S5 E22 | CLIP

Billy Collins: The People's Poet

Billy Collins: The People’s Poet - Billy Collins is one of the best-selling poets alive. Perhaps because his works effortlessly magnify the small details that make life worth living.

AIRED: March 06, 2020 | 0:09:41

(soft chiming music)

- [Billy] You could be the man

I held the door for this morning,

at the bank or post office,

or the one who wrapped my speckled fish.

You could be someone I passed on the street,

or the face behind the wheel of an oncoming car.

The sunlight flashes off your windshield

and when I look up into the small, posted mirror,

I watch you diminish,

my echo,

my twin,

and vanish around a curve

in this whip of a road

we cannot help traveling together.

(upbeat funk music)

- [Jim] Billy Collins is America's most popular,

most widely-read poet,

but each time he sits down to write,

he's not thinking of a big audience.

He's imagining a single friendly reader,

also sitting comfortably in happy anticipation.

- I feel like each person is getting ready to be something,

and I feel that I'm ready to be delighted.

I'm not delighted all the time. That would be insane.

But I'm ready to be delighted.

- [Jim] And there's been much delight in his 78 years.

Collins is a former U.S. Poet Laureate

whose books sell in quantities

that most other living poets would die for.

Happily retired from teaching, he now lives in Florida

with his long-time companion and fellow poet,

Suzannah Gilman, whom he recently married.

He still writes, but it's clear

that Billy Collins the person is not the same

as Billy Collins the poet.

- Persona is like a filtered-down version

of myself,

and a lot of is, a lot of it is, a lot of it has to be

kind of rinsed out before you get this kind of pure form

of the persona who is, ah, really like Emerson says,

a kind of transparent eyeball.

He's just an observing person, almost always in the present.

- Okay, but, but then conversely...

- Yeah.

- I really think that writing

is an act of love for strangers.

You're, you are, you are giving of yourself

to somebody you've never met.

- Well, that's very nice of you to say that.

I think it's more like, I, I think the poem

is more like bait to get strangers to love you.

To, to, it's a, it's an act of seduction.

And, and reader manipulation.

- You cynical, cynical man.

(Collins laughs)

- I know.

Can we have both?

- If you'll take it, I'll give you both.

- Sold.

(calm guitar music)

- [Jim] Like the man himself,

Collins's work is candid and open, but at four years old,

he was, he says, the world's youngest phony.

He would memorize books, hoping to trick his parents

and their friends into thinking that he could already read.

Only long after he actually learned to read did he realize

what he'd lost.

- "First Reader".

"I could see them standing politely

on the wide pages that I was still learning to turn.

Jane in a blue jumper,

Dick with his crayon-brown hair,

playing with a ball or exploring the cosmos

of the backyard.

Unaware they are the first characters,

the boy and girl who begin fiction.

Beyond the simple illustration of their neighborhood,

other protagonists were waiting in a huddle.

Frightening Heathcliff, frightened Pip,

Nick Adams carrying a fishing rod,

Emma Bovary riding into Rouen.

But I would read about the perfect boy and his sister,

even before I would read about Adam and Eve,

garden and gate, and before I heard the name Gutenberg,

the type of their simple talk was moving

into my focusing eyes.

It was always Saturday, and he and she

were always pointing at something

and shouting 'Look!'

Pointing at the dog, the bicycle,

or at their father as he pushed a hand-mower over the lawn.

Waving at aproned mother framed in the kitchen doorway.

Pointing toward the sky, pointing at each other.

They wanted us to look, but we had looked already,

seen the shaded lawn, the wagon, the postman.

We had seen the dog walked, watered and fed the animal,

and now it was time to discover

the infinite clicking permutations

of the alphabet's small and capital letters,

alphabetical ourselves in the rows of classroom desks.

We were forgetting how to look, learning how to read."

(gentle guitar music)

- [Jim] Collins was not just an early reader,

but also an early writer.

He penned his first poem at ten,

peering out his parents' car window at a sailboat

on New York's East River.

In the front seat of the car that day were two people

who would shape him in very different ways.

- If you take the, the twin fonts of my parents

and how they're tributaries that lead to me,

it's part of my development as a poet,

really feeds into that,

because when I first was writing poetry, at least,

I was writing, it was kind of quick, jokey, cynical.

It's, uh, wise guy kind of cynicism where the poem

just kind of falls on itself

and it, it has, it has a showoffy click to it.

That's my father, 'cause he was full of one-liners

and jokes and, and, and quite cynical,

and I think as I developed as a poet, I let my mother in,

who was full of heart and, ah,

joyous for life and, and

much more capacious in her talking to me.

I think, in a way, I'm, I'm kinda combination of my parents.

- [Jim] Billy Collins remembers his mother

as beautiful, resilient, and in her twenties, adventuresome.

Born in rural Ontario, she disregarded her father's wishes

that she marry the local haberdasher.

Instead, she headed for Toronto, earning a nursing degree,

then began a nomadic existence,

moving from hospital to hospital, city to city,

throughout the United States.

She ended up in New York, where she met Collins's father,

a stylish practical joker who came from a poor family

in Massachusetts and had worked his way up the ranks

of an insurance company.

They were loving parents who both lived into their nineties,

and in one poem, their only child brings them back to life.

- So, this is, uh, this actually happened.

At least the first part.

"No Time".

"In a rush this weekday morning,

I tap the horn

as I speed past the cemetery

where my parents lie buried side by side

under a smooth slab of granite.

Then, all day long I think of him

rising up

to give me that look of knowing disapproval,

while my mother calmly tells him to lie back down."

And that is the two of them in a nutshell.

He would be disapproving, and she would say, "It's okay."

- Let it go. Let it go.

- Let it go.

- Live a little.

(Collins laughs)

- Leave the boy alone.

(subdued harp music)

- [Jim] Resurrecting those who have passed

is not typical for Collins.

He prefers to focus on the here and now.

Unlike his Catholic parents,

he isn't waiting for death to experience heaven.

(subdued harp music)

- I don't believe in an afterlife.

- [Jim] No.

- I mean, when I use mortality, I mean mortality.

I mean, that's the end. I think if I can, you know,

if I can imagine the Creator.

I mean, we, this, again,

this is all presumptuous guesswork, shooting in the dark,

the Creator is saying, "Wait a minute.

"I gave you all this, look around.

"Look at the world you have, you want more?

"You want to be immortal now?

"No, I'm immortal.

"You get this!

"Dig it!"

(subdued harp music)

(birds singing)

- [Narrator] Articulate with Jim Cotter

is made possible with generous funding

from the Neubauer Family Foundation.

(upbeat electronic music)


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