Recently I was trading names of favorite poets with a new friend. We were jiving, all the names and titles in sync, when he mentioned W.S. Merwin. "Never heard of him," I remarked casually. Shortly thereafter I received two of his books, essential pages marked with yellow Post-its. I tend to go for confessional poetry, stuff more situated on the Alanis Morissette spectrum of literature, and these poems are not that: they deal with the natural world, the randomness of fate, the horrors of war. But their boundless sensitivity, linguistic gymnastics, and bare spirituality make them both a comfort and a joy.
"Comet of stillness princes of what is over / high note held without trembling without voice without sound" —The Vixen
PS: If you're into dudes, plz Google this author as a young man — he was hotter than hot and I'm frankly still into him now.
Last week marked a year since I completed my MFA in creative writing. In celebration of one of the most monumental accomplishments in my life, I decided to reread some of the books that captivated me most during my program. One of those books was The Passion According to G.H., by Clarice Lispector. Originally published in '64, the diaristic novel is an account of what happened when the pragmatically melancholic (and chic) G.H. discovered a cockroach in the wardrobe of her maid's room. This seemingly mundane conceit is anything but when brought to life through Lispector's prose. In addition to being existentially riveting, this novel is clever as hell. Its pages never cease to put my anxious heart at ease.