James Matthew Wilson

Snow that has fallen in the night Blankets at last the sodden clay And offers such peace to our sight As if it were the eternal day. Yet shoppers, now, begin to fight Among stripped shelves, and husbands say Some stinging thing to frazzled wives Just before the first guest arrives. What blessing . . . . Continue Reading »

I follow the clean-edged macadam northTo catch the train. The maples lining bothSides hang with leaves turned soft but brilliant reds,Oranges, and umbers that will make their bedsSoon in the unmown grass that lines my street,And crumble at the weight of passing feet.The people who just moved in . . . . Continue Reading »

Allen Tate: The Modern Mind and the Discovery of Enduring Loveby john v. glass iiithe catholic university of america, 376 pages, $59.95 I well remember sitting up half the night annotating Allen Tate’s “Ode to the Confederate Dead” in my Norton anthology. As do I remember reading for the first . . . . Continue Reading »

His limbs splayed, writhing, as he hung there, Murmuring of a kingdom somewhere The Roman guards had never been, The sun beat on his darkened head. He barely heard what the good thief said, So swollen and plugged his ears were then. “I thirst,” his mother heard him cry. “Why have you left me . . . . Continue Reading »

The Whole Harmonium: The Life of Wallace Stevensby paul marianisimon & schuster, 496 pages, $30 It was the first great American poem of modern atheism. Wallace Stevens’s “Sunday Morning” (1915) opens with a woman in a peignoir, relaxing in the morning sun with her coffee and oranges. Her . . . . Continue Reading »

You who wait, stood as candles round the shrouded bed,And flicker with the last stir of her breath,See, now, at once, she lies no more beneathYour watch, but stands in light, a crown upon her head.—James Matthew . . . . Continue Reading »

By practice skill is got, by practice wit is won.—George Turberville On being asked by a young friend of mineThe surest way to make himself an author,I said he ought to read line after lineOf dense and brilliant books; taking the “bother”To memorize their tricks and ticks, the waysMeaning . . . . Continue Reading »

The following essay is adapted from Chapter 3 of “The Fortunes of Poetry in an Age of Unmaking.” Those who love literature, or at any rate have a vested interest in making sure great works of literature are taught at universities and that radical politics are not, could only find the conquest . . . . Continue Reading »

There, in the hay’s warmth and the steaming sty,The Word born to the frailty of fleshCracks our mortality with a weak cryAnd seals our life within his endlessness. The Word born to the frailty of flesh,He lies wrapped in the cloths of mystery,And seals our life within his endlessness,In infant . . . . Continue Reading »

Sad news from last week: Wheaton College mourns the death of Professor Brett Foster, who has been a good, true friend to his students and colleagues on campus,” said Wheaton College President Dr. Philip G. Ryken. “Dr. Foster’s exceptional poems will be a lasting treasure for all who read them, . . . . Continue Reading »