the poet laureate of america, billy collins, is adored and gushed about just about every time i turn around.
i don’t get it.
once again, i picked up billy collins’ collection, “nine horses:poems”, and once again, i didn’t think i was reading great poetry. i didn’t even feel like i was reading pretty good poetry.
but, i realized there was something i was reading that was otherwise often absent from the current poetry of the country.
billy collins isn’t a manic-depressive. his verse – though tepid – is consistenly upbeat, and cheerful. he is a happy fellow.
no wonder he’s so popular.
currently, our literary poets write elegies and dirges about everything.they are a very sad, depressed bunch of people. when they are happy, they gush like a kid just discovering a new tv show. then, they drop back into deep despair.
no wonder billy collins is so popular. getting through his anthology doesn’t require xanax and whiskey.
i wonder when good poets will rediscover happiness.