When it comes to poetry, there’s certainly no shortage of books to choose from. But now and then, you stumble upon something unexpected—something that reverberates. That’s exactly what happened when I happened upon Water, Water, the latest collection from Billy Collins. It was a serendipitous find during a casual visit to the library, and what a treasure it turned out to be.
This is a book that took me entirely by surprise. There’s a quiet confidence in Collins’ writing that’s utterly unpretentious, a rare quality in contemporary poetry. The title, Water, Water, is a clear nod to Coleridge’s The Rime of the Ancient Mariner—“Water, water, every where, nor any drop to drink.” And if that reference doesn’t ring a bell, well, perhaps this isn’t the kind of poetry you’re ready for.
I’ve been craving a poetry collection like this—one that speaks from a place of lived experience and contemplative wisdom. Now in his eighties, Collins brings a rich, seasoned perspective to his work. His poems are shaped by decades of observation and introspection, yet they remain light on their feet, never burdened by the weight of age.
What makes this book remarkable is how much it teaches within the subtle confines of meter, stanza, and line. It arrived at a moment when I’ve been doing a fair bit of soul-searching myself, and Collins’ meditations on the everyday—on fleeting moments and quiet epiphanies—felt like a gentle companion. His verses remind us to slow down, to listen more carefully, and to recognize the beauty in the transience of life.
You have to pull back from the rush of daily living, take a long look at things from a distance, and then the bigger picture starts to come into focus. For those who equate great poetry with suffering or emotional torment, Collins may not be your poet. There is no anguish for its own sake here. Instead, there’s an unmistakable contentment—a poet fully at ease in his life, reflecting with clarity and affection.
Sunday Drive
What if it turns out
that there is no afterlife.
This may come as a letdown to some,
but the good news is
that the believers of every religion
won’t experience the least disappointment
for the simple reason
that they will be dead at that point
and incapable of experiencing anything.
Same goes for the skeptics,
agnostics, and the card-carrying atheists.
No opportunity to smirk or brag
for the same reason mentioned above.
I was thinking about this
on my drive to the beach one Sunday
when I saw a flock of well-dressed people
filing into a clapboard church
under a tall, white steeple.
I did not turn the car around,
pull up to the church door,
and deliver this news from the roof of the car.
No, I drove on with the radio up loud
and the windows down,
content to keep those tidings to myself,
a faithless congregation of one,
now driving much too fast
and just as afraid of heaven as he is of hell.
What Collins does so well is transport you. His language is so precise, so evocative, that you find yourself completely immersed. You forget what you were doing, what you were waiting for. It’s a kind of poetic magic—turning the mundane into something luminous.
Water, Water is extraordinary. It’s hard to put into words how beautiful, simple, and profoundly moving it is. I’m now hooked. I want to read everything Billy Collins has ever written.