J. Allyn Rosser

Why even read American lit journals when you can kick back with one of these each year? After reading 1,754 magazines, Billy Collins asks the same question but more sardonically, adding: “It’s enough to make you wish the NEA would award grants to poets for not writing.” There’s an aura of anger around Billy Collins. And an aura of boredom. In his introduction, Collins guesses that “83%” of published poetry “is not worth reading.” I’m a fan of honest criticism, but I can’t show more help feeling his stance is an arrogant one. It’s a bit like saying 83% of people are not worth meeting. It rather depends on who is doing the meeting, doesn't it? And as Collins himself points out, every editor of the series likes a different 17%.

Blanket statements like “most poetry sucks” don't exactly help a weary reader. As soon a reviewer steps outside the poem discussed, it becomes invective not literary criticism. Such venting quickly becomes as useless as the bad poetry one is venting about. After all, how many books of any genre does one ever love? In our life time only a handful books will have a significant impact on us. This is true for any reader of any subject. The real danger is sycophantic reviewing, not over-publishing. The worst you can level at over-publishing is that it kills trees, (which newspapers and Brazilian cattle ranchers are also guilty of.) But to suggest some poets shouldn't bother is simply mean spirited, and of little value critically. Why should people be dissuaded from the pleasure of not only trying to write a good poem, but attempting to share it? I am wary of arguments that begin with the assumption that almost all of the (fill-in-blank-here-of-whatever group-you-choose) should be cast into oblivion. It's a knee-jerk, reactionary, angry stance. And a potentially destructive one. However, one piece of critical advise Collins offers does stick in my mind. He writes “too many poems seemed oblivious to my presence and not the least interested in my participation as a reader. If you’re going to stop talking to me, then I’m going to stop listening.” Exactly. This strikes me as sound critical advise.

Collins both writes and likes poetry that can be swallowed whole. And while I’m more keen on Paul Muldoon’s 2005 effort with the same series, there are of course a number a poems here I really like. Here’s a perfect example of the kind of line Collins delights in: “Did you know that boiling to death / was once a common punishment / in England and parts of Europe?” This is from a poem titled “For my niece sidney, age six” by Amy Gerstler. Hardly a first line one is expecting from such a title. It’s a kind of shock and awe approach Collins is seeking, as if Collins neede to wake himself out of tedium. Another favourite of mine is “What I never told you about the Abortion” by Alison Townsend. An agonizingly heartbreaking piece where the speaker expounds (in non-rhyming couplets) on the effect such a decision had on her relationship with her partner. Again, it’s a jolt, and searing. “Prayer to Tear Down the Sperm-Dam Down,” another zinger (again in couplets) is almost psychotically charged. It's a beatitude-like sermonish romp exploring of the desire to procreate, to begin begetting in the face of an oblivion-inducing, indifferent universe. Religiously nihilistic, and joy to read. In too many of the poems, Collins’ partiality toward the easy speaking does not ignite the selection. As in many of Collins own poems, an engaging use of metaphor or wordplay isn't what carries the momentum of the selection, but the spark of unexpected, juxtaposed statements. This sort of tendency can be labeled “quirky,” but I think there’s a kind of protestant Puritanism at work here too that shuns embellishment and the ornate. Just the facts, ma’am. However, the “facts” in many of these poems paint at times a vertigo inducing poetic reality that reveals an unexpected world view. show less

[ . . . ] We adore insincerity
as long as it's piked on thick enough
not to question our cultivated jadedness
while sipping at the martini of its hyperbole.

Surely this was not the best American poetry of 2006! There were a few that stood out. "Religion" by Robert Wrigley about a mysterious shoe brought home by an old dog was a favorite and stimulated much discussion at bookclub. Why does the narrator have so many one-legged friends? Also "Gratification" by Susan Wood: "Now the sun is going down in flames like a ship on fire, but slowly, listing a little to the left. Don't worry, everyone on board gets off. That's the best part. Everyone is show more saved." And, "Monsieur Pierre est mort," about the fate of a beleagured French teacher's pet rock. Most of the poems, however, read more like essays on overvisited themes than poetry that catches you by the heart and demands that you stay awhile and return often. show less

Surely this was not the best American poetry of 2006! There were a few that stood out. "Religion" by Robert Wrigley about a mysterious shoe brought home by an old dog was a favorite and stimulated much discussion at bookclub. Why does the narrator have so many one-legged friends? Also "Gratification" by Susan Wood: "Now the sun is going down in flames like a ship on fire, but slowly, listing a little to the left. Don't worry, everyone on board gets off. That's the best part. Everyone is show more saved." And, "Monsieur Pierre est mort," about the fate of a beleagured French teacher's pet rock. Most of the poems, however, read more like essays on overvisited themes than poetry that catches you by the heart and demands that you stay awhile and return often. show less