James Matthew Wilson is the author, most recently, of The Strangeness of the Good (Angelico, 2020). He serves as poetry editor for Modern Age magazine, series editor of Colosseum Books, and as director of the Colosseum Institute. He is the director of the MFA in Creative Writing at the University of Saint Thomas.
“The most important intellectual rediscovery in contemporary thought, however paradoxical it may sound, is the rediscovery of the classical and Christian understanding of the reality of beauty. As Hans Urs von Balthasar once argued, beauty is the precondition for truth, for goodness, for the very intelligibility of being. And yet, for centuries, our civilization has…
I’ve been away all day, and coming home— I can’t believe it—all the kids are leaping To tell me what’s transpired in my absence. They’re at the store together, five of them Propped in the shopping cart or following it, Their mother slowly leading down the aisle, To get the toilet paper, bread, a…
He took his place within the check-out line, A loaf of bread, some milk, and batteries Cradled against the paunch beneath his ribs. His eyes rest vaguely where they fell on rows Of chocolate, gum, and mints that lined the counter. But, just behind, came some sharp click of tongue— Briefer, but otherwise much like…
I A dry heat glowing in his shins and brain afire, The night sky gray behind the distant münster’s spire, He found himself awake upon a rain-slicked street, His boot heels slipping on the stones; the wind searched every pleat Of his brown cloak and struck his body till it spun Him back and all…
You’ll earn less than you feel you’re worth, Retire in debt; Old faces framed above the hearth Your name forget. And, friends forget your failings soon, But not your wife, Who carries them like an old tune— Or sharpened knife. You dreamed of politics and fame But that soon faded, As no one liked you,…
The story is that men are getting softer.They break down sobbing, hide a face beneathA towel, after they’ve been benched, as ifA private room of terry cloth could shutOut our contempt. They say that some men areAfraid to lift a phone, to call the drug storeAnd ask the hours of the pharmacy.They’ll sit there, sunk…
While still a student, wandering abroad But lodged in Dublin for the summer, I Would pass, each day, through King Street with a sigh Dismissing all I couldn’t afford as fraud, And turn, at the butt-end of Grafton Street To join the host of tourists on their way Beneath the Fusilier’s arch,…
Just as I saunter down the front porch stair Into the brilliant light of Sunday morning, My collar pressed, pants creased, and without care, As if the world shrugged off all signs of mourning, I catch sight of the dive bar on Teele Square. And there, left blinking, helpless, lost in light, …
On asking the philosophers, What is the sun?, we get in answer, An angel perched; a heap of furze Some god has set ablaze; a burning Iron that melts from sword to plow To spearhead with the seasons’ turning. And some wise soul guffaws at them Or, condescending, calls it “poetry” To disbelieve…
