia.

Cow. Wren.

He likes snake and canary too.

But the silence says

he has more work to do.

So, with nary an Eve to impress,

he takes the deepest breath

known to man,

and holding it, dives in.

Beyond water implicit poems, Collins writes about being a poet, about looking back on his youth now that he is in old age, about what it all has meant. He covers all in the serious, without taking things too seriously, style that I have come to love. The last few poems in the volume are a coda, a gentle finale— appropriate, as he is 84 as of this writing. He writes of the futility of writing an autobiography, as the critics are likely to simply use it as an opportunity to criticize his consistent use of first person viewpoint, and use of personification (as in an adolescent pencil, eager to see the world; a device that delivers humor and insight effectively, in my view.) The last poem is particularly touching:

A Change of Heart

I once expressed the wish for a tomb

topped by a white marble angel,

her head buried in her folded wing,

but now, I’d rather you

just copy out that little poem by Ryota,

fold it into quarters,

then slip into my shirt pocket

before I am incinerated in a chamber.

It’s the one where he used to think

that death came only to others,

but now in his ultimate hour,

he realizes that this happiness is also his.

That is a joyful, peaceful note to end on. I urge you to seek out more Billy Collins, for his lack of pretentiousness, but moreover for his unique way of making the magic of poetry accessible to all, the simplicity and precision of language to explain, or even hint at, the simple and the profound.