Billy Collins

I seem to have lost Chronicle of a Death Foretold. That really, really, sucks. I was just getting into it, and I'm too broke to buy another copy, and I won't be able to for quite some time, as this entire paycheck will be dedicated to first month and deposit on my new pad (what, what).

So, shit.

Next up, why is Billy Collins so annoying. Look, I like his poetry fine. It's good, incredibly well crafted; he's the master of the simple, everyday poem. I get it, I really, really do. But why does he have to be so obnoxiously happy? From "Statues in the Park" in The Trouble With Poetry.

down on my knees, eyes lifted
praying to the passing clouds,
forever
begging for just one more day.

Come on.

The context is that he's comparing a possible statue of himself to those of suicides, accident victims, the murdered, and the drowned.

Come on.

I should, in the interest of showing I don't just hate the optimistic little bastard, write about the moments in his poetry of brilliance, when his writing crosses the line from gimmicky to greatness, and so on and so forth. Look! I just did! Now, if that wasn't Collins-esque, I don't know what is.