There’s no question that illness has brought a great urgency to my work: One speaks differently when standing on a cliff. Then again, I have always had little patience for art that is not elemental, art that doesn’t take on the major questions of our existence. Perhaps my own inclinations have simply been intensified by my illness…. I am moved by works of art that don’t so much strive to make meaning as allow meaning to stream through them. – Christian Wiman, Editor of Poetry Magazine, talking to Christianity Today
how on earth are we supposed to be colanders of meaning
when our sink drain is clogged with soaked Ramen
that we poured down the drain when our parents
weren’t looking so we could cut a few calories
somehow you found the way to puncture
your mortality and flood us with the eternal.
and this kid writer asks how,
srsly, with my antifolk turned up, and ten thousand
links to Click Through and Share with Friends:
senses saturated with reasons to buy and sell,
text-to-donate and intern in Bangkok to build
a resume, farm sustainably, & save the slaves,
how did you slice through my headphones and sunglasses,
unstopper my Spirit, and speak?
How do I leave beauty behind in this global junkyard?
This poem is in response to this most incredible interview with Christian Wiman.