Billy Collins (22 March 1941 - / New York City)

Putting Billy Collin's Clothes Back On

First, the stained boxer shorts
To cover his flabby white ass
He tries to pretend he is not blushing
I can plainly hear him gasp in the cold air

I can't help smirking
He looks like a little weenie naked
No loaded gun there
Perhaps he needs
An introduction to poetry

Next, the brown sock
And the mismatched black sock
Taken from the pile
Of odiferous clothing
Mounded behind his door

I suppose poets think they are showing respect
When they take a dead poet's name
And create a rag-doll character out of thin air
Stripping it naked to sell a poem
Miss Emily would not approve

Now he puts on the ill-fitting white shirt
Sighing with relief as he covers his torso
Just as his readers sigh with relief
When he is fully clothed
He still looks a bit uncomfortable
Being a puppet to another poet's whims

I toss him the faded blue jeans
The ones with the hole in the rear
He hurriedly tugs them on, tucking in his shirt
In his haste, he knocks an ugly framed photo
Of nine horses off the wall, breaking it
No loss there

Finally he puts on his hush puppies
And his dark blazer, at last looking semi-professorial
I think he is beginning to sympathize now
With Miss Emily, and all of the other dead poets
Whose names and characters
Are appropriated by lesser lights
To sex up their poetry

Wht wit! Wonderful.

Billy Collins' work is inspiring to say the least and this is by far my favourite of his poems.

I adore how he writes and conveys his thoughts, so wonderfully lighthearted and almost innocent.

Undressing Emily Dickinson is obviously as hard as understanding her can be. I love the reference to her own works:

'how there were sudden dashes
whenever we spoke. '

I shall never tire of reading this exquisite piece of poetry!

Who knew fantasizing about sex with Emily Dickinson could be so.... interesting. Billy you are a gem.

'at a boy, Billy! ! !
BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!