Consolation by Billy Collins

Poem first published in the magazine Poetry in 1991. A revised version was later included in ‘The Art of Drowning’ in 1995. Both versions have been included below.

Original Version (1991)

How agreeable it is not to be touring Italy this summer,
wandering its cities and ascending its torrid hilltowns.
How much better to cruise these local, native streets,
fully comprehending every roadsign and billboard
and all the sudden hand gestures of my compatriots.

There are no abbeys here, no pale frescoes or famous
domes and no one is expected to know a succession
of despots or tour the corners of a torture chamber.
There is no need to touch a sarcophagus, see Napoleon’s
bed on Elba or view the bones of a saint under glass.

How much better to command the modest precinct of home
than to be dwarfed by pillar, arch and basilica.
Why bury my head in phrasebooks and maps?
Why feed scenery to a hungry one-eyed camera
eager to eat the world one monument at a time?

Instead of slouching in a cafe ignorant of the word for ice,
I will head down to the coffee shop and the waitress
known as Dot. I will slide into the flow of the morning
paper, all language barriers down,
rivers of idiom running freely, eggs over easy on the way.

And after breakfast, I will not have to find someone
to take my picture with the owner and his wife.
I will not puzzle over the bill or record in a journal
everything I had to eat, how the sun came in the window.
It is enough to climb back into the car

as if it were the great car of English itself
and sounding my loud vernacular horn, drive off down
a road that will never lead to Rome, not even Bologna.

Revised Version (1995)

How agreeable it is not to be touring Italy this summer,
wandering her cities and ascending her torrid hilltowns.
How much better to cruise these local, familiar streets,
fully grasping the meaning of every roadsign and billboard
and all the sudden hand gestures of my compatriots.

There are no abbeys here, no crumbling frescoes or famous
domes and there is no need to memorize a succession
of kings or tour the dripping corners of a dungeon.
No need to stand around a sarcophagus, see Napoleon’s
little bed on Elba, or view the bones of a saint under glass.

How much better to command the simple precinct of home
than be dwarfed by pillar, arch, and basilica.
Why hide my head in phrase books and wrinkled maps?
Why feed scenery into a hungry, one-eyed camera
eager to eat the world one monument at a time?

Instead of slouching in a café ignorant of the word for ice,
I will head down to the coffee shop and the waitress
known as Dot. I will slide into the flow of the morning
paper, all language barriers down,
rivers of idiom running freely, eggs over easy on the way.

And after breakfast, I will not have to find someone
willing to photograph me with my arm around the owner.
I will not puzzle over the bill or record in a journal
what I had to eat and how the sun came in the window.
It is enough to climb back into the car

as if it were the great car of English itself
and sounding my loud vernacular horn, speed off
down a road that will never lead to Rome, not even Bologna.