Articles by James Matthew Wilson

James Matthew Wilson

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.


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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…

The Dream of Descartes

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…

All Your Life

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 Weakness of Men

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…

Every Morning He Hallowed Himself

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,…

Sunlight

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…

(c) 2019 North American Anglican