"Poet, translator, editor, and essayist Christian Wiman was raised in West Texas and earned a BA at Washington and Lee University. A former Guggenheim fellow, Wiman served as the editor of Poetry magazine from 2003 to 2013. He received an honorary doctorate from North Central College." (The Poetry Foundation)
Please note I am an amateur lover of poetry. Poetry brings me a lot of joy and heartache and introspection, but I haven't studied it professionally, and I probably don't have ground to stand on for any kind of critical analysis. This series of favourite poets is just to share a love of poetry and to nerd out over words.
What I love about Christian Wiman's poetry is that he seems like he'd be a perfect guest for a dinner party: his poems are both thoughtful and playful, vulnerable and ironic. He's willing to grapple with questions of faith in earnest, but in most of my favourite works, he maintains a level of wit and acknowledges the absurdity of it all. "I'm the Apocalypse's popsicle," he writes in "Even the Bees Know What Zero Is," a staccato alliteration with a punchy image that perfectly encapsulates that character of playful skeptic. I highly recommend clicking through to listen to him read his own works, because he also has an incredible grasp of melody. His newest collection, Survival is a Style, was released in February of this year.
Click through title for full poems.
1. Even the Bees Know What Zero Is
Which is one more thing I’m done with, by the way,
the whole concept of soul. Even bees know what zero is,
scientists have learned, which means bees know my soul.
I’m done, I tell you, I’m due, I’m Oblivion’s datebook.
I’m a sunburned earthworm, a mongoose’s milk tooth,
a pleasure tariff, yesterday’s headcheese, spiritual gristle.
I’m the Apocalypse’s popsicle. I’m a licked Christian.
There is a dreamer
all good conductors
know to look for
when the last stop is made
and the train is ticking cool,
some lover, loner, or fool
who has lived so hard
he jerks awake
in the graveyard
and I am finding it harder and harder to keep track
of the new gods and the new loves,
and the old gods and the old loves,
and the days have daggers, and the mirrors motives,
and the planet’s turning faster and faster in the blackness,
and my nights, and my doubts, and my friends,my beautiful, credible friends.
4. Mild Dry Lines: An Exchange
But grief’s a craft like any other, it seems,
if only indirectly ours:
our skin’s inscripted with what nature knows.
The dead child chiseled in that woman’s cheek,
the battle smoldering off that old man’s brow,
our very mirrors, friend, these aging faces
with their lines of loneliness like pressured ice:
you would have them silenced?
—I would have them whole.
5. All You Shining Stars
Three kinds of sleep in the hum home
down the dark valley back to New Haven.
Four kinds of dreams behind the headlights,
the world springing into being ten feet at a time.
Five kinds of time when one love wakes up
and wonders where we are, and one wonder
wakes up another, and another, and another.
No comments:
Post a Comment