An Evening over Shared Affection: Poetry Books Not to Miss

by Mischa Willett

It has always seemed to me that a high and holy camaraderie accrues to people who love the same things. When I go to concerts, for instance, I feel a kinship with everyone else in the hushed (or by turns raucous) venue because we’re all of us leaning in the same direction, breathing at the same intervals. It’s part of why I like praying in liturgical settings, and why I like meeting other book-people when I give poetry readings: this is us, I think, these are my people. But the feeling carries for me even when we’re not physically-gathered, even when we haven’t met–we’re still leaning in; there’s still an us here–and sometimes I like imagine the talks we’d have could we stuff ourselves into some country pub with world enough, and time. 

Let’s say, for instance, find ourselves in the Queen's Arms, C.S. Lewis’ other favorite pub, the Bird and Baby being closed for repairs, or over at Two Kick in Seattle where I usually hang out, and maybe you see me scribbling away, or I see you reading The Mockingbird, or Image, or some other publication that signals an informed and artistically-interested fellow Christian, or anyway it comes out that I’m writing poems and maybe you are too and we get talking. Maybe you’re fresh from Hutchmoot or the Glen or one of these new Inkwell evenings that Ekstasis is hosting and are all fired up about the life of the mind, the soul of the world, the community-building potential of the arts. Eventually, we’d get around to the question “have you read anything good recently?” And that's when our cartridge needles would settle into our respective grooves and things would really start swinging. When it’s my turn, I’d spin something like the following. 

The books I’m buzzing about, feasting on still, having recently read them, are Mark Jarman’s Zeno’s Eternity and Paul Willis’ Somewhere to Follow. Laura Reece Hogan’s little explosions of sense and sound I still find staggering. If someone doesn’t see why poetry is so compelling, I might start them with her Butterfly Nebulae. Or maybe with Scott Cairns who has two (!) new books out just now, one of them that’s built of the great conversation: Correspondence with My Greeks. 

For those with a more intellectual bent, the sorts of folks who appreciate poems by the late Geoffrey Hill, or, you know, who liked The Elegies, will find treasure in Bruce Beasley, whose books, All Soul Parts Returned, or the new Prayershreds, are as erudite and rewarding as collections as anything I’ve read. But they’re hard: he’s pushing at the edges of the form and at the edges of the known, grounded by a linguistic biblicism that’s humbling to observe. 

Maybe we’ve moved over to a booth at this point, and maybe—while we’re imagining anyway— maybe at this pub, you can still fire up a pipe, and Malcolm Guite sidles over to tell us about his new Arthuriad-in-progress and Paul Pastor (great smokers, both) about his forthcoming The Locust Years. 

We move past the recent and into the future; after all, half the fun of a vacation, or a film even is seeing the trailer and anticipating. What else is coming you’re excited about?

You all know the Poiema series, right? It’s kind of a who’s who for poets of faith; they have this new poet Luke Harvey whose book is out just this month, Let's Call it Home. I’ve seen about half poems in it and they’re marvelous: stop you in your tracks while also strengthening your faith; these are poems for people who love the Bible and love good verse, love being surprised. And they’ve just had a win with J.C. Scharl’s Ponds, that fine, glowing flight of lyric intention. I’ve just heard they signed another new poet, Cameron Brooks who writes this austere, muscular poetry like Bruce Springsteen's Nebraska album meets Robert Haas at has most sinewy. It’ll be a while before it comes out, I think, but I’m going to have a whole fun year, and I'm looking forward to it.

A song comes on the jukebox that one of us recognizes. We all stop to listen for a few bars to this country, jazzy skittering by a band called, endearingly I think, Mr. And Mrs. Garret Soucy. “Did you know this singer’s a poet too?” which I guess makes sense, the whole bardic tradition. His first book Between the Joints and the Marrow should be out any minute. Hot!

There are some books I've read ahead of time, having been asked to endorse them, and I have an especial fondness for them. I was present at their birthday. I can still hear us all singing over A Testament of Witness by David Lyle Jeffrey.

Some of us follow these things like others follow the NBA draft—have you seen Wiseblood Books’ new signings? It’s like a hostile takeover of talent. I might just buy the whole of next year’s roster—collect ‘em all!— but I’m especially jazzed for Seth Wieck’s book.

The evening winds on; we start speculating. Have you guys seen Michael Dickman's book, Husbandry, about being a father? It's so tender. Do we think he's a believer? Or what about Dan Ratelle’s Painting Over the Growth Chart, which has the best cover art ever? I think of them as place-poems, but there’s a something-more there, too…

Well. We can all see it's getting time to spill out into the night. We have reading to get to and work to do ourselves, but before we do, let's raise a glass for Brett Foster, that beautiful believer who died young, right before his playful, intelligent book Extravagant Rescues came out. 

"For Brett!"

"For all the poets we've lost, and those we’re still finding!"

Cheers.

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