Jesse's Attempt at Billy Collins-esque Poetry

As one of my extra credit assignments, I've decided to post my rather futile, culpable imitation of Billy Collins-style poetry entitled "All Nighter." A rare sight indeed, Billy Collins is a critically-acclaimed contemporary poet whose superb command of language and imagery makes for a distinct and enjoyable poetic style accessible to readers of all ages, intellects, and backgrounds. His language, in my estimation, is marked by curt, dry humor and and imagery that elevates our most seemingly mundane, quotidian observations to deeply thought-out manifestations poignant human emotions. Though he may not be William Carlos Williams, who penned our favorite poem about an empty wheel barrel laying outside a shed, Collins does have a knack for bringing beauty and emotion to the most unimaginative observations. His poem "The Best Cigarette," for example, dissects the relatively common image of a man smoking a cigarette while working at a type writer. To Billy, the auditory and visual imagery of this scene--the sound of fingers stroking the keys of a type writer and the clouds of smoke billowing from the end of a lit cigarette, respectively--together equate to a train nosily trekking down iron tracks, emitting clouds of coal and dust along the way. This image of a train is readily identified in Western Culture with social and technological progress, thereby enhancing the image of a man smoking at his type writer to a picture of progress, creativity, and advancement. The poem "forgetfulness" also lightly mocks that oh-so familiar feeling of having a name or fact "just on the tip of your tongue" All in all, he captures the little observations and emotions that comprise our existence, and brings them to life in full color. That is what I tried to do in my poem: bring the far-too familiar misery of pulling an "all nighter" to life. To see for yourself the specific works and recitations of Collins' poetry that inspired me, see this link to Billy Collins Action Poetry: http://www.bcactionpoet.org/

All Nighter
by Jesse Young

Tomorrow’s earliest hours are fast approaching,
or perhaps they are the twenty-fifth and twenty-sixth hours of to-day
owed to you by the derisive sun
whose astral rays mock you as they coast westward across the sky
two hours too early for your liking.

Even the four winged horses of Helios turn their heads and sneer,
mocking that crater-infested countenance
of the dimly-lit crescent replacing them,
as it emerges brightly against the night sky.

That night on earth, a deep stupor gradually overcomes me,
greedily hording my every modicum of energy
even the one from my dad’s favorite coffee mug
that I’ve used without him knowing.

And with your last sip, the boundary between Tuesday night
and Wednesday morning blurs and evaporates,
like the amorphous blob of water my lazy finger traced
near the faucet in Chemistry this morning.

The desperate pleas of a cold and vacant bedspread echo throughout my bedroom,
unanswered. Ignored.

As the night progresses I sit poised at my desk,
banging away ferociously at the keyboard,
hopeful eyes scanning my surroundings
in search of a moment’s distraction.

Gradually I watch motivation lock all the doors and windows of my brain,
kiss the medulla goodbye and tilt its hat to Ms. Cerebellum
not forgetting, of course, to fluff the pillows and reserve a seat on the couch
for procrastination.

A cell phone, perhaps
The mess in the corner of your desk that finally bothers you just enough,
and maybe, just maybe, the tangled headphones resting on the ground, just west of your right foot.

All of the day’s events gradually materialize
into an unbearable mass upon my eye lids.
Before long, a bird on the branch outside
issues the peremptory call to bed.

Closing the shades and curtains,
I keep my jeans on
and collapse into bed,
pulling the blanket over my entire face
to drown out the song of that bird,
and Helios’ golden horses,
whom, bedded-down in their stables, join you
in peaceful, quiet bliss.