July 30: "The Introduction," T. S. Eliot Syndrome, Picking Wild Strawberries

Billy Collins introduces a poem about strawberries . . . 

The Introduction

by: Billy Collins

I don't think this next poem

needs any introduction--

it's best to let the work speak for itself.

Maybe I should just mention

that whenever I use the word five,

I'm referring to that group of Russian composers

who came to be known as "The Five,"

Balakirev, Moussorgsky, Borodin--that crowd.

Oh--and Hypsicles was a Greek astronomer.

He did something with the circle.

That's about it, but for the record,

"Grimke" is Angelina Emily Grimke, the abolitionist,

"Imroz" is that little island near the Dardanelles,

"Monad"--well, you all know what a monad is.

There could be a little problem

with mastaba, which is one of those Egyptian 

above-ground sepulchers, sort of brick and limestone.

And you're all familiar with helminthology?

It's the science of worms.

Oh, and you will recall Phoebe Mozee

is the real name of Annie Oakley.

Other than that, everything should be obvious.

Wagga Wagga is in New South Wales,.

Rhyolite is that soft volcanic rock.

What else?

Yes, meranti is a type of timber, in tropical Asia, I think,

and Rahway is just Rahway, New Jersey.

The rest of the poem should be clear.

I'll just read it and let it speak for itself.

It's about the time I went picking wild strawberries.

It's called "Picking Wild Strawberries."

I've attended so many poetry readings when the poet takes longer introducing a poem than reading it.  I call it T. S. Eliot syndrome.  When I read an Eliot poem, I often spend more time on Google than on the poem itself.  I don't think it's a bad thing to make the reader work a little bit for a poem.  However, having to look up every other word or name or allusion defeats the purpose of poetry, which is to grab readers viscerally or emotionally, make them see the world differently.

So, Collins hits the nail on the head with this poem.

I will say that I rarely have to resort to research in order to understand a Billy Collins poem.  His work is usually very immediate, taking you by the hand (or grabbing you by the throat) and leading you to your poetic destination.  Even with today's poem, I didn't have to call up Google.  I can completely understand Collins' point through context.  Knowing the obscure names and places isn't necessary to get this poem.  It's the ridiculousness of all of these esoteric references that Collins is aiming his spotlight.  The fact that the poem is about picking wild strawberries heightens the comedy.

I had a fairly busy day at the library, doing paperwork in the morning, a writing workshop in the afternoon, and a blues concert in the evening.  Didn't get home until around 9 p.m.  A great poet friend, Cindy Hunter Morgan, led the workshop, and it was the best part of the day for me.  We spent a couple hours talking about the brass tacks poetry--image, line, rhetoric, word choice.  In particular, we spoke about the junction between poetry and prose, which fascinates me.  And then we wrote a poem.

Now, if you're reading this blog post and thinking "I would rather have my teeth cleaned than talk poetry for two hours," you are reading the wrong blog.  I suggest searching for a food or travel blog, where the posts contain many pictures.  That's probably more up your alley.

So, let's just pretend that this poem is about picking wild strawberries instead of the mechanics of poetry.  Everything that I've just written is one long metaphor for collecting buckets of sweet redness.  

Saint Marty is going to title this post "Picking Wild Strawberry Poems."