Introduction to Billy Collins

I found Billy Collins to be a very easy going, relaxing Poet. His poems cover the ‘introvert’ personality and ‘individualism’ of modern americans who enjoys the things within their daily schedule/life.

Watch out some of his poems:

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 bandana
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.

Invention
 
 

  Tonight the moon is a cracker,
with a bite out of it
floating in the night,  
and in a week or so
according to the calendar
it will probably look
like a silver football,
and nine, maybe ten days ago
it reminded me of a thin bright claw.
But eventually –
by the end of the month,
I reckon –
it will waste away
to nothing,
nothing but stars in the sky,
and I will have a few nights
to myself,
a little time to rest my jittery pen.

Another Reason Why I Don’t Keep A Gun In The House
 
 

  The neighbors’ dog will not stop barking.
He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark
that he barks every time they leave the house.
They must switch him on on their way out.  
The neighbors’ dog will not stop barking.
I close all the windows in the house
and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast
but I can still hear him muffled under the music,
barking, barking, barking,
and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,
his head raised confidently as if Beethoven
had included a part for barking dog.
When the record finally ends he is still barking,
sitting there in the oboe section barking,
his eyes fixed on the conductor who is
entreating him with his baton
while the other musicians listen in respectful
silence to the famous barking dog solo,
that endless coda that first established
Beethoven as an innovative genius.

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