Workshop

Workshop


I might as well begin by saying
how much I like the title.
It gets me right away because
I’m in a workshop now
so immediately the poem has my attention,
like the Ancient Mariner
grabbing me by the sleeve.


And I like the first couple of stanzas,
the way they establish this mode
of self-pointing
that runs through the whole poem
and tells us that words are food
thrown down on the ground
for other words to eat.
I can almost taste
the tail of the snake
in its own mouth,
if you know what I mean.


But what I’m not sure about is the voice,
which sounds in places very casual,
very blue jeans,
but other times seems standoffish,
professorial
in the worst sense of the word
like the poem is blowing
pipe smoke in my face.
But maybe that’s just what it
wants to do.


What I did find engaging
were the middle stanzas,
especially the fourth one.
I like the image of clouds
flying like lozenges
which gives me a very clear picture.
And I really like how this drawbridge
operator just appears out of the blue
with his feet up on the iron railing
and his fishing pole jigging—
I like jigging— a hook
in the slow industrial canal below.
I love slow industrial canal below.
All those l’s.


Maybe it’s just me,
but the next stanza
is where I start to have a problem.
I mean how can the evening
bump into the stars?
And what’s an obbligato of snow?
Also, I roam the decaffeinated streets.
At that point I’m lost. I need help.


The other thing that throws me off,
and maybe this is just me,
is the way the scene
keeps shifting around.
First, we’re in this big aerodrome
and the speaker is inspecting
a row of dirigibles,
which makes me think
this could be a dream.
Then he takes us into his garden,
the part with the dahlias
and the coiling hose,
though that’s nice, the coiling hose,
but then I’m not sure
where we’re supposed to be.
The rain and the mint green light,
that makes it feel outdoors,
but what about this wallpaper?
Or is it a kind of indoor cemetery?
There’s something about death
going on here.


In fact, I start to wonder
if what we have here
is really two poems, or three,
or four,
or possibly none.


But then there’s that last stanza,
my favorite.
This is where the poem wins me back,
especially the lines spoken
in the voice of the mouse.
I mean we’ve all seen these images
in cartoons before,
but I still love the details he uses
when he’s describing where he lives.
The perfect little arch of an entrance
in the baseboard,
the bed made out of a
curled-back sardine can,
the spool of thread for a table.
I start thinking about how hard
the mouse had to work
night after night collecting
all these things
while the people in the house
were fast asleep,
and that gives me a very strong feeling,
a very powerful sense of something.
But I don’t know if anyone else
was feeling that.
Maybe that was just me.
Maybe that’s just the way I read it.


Billy Collins

Posted over on Poetry Foundation