[Jim Moonan]

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I gave it a thought to post this on the Musing on Mastery board, but played it safe and came here to share. This poem may not be a masterpiece to place alongside those masterpieces that reside in the hallowed hall of masterpieces, but a masterpiece of a different kind to be bookmarked and filed away with the those few pieces that make you mutter out loud under your breath “I wish I’d written that'' and someone says, “Did you say something?” and you say, “No, nothing.”

It's a little bit ars poetica told slant, a favorite genre of mine.

Purity, by Billy Collins



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[James Brancheau]

Hey Jim, I admit when he took off his skin, I became uninterested. Billy Collins was a big deal when I was in school. I like him, some of him, but I can't help thinking of Tony Hoagland, who strangely hasn't made it into norton, or any major anthology that I'm aware of. He dwarfs Collins, imo. I see him close to Lowell, or what Lowell might want to be doing now.

[Jim Moonan]

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I agree about Hoagland. There are more than a few of his poems that I wished I had written.


"when he took off his skin, I became uninterested."

Funny, when he took off his skin is when I became interested. Maybe it's the season... The first stanza didn't do much for me. It's when it got macabre that I sat up and listened.

But I do agree about Hoagland.
There was just something so outlandish about this one, so vividly drawn, that captured me. The final stanza manages to transcend the absurdness/silliness of what comes before and becomes heartfelt. That's enough for me.

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[James Brancheau]

My advisor way back in graduate school absolutely adored him, Jim. And he certainly does have charm, imo, but I just haven't quite connected with him, yet, I suppose. Interested in hearing other opinions. About this one, and his work in general.

[Allen Tice]

I do not love thee, Mr. Bill.
The reason why is kind of chill.
But this I know, it's very shrill:
I do not love thee, Mr. Bill.

What little I recall of Billy Collins's "work" is that it is self-centered, can make fun of people who cannot reply (an Amish farm boy), and glib. His smoothness of diction disguises a stupendous ego and an essentially superficial outlook. Here, he is simply gross for the sake of being gross. I cannot relate to this slick free verse poem except as a piece of exhibitionism.

[James Brancheau]

Thanks, Allen. I was worried I was too mean.