James Matthew Wilson

This woman, cast in bronze,Lowers her eyes uponAn infant on her lap,His naked bulk enfoldedWithin her draping mantle. She cradles him, at rest,While fold on fold descends,Concealing grace with graceExcept where that cloth breaksTo bare one slip of flesh. Here, on the desk, they sit,Where joyless . . . . Continue Reading »

The young man in his cell     Receives his guestWho all his heart should tell     And leave there blest.In quiet companyWe shall a marvel seeAs every thought shall be     By that heart known. To Rome the pilgrims came     Poor as God chose . . . . Continue Reading »

The road flares burning where the truck swerved off     Just before midnight show the streaks in gravelAnd banged-up tailgate slanted in its trough.     Those passing—weary, wondering—slow their travelOn sight of massed police and long enough    . . . . Continue Reading »

Ours is a Catholic country, not because of what we have done there, but because there has been prepared a place for God to do something. Continue Reading »

After Jacob of Serug Blessed are you, O Maiden; blest     The fruit which dwells within your womb,Beloved in that holy rest     Whose secret comes to sacred bloom.And blessed is this virgin birth     Which shall uproot sin from the earth. Who grants this . . . . Continue Reading »

After Richard Peter’s photograph of “Gute” Her shoulders slumped beneath their heavy cloak,Large hands outspread despite a shattered thumb,The lady Goodness stares out on the smokeAnd ruin below, and stands, as always, dumb.More planes already drone on the horizon,Their bellies pregnant with . . . . Continue Reading »

October 20, 2007 Dear Lynn, I haven’t met you yet, and yet,  Because of your groom’s frank and free oblations  In sonnet sequences or while we drink,In permanent print or on the internet,  I write to share my cheerful approbations  For what I cannot know but may still . . . . Continue Reading »

Storm clouds move in and darken all the house,    The morning paper on the kitchen table dim,Where I’ve been reading some reporter’s grouse    At things already bad, now growing grim.    Most of the prodigies agree with him. I rise to light a lamp, and hear the . . . . Continue Reading »

Here we are, with four children, at late Mass,   The nave a bloated hull of tin, the cross   Dangling from double chains, its weight of lossMoored in midair as listing decades pass.A few gray heads, behind, recall a past   When the bright sharded window cast its . . . . Continue Reading »

Beyond the window, morning sparrows made Their song as if the whole world’s goodness paid Its plenty out for them and them alone. The old saint heard their joy and squelched a moan As his legs, stiff and heavy still with sleep, Arranged themselves beneath his cassocked heap Of belly. Where had he . . . . Continue Reading »