Come full circle with 180 new, exciting poems selected and introduced by Billy Collins.
Inspired by Billy Collins’s poem-a-day program for American high schools that he began through the Library of Congress, the original Poetry 180: A Turning Back to Poetry was a gathering of clear, contemporary poems aimed at a wide audience. In 180 More, Collins continues his ambitious mission of exposing readers of all ages to the best of today’s poetry. Here are another 180 hospitable, engaging, reader-friendly poems, offering surprise and delight in a wide range of literary voices–comic, melancholy, reflective, irreverent. If poetry is the original travel literature, this anthology contains 180 vehicles ready to carry you away to unexpected places.
With poems by
Carol Ann Duffy
W. S. Merwin
Naomi Shihab Nye
Robert Wrigley and many more
|Publisher:||Random House Publishing Group|
|Product dimensions:||5.20(w) x 8.00(h) x 1.00(d)|
About the Author
Billy Collins is the author of twelve collections of poetry including The Rain in Portugal, Aimless Love, Horoscopes for the Dead, Ballistics, The Trouble with Poetry, Nine Horses, Sailing Alone Around the Room, Questions About Angels, The Art of Drowning, and Picnic, Lightning. He is also the editor of Poetry 180: A Turning Back to Poetry, 180 More: Extraordinary Poems for Every Day, and Bright Wings: An Illustrated Anthology of Poems About Birds. A Distinguished Professor of English at Lehman College of the City University of New York and Senior Distinguished Fellow at the Winter Park Institute of Rollins College, he was Poet Laureate of the United States from 2001 to 2003 and New York State Poet from 2004 to 2006. In 2016 he was inducted into the American Academy of Arts and Letters.
Hometown:Somers, New York
Date of Birth:March 22, 1941
Place of Birth:New York, New York
Education:B.A., Holy Cross College, 1963; Ph.D. in Romantic poetry, University of California at Riverside, 1971
Read an Excerpt
That hour, I was most myself. I had shrugged
my mother slowly off, I lay there
taking my first breaths, as if
the air of the room was blowing me
like a bubble. All I had to do
was go out along the line of my gaze and back,
out and back, on gravity’s silk, the
pressure of the air a caress, smelling on my
self her creamy blood. The air
was softly touching my skin and tongue,
entering me and drawing forth the little
sighs I did not know as mine.
I was not afraid. I lay in the quiet
and looked, and did the wordless thought,
my mind was getting its oxygen
direct, the rich mix by mouth.
I hated no one. I gazed and gazed,
and everything was interesting, I was
free, not yet in love, I did not
belong to anyone, I had drunk
no milk, yet—no one had
my heart. I was not very human. I did not
know there was anyone else. I lay
like a god, for an hour, then they came for me,
and took me to my mother.
I’m back again scrutinising the Milky Way
of your ultrasound, scanning the dark
matter, the nothingness, that now the heads say
is chockablock with quarks & squarks,
gravitons & gravitini, photons & photinos. Our sprout,
who art there inside the spacecraft
of your ma, the time capsule of this printout,
hurling & whirling towards us, it’s all daft
on this earth. Our alien who art in the heavens,
our Martian, our little green man, we’re anxious
to make contact, to ask divers questions
about the heavendom you hail from, to discuss
the whole shebang of the beginning&end,
the pre-big-bang untime before you forget the why
and lie of thy first place. And, our friend,
to say Welcome, that we mean no harm, we’d die
for you even, that we pray you’re not here
to subdue us, that we’d put away
our ray guns, missiles, attitude and share
our world with you, little big head, if only you stay.
Waking with Russell
Whatever the difference is, it all began
the day we woke up face-to-face like lovers
and his four-day-old smile dawned on him again,
possessed him, till it would not fall or waver;
and I pitched back not my old hard-pressed grin
but his own smile, or one I’d rediscovered.
Dear son, I was mezzo del’ cammin
and the true path was as lost to me as ever
when you cut in front and lit it as you ran.
See how the true gift never leaves the giver:
returned and redelivered, it rolled on
until the smile poured through us like a river.
How fine, I thought, this waking amongst men!
I kissed your mouth and pledged myself forever.
The Floating Rib
Because a woman had eaten something
when a man told her not to. Because the man
who told her not to had made her
from another man’s bones. That’s why
men badgered the heart-side of her chest,
knowing she could not give the bone back, knowing
she would always owe them that one bone.
And you could see how older girls who knew
their catechism armed themselves against it:
with the pike end of teasing combs
they scabbarded in pocketbooks that clashed
against the jumper’s nightwatch plaid.
In the girl’s bathroom, you watched them
wield the spike in dangerous proximity to their eyes,
shepherding the bangs through which they peered
like cheetahs in an upside-downward-growing grass.
Then they’d mouth the words to “Runaway”
while they ran white lipstick round their lips,
white to announce they had no blood
so any wound would leave no trace, as Eve’s
having nothing more to lose must have made
lll her fearless. What was weird was how soon
the ordinary days started running past them
like a river, how willingly they entered it
and how they rose up on the other side. Tamed,
or god no . . . your mother: ready to settle
with whoever found the bone under her blouse
and give it over, and make a life out of the getting
TO THE DUST OF THE ROAD
W. S. Merwin
And in the morning you are up again
with the way leading through you for a while
longer if the wind is motionless when
the cars reach where the asphalt ends a mile
or so below the main road and the wave
you rise into is different every time
and you are one with it until you have
made your way up to the top of your climb
and brightened in that moment of that day
and then you turn as when you rose before
in fire or wind from the ends of the earth
to pause here and you seem to drift away
on into nothing to lie down once more
until another breath brings you to birth
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
All different kinds of poems from around the world compiled just for high schoolers to be read every day of the week. Edited by Billy Collins (former poet laureate) to be enjoyed not analyzed.
One of those anthologies where most of the poems are worth reading, but very few of them stand out as worth coming back to over and over again. In fact, there are a few here where my reaction was laughable--as in, I don't know why Collins would pick them, or even that I'd consider them poems. I'd recommend it for someone who wants a broad range of contemporary authors to explore (in order to figure out who to explore more), but go to it in a relaxed spirit, not expecting anything ground-breaking or ready to knock you down with its greatness. Additionaly, realize that Collins picked all of these poems out himself--and it's fairly obvious. If you know the type of poem he writes, and likes, you know Exactly what you'll find here.
An amazing anthology of contemporary poetry picked from one of the best, Billy Collins. He really knows a lot about his craft and you can tell by the wide selection his chose for this collection. A follow up to his "poetry 180: turning back to poetry", this book has all the greats from our time. From the modern confessional poet Sharon Olds', "First hour" to the harsh and sharp words of "Why I don't take naps in the afternoon" by Don Gerber. "Extraordinary poems for the everyday poet" is exactly what this book portrays. This is a great starter book for anyone looking to get into contemporary poetry, and a new favorite for someone who appreciates it immensely already.