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Search results for the keyword 'Christian Wiman'

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  • author

    Poet, translator, editor, and essayist Christian Wiman was raised in West Texas and earned a BA at Washington and Lee...

  • poem
    By Christian Wiman

    No remembering now when the apple sapling was blown almost out of the ground. No telling how, with all the other trees around, it alone...

  • poem
    By Christian Wiman

                               I. O the screech and heat and hate we have for each day's commute, the long wait at the last stop before we...

  • poem
    By Christian Wiman

    Solitary as a mast on a mountaintop, an ocean of knowing long withdrawn, she dittied the days, grew fluent in cat,...

  • poem
    By Christian Wiman

    A shadow in the shape of a house slides out of a house and loses its shape on the lawn. ...

  • poem
    By Christian Wiman

    Do you remember the rude nudists? Lazing easy in girth and tongue, wet slops and smacks of flesh as they buttered every...

  • poem
    By Christian Wiman

    Incurable and unbelieving in any truth but the truth of grieving, I saw a tree inside a tree rise kaleidoscopically as if the leaves...

  • poem
    By Christian Wiman

    What words or harder gift does the light require of me carving from the dark this difficult tree? What place or...

  • poem
    By Christian Wiman

    Lord is not a word. Song is not a salve. Suffer the child, who lived on sunlight and solitude. Savor the man, craving earth like...

  • poem
    By Christian Wiman

    Love's last urgency is earth and grief is all gravity and the long fall always back to earliest hours that exist nowhere...

  • poem
    By Christian Wiman

    I don't want to be alive anymore. I don't want to be alive enough to want that. One is not meant to...

  • poem
    By Christian Wiman

    I have no illusion some fusion                of force and form will save me, bewilderment               of bonelight ungrave me as when the...

  • poem
    By Christian Wiman

    1. deathbed There is a word that is not water, has nothing to do with heat or light, is unrelated to...

  • poem
    By Christian Wiman

    A town so flat a grave's a hill,             A dusk the color of beer. ...

  • poem
    By Christian Wiman

    Brachest, she called it, gentling grease over blanching yolks with an expertise honed from three decades of dawns at the Longhorn Diner in...

  • poem
    By Christian Wiman

    Then all one day because of ice they couldn't make it down the hill. Or up, James says, dabbing at a spill of...

  • poem
    By Christian Wiman

    Lean and sane in the last hour of a long fast or fiercer discipline he could touch dust into a...

  • poem
    By Christian Wiman

    After love discovers it, the little burn or birthmark in an odd spot he can neither see nor reach; after the internist's downturned mouth, specialists leaning over him like diviners, machines reading...

  • poem
    By Christian Wiman

    I tell you it's a bitch existence some Sundays and it's no good pretending you don't have to pretend, don't have to...

  • poem
    By Christian Wiman

    This inwardness, this ice, this wide boreal whiteness into which he's come with a crawling sort of care for the...

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