by Kamaria Korta
“Why I Am Unable to Write a Short Story” served as both the title of the Saturday night closing presentation and a perspective on novels from two-time U.S. Poet Laureate Billy Collins as he wrapped up the KWLS schedule. Opening with his familiar wry humor, Collins suggested that perhaps he suffers from a “curiosity disability,” one that makes sustained interest in fictional characters less appealing than the concentrated attention poetry allows. The celebrated poet explored the imaginative and practical differences between prose and poetry, describing prose as a kind of literary virus: “it wants to fill the page.” Poetry, by contrast, does not sprawl but settles: it chooses to “occupy space.”
From there, Collins leaned into metaphor, personifying the two forms. “Prose watches from outside the house, peering into the windows while poetry resides in the house, observing those looking in.” In this description, poetry feels regal and prose a bit common, not less than but not quite equal, either. “Poetry flies and prose falls,” he stated, a distinction that I pictured in my mind—poems as winged birds I have yet to see—while I saw prose more like a toddler racing through a crowded restaurant (one that still has a smoking section).
That same quiet attentiveness surfaced when Collins spoke about being an only child, a detail he shared with pointed gratitude. Peering over his glasses, he ruefully described his solitary childhood—one in which space and parental attention are never divided. He lamented for the child that is basking in lone parental adoration, only to be supplanted by an interloper swaddled in a hospital blanket. In jest, he told the audience that those of us who were only children had a VIP line for book signings.
His latest collection, Dog Show, reflects that inclination for solitary affection, in its playful meditation on man’s best friend. Collins’ love of dogs and all the ways they can enrich one’s life is woven throughout the pages. His poem Reverant is one of my favorites as it expresses a dog’s cynical perspective on its life and its owner. The last stanza ends with the dog informing the owner that all animals can read and write, but only dogs are poets—cats, and everyone else, writes in prose.
In spite of this assessment and though dogs appear frequently in Collins’ poems, his temperament feels decidedly more catlike to me. His demeanor on stage seemed measured, thoughtful, unbothered…catlike. The kind of presence that may stand on the edge of a room but still hold attention. After Sunday’s seminar, I stood in the book signing line to deliver this thought to Mr. Collins and ask if he’d ever owned a cat. He shared how in the past while he was touring his wife had adopted two cats at separate times. He smiled, “The first cat I was fine with, but when she told me about the second one, I was not happy.” I asked if it was because he didn’t care for cats? “No, the first cat was fine, it didn’t need another cat! It was an only child.”
Kamaria Korta is a 2026 KWLS Teacher & Librarian Scholarship Recipient. Korta is a dedicated educator with twenty years of experience who specializes in fifth-grade social studies. She creates lessons that connect history, economics, and geography to students’ real lives. This year, she launched a journal writing project with her students, which will be compiled and published as a collaborative book. Beyond the classroom, Korta has recently embraced storytelling, winning the Moth StorySLAM and earning a spot to compete in an upcoming GrandSLAM.
