In Water, Water, a collection of new poems, former U.S. Poet Laureate Billy Collins applies his signature wit and whimsy to everyday situations: waiting at the doctor's office, playing cards on a winter's night, reading the guest book at a lakeside cottage. In examining these ordinary moments (sometimes minutely), Collins holds them up to the light, revealing facets both absurd and beautiful: the exquisite torture (to some) of an all-violin jazz band; the "rough armadillo plates" of a pineapple; or the way that joy, personified, seems "down to earth,/ like a girl getting off a bus with a suitcase."
Throughout his career, Collins (Aimless Love; Whale Day; Sailing Alone Around the Room) has explored the beauties, amusements, and pathos of ordinary life: his poems are often about small things, at least on the surface. But his sly genius lies in turning the commonplace at an angle, allowing readers to appreciate their hidden depths. A solitary breakfast after an argument becomes a meditation on not only the history of art, but complex stories of the people portrayed in famous paintings; a reflection on illuminated medieval manuscripts leads the poet to contemplate the benefits of modernity, including his car and his wife (both beloved).
Although Collins frequently waxes philosophical, musing on constellations, ancient deities, and the very nature of existence, his poetry is at its best when capturing a particular shade of memory--fleeting, unexpected, luminous with meaning--like the one in "Daydream," when a blaze of multicolored azaleas reminds the poet of a stolen moment with the neighbor's "tall daughter/ whose hand you once held in the dark." --Katie Noah Gibson, blogger at Cakes, Tea and Dreams