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Title: Inoffensive, yet of little grace
Review: I am not a huge fan of Billy Collins, I have read Picnic, Lighting and enjoy some of its finer moments. Here, as in elsewhere, Collins is an acessible poet, a funny poet, and, in some ways, the ideal popular poet. While is no Joyce Klimer, he is also not Charles Simic, not Anne Sexton, not Creely, and most definitely not a Charles Olson. Nine Horses is sentimental and essentially bloodless. Here Collins seems to let the subtle sublime of some of his earlier work slip more firmly into the realm of merely clever. As Collin's popularity increases he becomes poetry's Neal Simmon, or even, its Terry Pratchett. Admirable for moderns of clarity and wit, but ultimately artless. Perhaps, that best represents the taste of modern America. Many may enjoy this book, but I most definitely didn't.
