{"id":4092,"date":"2021-09-30T19:31:29","date_gmt":"2021-09-30T19:31:29","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/farefwd.com\/?p=4092"},"modified":"2021-12-31T21:02:41","modified_gmt":"2021-12-31T21:02:41","slug":"the-enigma-of-purpose","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/farefwd.com\/index.php\/2021\/09\/30\/the-enigma-of-purpose\/","title":{"rendered":"The Enigma of Purpose"},"content":{"rendered":"\t\t
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The Enigma of Purpose: A Conversation with Claude Wilkinson<\/h2>\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t
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There is an elegant, painterly precision to Claude Wilkinson\u2019s poetry. In his careful hands, subjects such as white egrets and summer evenings become wonders seen anew through a voice that, though often having a mournful air, is yet ringed with joy. They are also grounded poems: rooted in Wilkinson\u2019s Mississippi homeland as well as the tradition in which he writes, that great turbulent stream where swim Minerva and Apollo as well as Keats, Hopkins, Dickinson, Stevens; Millet, Monet, and Andrew Wyeth; spirituals and hymns and Vaughan Williams; Genesis and the Psalms and the New Testament; James Baldwin and twentieth-century Paris, New England and the Deep South and all their tangled history. Poet and teacher Robert Cording writes that Wilkinson\u2019s poetry \u201cbrings art and nature together\u2014the artfulness here not in its faithful copying of nature, but in its evocation of reality in all its fullness.\u201d<\/p>

Claude Wilkinson is also a painter, critic, essayist, and teacher. His poetry collections include Reading the Earth<\/em> (1998, winner of the Naomi Long Madgett Poetry Award), Joy in the Morning <\/em>(2004, nominated for an American Book Award, the Griffin Poetry Prize, and a Pulitzer Prize), Marvelous Light<\/em> (2018), and World Without End<\/em> (2020, nominated for the Mississippi Institute of Arts and Letters Award). He is now at work on a new poetry collection.<\/p>

Fare Forward<\/em> interviewed Claude Wilkinson in August 2021 over email.<\/p>\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t

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Interview conducted by Tessa Carman<\/em><\/p>\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t

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Tessa Carman: Did poetry or painting come first for you?<\/strong><\/p>

Claude Wilkinson: I began drawing when I was four years old, and for a while, I began writing prose that was imitative of adventure novels I enjoyed, such as those by Jack London, when I was around ten years old, so my attraction to visual art not only manifested itself first, but it remained much more constant until I began writing seriously after university.<\/p>

TC: Who were your favorite writers growing up? Who were your favorite storytellers and artists? Who are some of your touchstone poets and writers now?<\/strong><\/p>

CW: When I was a child, I thoroughly enjoyed all the Childcraft<\/em> volumes such as Storytelling and Other Poems<\/em>, Folk and Fairy<\/em> Tales<\/em>, Animal Friends and Adventures<\/em>, Life in Many Lands<\/em>, Art for Children<\/em>, and so forth. As for favorite storytellers, I tended to prefer fabulist tales such as \u201cThe Bremen Town Musicians\u201d by the Brothers Grimm. I didn\u2019t really have favorite artists until later in life when I began to pursue visual art more seriously, although I\u2019ve always preferred realistic representation. As for touchstone poets and writers now, I find that my aesthetic has been, for the most part, unwavering. There are some writers whom I like less than I did forty years ago and some whom I like more than I did then, but if I ever liked them, I still do. For example, William Stafford was a strong influence on my early writing, but I rarely return to his work now; however, \u201cTraveling through the Dark\u201d is still one of my favorite poems. Derek Walcott, on the other hand, was a poet whose work I didn\u2019t fully appreciate until about twenty years ago, and now he is one of my two favorite poets\u2014the other being Gerard Manley Hopkins.<\/p>

TC: <\/strong>Your naming Walcott and Hopkins as your two favorite poets reminds me of how music and beauty is so necessary for both of them. I love how Walcott emphasized that poetry needs to be performed. And then Hopkins\u2019 work forges a resonant music\u2014it has the effect of waking up one\u2019s tongue to how all poetry is meant to be read.<\/strong><\/p>

CW: I only heard Walcott read his poetry in person some twenty years ago, yet I still hear his voice when I read his poems silently. In a conversation with Pearl London, Walcott said he had been told that the gist of what certain poets were saying could be summed up in two words, and that for him the words were \u201cbeach\u201d and \u201cspeech,\u201d suggesting his preoccupation with the Caribbean region and his love of the English language. Etheridge Knight also believed a poem wasn\u2019t complete until an audience had heard it performed. And what an appropriate characterization of Hopkins\u2019s poems\u2014that they wake up one\u2019s tongue. They just can\u2019t be read lazily. Howard Nemerov\u2019s poem, \u201cBecause You Asked about the Line Between Prose and Poetry,\u201d employs the metaphor of sparrows\u2019 ability to fly off into a snowstorm rather than falling back to ground to suggest the necessity of poetic language being distinguishable from prose. But to be truly fine, a poem needs to present an accessible, meaningful subject through its resonance.<\/p>

TC: What are some of the places, writers, and people that have most shaped your work and your vision of the world?<\/strong><\/p>

CW: Well, I tend to view myself as an independent thinker, and thus see my vision of the world as unique, not really attributable to any specific places or people. My character, on the other hand, owes much to my upbringing and environment in rural Mississippi. Along the way, though, from favorite poets such as Mary Oliver and Stanley Plumly, I learned valuable lessons on the importance of intensity when looking for revelation. Being attentive, and then comprehending, are perhaps the most difficult and crucial aspects of accomplishing any inspiration, whether literary or visual.<\/p>

TC: Could you talk a bit about your experience on a farm during your growing-up years? How did that shape you?<\/strong><\/p>

CW: Both my parents were educators by profession, but we also maintained a subsistence farm throughout my childhood, during which time I became enthralled by nature and the land. Though my poems aren\u2019t nearly as romanticist and regionalist as some have tried to reduce them, my way of looking through our world is, without doubt, shaped by my early, enjoyable experiences in a rural, welcoming landscape. I believe it\u2019s one of the ways that my spirit became attuned to God and what little I know of the universe.<\/p>

TC: Has the role of poetry in American life changed from when you were growing up?<\/strong><\/p>

CW: When I was growing up, poetry and the title poet<\/em> were generally revered, even by people who didn\u2019t regularly read poetry, perhaps for the ways in which poets exhibited their gift or perhaps for their dedication to an esoteric life that brought such meager rewards. Think of Dunbar, Frost, and Sandburg. Lines and poems achieved memorableness through craftsmanship and gravitas. Celebrity is still possible for writers, but ascension is cliquishly governed and based on mandatory alignment with current radical agendas. Hopefully, I\u2019m suffering from Elijah syndrome and there are actually more than the remnant of fine poets whom I know.<\/p><\/div>\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t

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Autumn Light with Horses, 12 x 16, oil, Collection of Leisle Chung<\/figcaption>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/figure>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t
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If we examine \u201cpurpose\u201d from a creationist perspective, why anything exists becomes the ultimate question.<\/p>\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t

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The Giant's Causeway, 12 x 16, pastel<\/figcaption>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/figure>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t
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TC: <\/strong>You\u2019ve named Mississippi as your physical home and New England as your spiritual home. How does home and place play into the work of poetry and to the work of a life for you?<\/strong><\/p>

CW: My time in Mississippi has certainly been filled with indelible experiences, some of which I chronicle in an essay titled \u201cAll That \u2018Southern\u2019 Jazz\u201d that I contributed to the book Southern<\/em> Writers on Writing<\/em>. Being identified as a Southerner has its attendant clich\u00e9d reactions. And like the universal phantom accent non-Southerners try to impose on all those below the Mason-Dixon Line, some seem to misread my poems as being predicated on my having been reared in Mississippi. Actually, only in the new collection that I\u2019m completing now is Mississippi itself central in a couple of poems. I don\u2019t dislike my Mississippi heritage, but I do resent attempts to pigeonhole my work as reductively regionalist. New England is the area to which I\u2019ve felt most attached for quite a few years. And whereas the geography of my Mississippi landscapes is remarkably different to that of my New England paintings, neither my force nor my technique changes. Because the themes I explore are timeless and universal, my poems are unlikely ever to be significantly different owing to mere locale either.\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>

TC: How do you approach the writing of a poem, and the making of a new painting?<\/strong><\/p>

CW: I believe it was Andr\u00e9 Gide who said, \u201cArt is a collaboration between God and the artist, and the less the artist does, the better.\u201d Since this is also my belief regarding genuine art, I tend to think of creation as a sacred process and begin each time of writing and painting with a brief prayer. My manner of painting requires me to wash my hands often. However, I had thought my practice of handwashing before writing to be unique until I heard that the playwright August Wilson always did likewise. Though Wilson was a great playwright, he and his work were anything but Christian, yet he viewed his task as spiritual enough to merit homage.<\/p>

After my ceremonial practices, I generally begin a new poem by reviewing previous notes I\u2019ve made regarding the piece\u2019s subject and intent. My notes for poems may include facts, images, linguistics, quotations, and references. If I\u2019ve determined that certain poems should be formal, the notes likely include accompanying potential rhyme and rhythmic patterns. Since I keep several journals with ideas for hundreds of poems, I merely devote my effort to whichever I\u2019m compelled.<\/p>

I begin new paintings in a similar manner by delving into hundreds of photographs I\u2019ve taken locally and around the world over the years. But because painting is a less methodical art form for me, my inspiration is usually ordained by mood. During my selection of a subject, I also consider dimensions and medium. Though I must say, beginning a painting is usually an anxious undertaking for me, whereas beginning a poem usually seems effortless.<\/p>

TC: How does your poetry and painting inform your teaching and critical work?<\/strong><\/p>

CW: In a nutshell, as a teacher of writing, I always search for errors, possible improvements, and things done particularly well. As a critic, my considerations are the same, but include my examination and assessment of a work\u2019s intent. In this paradigm, my teaching and criticism tend to inform my poetry and painting rather than the converse. Adhering to these concerns makes it unlikely that I\u2019ll judge others by hypocritical standards.<\/p>

TC: In his introduction to The Anathemata<\/em>, David Jones wrote of the difficulties of the modern poet in discovering \u201ca valid sign,\u201d since by the time he was writing so much of what one could assume was part of a shared cultural deposit was being forgotten. He asks, \u201cWhen is a sign not a sign? When is what was valid no longer valid?\u201d What are your thoughts on this problem? <\/strong><\/p>

CW: The signs in Jones\u2019s Anathemata<\/em> have always been, and will always be, valid because they pursue the enigma of purpose, albeit according to his ideology. Poetry can\u2019t tackle any grander or more relevant question. Psalms will always be valid. The Holy Sonnets<\/em> will always be valid. Paradise Lost<\/em> will always be valid. However, validity and popularity are often at odds, especially nowadays, regarding Christian principles and symbols. I see the problem of a disinterested audience for such themes as being reflective of a degenerative society rather than the matter having become antiquated. The dilemma for so many writers is whether to be exclusively current or cogent.<\/p>

TC: <\/strong>Could you talk a bit more about poetry\u2019s pursuit of \u201cthe enigma of purpose\u201d?<\/strong><\/p>

CW: If we examine \u201cpurpose\u201d from a creationist perspective, why anything exists becomes the ultimate question. For three decades, I listened to the teaching of the late Bahamian minister Myles Munroe\u2014a preacher among preachers, whose message was essentially about purpose. And his ultimate answer regarding our existence seemed to be that it\u2019s what God wanted, which is an inarguable conclusion, but which also raises an infinite chorus of whys. Obviously, many writers aren\u2019t concerned, or are incapable of, engaging with such issues. And maybe none of us who do grapple for satisfying answers to our raison d\u2019\u00eatre<\/em> will ever be more successful than Milton was with Paradise Lost<\/em>, but striving itself seems to be at least tangential to one\u2019s purpose, and for me, poetry is a path toward something\u2014maybe revelation, maybe not\u2014but at least toward something.\u00a0<\/p>

TC: Wendell Berry has written about how his ear was shaped by the rhythms of old folks\u2019 talk and stories. Could you talk a bit about how music affects your work?<\/strong><\/p>

CW: I love listening to many genres of music. Whether my ear was trained by the rhythms of music or I enjoy music because of my ear\u2019s sensitivity, I can\u2019t say. But just as a painting won\u2019t be good without strong composition, no matter how fine the draftsmanship, a poem without pleasing rhythm is intolerable to me. I listen to music or recorded nature sounds when I\u2019m in the studio because for me, painting is intuitive, and I like to be somewhat pleasantly distracted. Though I prefer quiet while writing, I continually listen to the cadence of my language, whether poetry or prose.<\/p>

TC: Could you talk a bit about poetry and painting as ways of seeing? How does a painting\u2019s way of seeing compare with that of a poem?<\/strong><\/p>

CW: Learning to see was the most difficult lesson for me as a painter because it involves so many intangible principles such as understanding that in order to create proper contrast a landscape painting needs darks that may not be so obvious en plein air<\/em>. In my poems, I also often contrast darkness with light. Of course, it\u2019s a biblical concept, but with artistic applications as well. Though when painting I\u2019m simply looking to capture the mood of my inspiration, whereas when working on a poem I\u2019m looking for something useful to be revealed through the inspiration.<\/p>

TC: <\/strong>What are some particular poems or paintings to which you find yourself often returning?<\/strong><\/p>

CW: Generally, I return to collections rather than to a poet\u2019s single poem. However, a few poems that I do often return to are \u201canyone lived in a pretty how town\u201d by E.E. Cummings, James Dickey\u2019s \u201cCherrylog Road,\u201d John Donne\u2019s \u201cHoly Sonnet 14,\u201d Etheridge Knight\u2019s \u201cPrison Graveyard,\u201d Philip Larkin\u2019s \u201cThe Explosion,\u201d May Swenson\u2019s \u201cWaterbird,\u201d and \u201cFern Hill\u201d by Dylan Thomas.<\/p>

Many of my favorite painters, and thus my favorite paintings, are from the nineteenth-century academic tradition, so I love paintings such as Landscape with<\/em> Woman Walking on Path<\/em> by Edward Mitchell Bannister, Morning, Catskill Valley<\/em> by George Inness, and A Lovely<\/em> Thought<\/em> by Daniel Ridgway Knight. I also return to impressionist paintings such as Claude Monet\u2019s The Magpie<\/em>, but I\u2019m perhaps most enthralled by the works of Edward Hopper. His ability to plumb the depths of solitude on canvas is beyond uncanny\u2014it\u2019s inexplicable and downright painful in paintings such as Gas<\/em>, Office at Night<\/em>, and Rooms for Tourists<\/em>. The connection I feel with Hopper\u2019s work is so strong that it\u2019s sometimes disconcerting.<\/p><\/div>\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t

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Pastoral (Cows), 12 x 16, oil<\/figcaption>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/figure>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t
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I began to wonder what weapons could be used against such a menace.<\/p>\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t

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TC: <\/strong>Could you talk a bit about the genesis of \u201cBaptism with Water Moccasin\u201d from <\/strong>Reading the Earth<\/em><\/strong>?<\/strong><\/p>

CW: Though \u201cBaptism with Water Moccasin\u201d is narrated from a first-person perspective, inspiration for the poem actually came through an experience my mother related from her youth in which a huge water moccasin positioned itself on a limb over the creek, directly above a baptism. I began to wonder what weapons could be used against such a menace, and I decided to depict each congregant relying on his or her faith bolstered by silently recalling favorite Bible stories of deliverance. But then, near the end, the poem turns symbolically from long-suffering, passive faith when some young, zealous boys, remembering David and Goliath, finally determine to stone the snake back into its murky water. The poem turns again with the old pastor\u2019s warning.<\/p>

Baptism with Water Moccasin<\/strong><\/p>

And the Lord said to Satan, \u201cFrom where do you come?\u201d So Satan answered the Lord and said, \u201cFrom going to and fro on the earth, and from walking back and forth on it.\u201d<\/p>

\u2014The Book of Job<\/em><\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

His bulk amazed us,<\/p>

the way he’d maneuvered his folds<\/p>

onto a switch of elm<\/p>

directly above the baptizing hole.<\/p>

After all, Cedar Creek offered<\/p>

numerous spots for a snake<\/p>

to wile away a Sunday, but only one<\/p>

fit to baptize in.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

Not even the brilliance<\/p>

of proselytes, a rite of sheets<\/p>

fluttering about them<\/p>

in the early morning breeze,<\/p>

had moved him. Not the most<\/p>

floral, feathered, tasseled of hats,<\/p>

nor the highest notes of a Doctor Watt<\/p>

being held till the last thread<\/p>

of their power\u2014<\/p>

nothing made him so much<\/p>

as shift that bitter lozenge of head,<\/p>

shovel through the chilly fork of his tongue<\/p>

to even feel us out.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

It was as if he already knew<\/p>

what was going on, as if<\/p>

he\u2019d been returning for ages<\/p>

to blaspheme the Creek.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

While the deacons<\/p>

crawfished into place,<\/p>

one could scan the bank of faces,<\/p>

almost hear people calling up Scriptures,<\/p>

favorite prophets to deliver us.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

The sister in the blue cr\u00eape de Chine<\/p>

sees Joseph released from Potiphar\u2019s prison,<\/p>

and the old man there<\/p>

with Stetson still on<\/p>

is remembering Daniel in the lion\u2019s den.<\/p>

Over there Jonah is being spat up . . .<\/p>

Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego.<\/p>

Everywhere shields were rising,<\/p>

going forth against the tree.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

A few boys with the story<\/p>

of David and Goliath<\/p>

burning their hearts<\/p>

gathered stones to make war,<\/p>

aimed to chuck the devil down<\/p>

into the cloudy waters below,<\/p>

but Pastor Gamble, an old hand<\/p>

at this sort of thing, cautioned,<\/p>

\u201cLeave him be, chillun.<\/p>

Long as he up there,<\/p>

we knows where he at.\u201d<\/p>

from Reading the Earth: Poems by Claude Wilkinson<\/em> (1998)<\/p><\/div>\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t

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Autumn and winter are my favorite seasons for landscapes because the bones of a place are more visible.<\/p>\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t

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Solitude, 30 x 40, oil<\/figcaption>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/figure>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t
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Autumn Shadows, 12 x 16, oil, Collection of Lee Isaac Chung<\/figcaption>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/figure>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t
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TC: <\/strong>You\u2019ve written many ekphrastic poems, including a series on Gordon Parks\u2019 Fort Scott photographs in <\/strong>Marvelous Light<\/em><\/strong>. Could you talk a bit about that project in particular?<\/strong><\/p>

CW: The Parks series of ekphrastic poems, \u201cHalf Past Autumn,\u201d emanated from a retrospective exhibition of his work by the same title that I attended nearly twenty years ago. Gordon Parks is my favorite photographer, not only for his stellar talent, but also because of his immense range. His photos span a gamut from haute couture to heroinism in slums, from daydreaming children to elders gathered in deathbed scenes, from idyllic nudes to rather unsettling collages of his own abstract constructions. And his images of street gangs are consuming. I wrote voluminous notes about various pictures for possible themes, but I didn\u2019t begin composing specific poems until about ten years after I had viewed the exhibition when an editor solicited a couple of pieces for a special issue of a journal on African American art and literature.<\/p>

TC: <\/strong>Do you find writing a poem in response to a photograph is significantly different from one written in response to a painting?<\/strong><\/p>

CW: While I don\u2019t consciously consider the differences between writing about paintings and photographs, I\u2019m certainly aware of them. Though photos are often nuanced via the skill of the photographer, they are necessarily less interpretive than paintings. And while photographers may be able to capture a mood in a picture, they are unable to impose a mood on a picture as talented painters often do because cameras are much less an extension of their users than brushes are. Some considerations are similar for me, whether writing about a painting or a photograph, such as the image itself, my imagining the artist\u2019s intent, and various, reminiscent associations. However, when writing about paintings, I also may consider media, brushwork, texture, and so forth.<\/p>

TC: Where did you paint your 2007 painting Solitude<\/em>, which is used as the cover image for your latest poetry collection, World Without End<\/em>? Do you find yourself returning to certain themes (or seasons, such as Autumn Field with Hay <\/em>and Autumn Shadows<\/em>) or iterations of scenes in your painting? Has a scene ever served as double inspiration for both a poem and painting?<\/strong><\/p>

CW: Solitude<\/em> was painted from a photograph I took one autumn while in Nantucket. It was a chilly afternoon, so only a few people were at the beach. I noticed a solitary figure fishing from the shoreline and thought the scene could be a striking composition. Autumn and winter are my favorite seasons for landscapes because the bones of a place are more visible, although I also enjoy painting spring and summer scenes with their splendid colors. Until last winter, none of my subjects ever served as inspiration for both a whole poem and a painting. But when I found a dead robin beneath one of my windows, I posed it lying in the snow and photographed it for what I hope will be a lovely painting. The bird also served as inspiration for my poem, \u201cCock Robin, in Memoriam,\u201d which conflates unanswered prayer, the nursery rhyme, \u201cWho Killed Cock Robin,\u201d and Jesus\u2019s death and transfiguration.\u00a0<\/p><\/div>\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t

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Oftentimes the form and idea for a poem come simultaneously to me.<\/p>\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t

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TC: In your collection Marvelous Light<\/em>, your poem \u201cSweet Tea with Bash\u014d\u201d comprises haiku stanzas that each address a note of spring.<\/strong><\/p>

In World Without End<\/em>, \u201cVincent\u2019s Flowers\u201d is a flowing eight-page poem whose lines are spread against the page like a moving mosaic. Could you talk a bit about the forms in which you work? How do certain forms enable you to explore and express particular themes or scenes?<\/strong><\/p>

CW: Well, oftentimes the form and idea for a poem come simultaneously to me. \u201cSweet Tea with Bash\u014d\u201d was meant to be a confluence of Southern U.S. and Asian cultures\u2014hence \u201csweet tea\u201d\u2014as the haiku poet and I witness and remark on the emergence of spring, but following an essential tenet of the haiku form, without either of our personalities being central.<\/p>

Deriving the form for \u201cVincent\u2019s Flowers\u201d was a lengthy process. First, it\u2019s a long poem. Second, since I decided it wouldn\u2019t be typically ekphrastic, that the paintings explored and the form used to approach them were intended to be chronicles of van Gogh\u2019s life and mirror his manic state rather than aesthetic or associative considerations, I felt the poem\u2019s appearance and syntax should match my notions about the artist. During numerous revisions, I deleted much of my early draft and rearranged the lines and spacing until I finally had the kind of spasmodic yet connected text that I envisioned.<\/p><\/div>

Sweet Tea with Bash\u014d<\/strong><\/p>

The woodpecker\u2019s knock<\/p>

wakes all the oldest trees first,<\/p>

then nodding blossoms.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

A fresh dilemma<\/p>

of buttercups beginning\u2014<\/p>

stray and unwanted.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

Though March twentieth,<\/p>

dogwoods claim spring hasn\u2019t hit<\/p>

in Mississippi.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

New honeysuckle<\/p>

opens its yellow foundation<\/p>

and drips golden bees.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

Tiresias comes<\/p>

to mind with thoughts of crushing<\/p>

two mating crane flies.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

The first shaky fawn<\/p>

stumbles through wine red clover,<\/p>

also drunk on spring.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

Waiting until dark<\/p>

covers it, a small toad hides<\/p>

among other stones.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

Fireflies have started<\/p>

to trust the warming night air\u2014<\/p>

love flashes and waits.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

For now, just an elm<\/p>

feels the owl\u2019s sharp, eager clutch\u2014<\/p>

there\u2019s rustling below.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

Even stars listen<\/p>

to check that every cricket<\/p>

is perfectly tuned.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

from Marvelous Light<\/em> (2018)<\/p>\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t

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To properly appreciate nature, we must have reverence for it and foremost for its Creator.<\/p>\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t

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TC: The question of how to relate to nature, to the created order, especially after the heyday of the Romantic era, remains a fraught one, it seems. You explore this tension in \u201cThe Egret Tree,\u201d in which the speaker desires (albeit hesitantly) \u201csome covenant of intimate favor,\u201d implying that age-old desire to be given a sign, whether seeking divine goodwill, or simply communion with the world outside the self. Later the speaker does not claim to know what the egret tree means, but then he takes a step back and reflects,<\/strong><\/p>

\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>

What abstractions of holiness we are always asked<\/strong><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 to read and understand<\/strong><\/p>

as if in the brevity of even a hundred years<\/strong><\/p>

\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 we might grasp<\/strong><\/p>

from where all the starlings one day fall in harmony<\/strong><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 with shadows and leaves,<\/strong><\/p>

\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>

how we stray through phases of grace.<\/strong><\/p>

\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>

I love how this poem elegantly explores the tension between desiring communion and desiring to truly see and to respect the thisness<\/em> of things. What do you see as the particular challenges of writing about \u201cnature\u201d today?<\/strong><\/p>

CW: Great writing, whether poetry or prose, in addition to talent and study, requires one to be immersed in his or her subject matter. Annie Dillard and Mary Oliver weren\u2019t made on the page. They were made in the woods, so to speak. There seem to be few writers left who learned to write through living rather than through academic indoctrination and media persuasion. Even in its shamefully depleted state, the natural world still resists impatience and cursory interest\u2014two characteristics being forged in our society. Consequently, what we\u2019re typically presented with nowadays are incongruous similes pulled from nature to flesh out non sequiturs. To properly appreciate nature, we must have reverence for it and foremost for its Creator.<\/p>

TC: What are some encouraging (or discouraging) trends that you see in contemporary poetry? <\/strong><\/p>

CW: I would dearly love to see some encouraging trends in contemporary poetry. Unfortunately, if there are some, they are scant and successfully screened. I see prosody being sacrificed before the altars of propaganda and political correctness. There are a lot of naked emperors parading around being richly complimented on their fine apparel.<\/p>

TC: Who are some writers you wish more people read?<\/strong><\/p>

CW: Given their prior reputation, before former literary canons of quality were supplanted under the guise of diversity, the writers I wish more people read may seem a curious list. Nevertheless, a few of the many American writers who probably aren\u2019t in vogue but who produced skillful bodies of work include E. E. Cummings, James Dickey, Howard Nemerov, May Swenson, and Robert Penn Warren.<\/p>

TC: <\/strong>If you were gathering a collection of notable contemporary poets, whom would you choose? <\/strong><\/p>

CW: Since I assume you mean \u201cnotable contemporary poets\u201d who are still alive, my choices include Catharine Savage Brosman, Scott Cairns, Robert Cording, Sterling Plumpp, Peggy Ann Tartt, and Jeanne Murray Walker. Of course, if my choices were to also include the recently departed, Richard Wilbur would be among them.\u00a0<\/p>

TC: <\/strong>What advice would you give a young poet or reader of poetry today?<\/strong><\/p>

CW: My advice to every poet, regardless of status, and to every reader of poetry today is, earnestly read the best of what has been written through the ages, according to the tradition of the art form, so that biases may be developed based on excellence rather than expediency.\u00a0<\/p><\/div>\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t

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Tessa Carman<\/strong> writes from Mount Rainier, Maryland.<\/em><\/p>

\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The Enigma of Purpose: A Conversation with Claude Wilkinson
\nConducted by Tessa Carman<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":4093,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"elementor_header_footer","format":"standard","meta":{"_exactmetrics_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"ocean_front_end_style_editor":"no","ocean_post_layout":"","ocean_both_sidebars_style":"","ocean_both_sidebars_content_width":0,"ocean_both_sidebars_sidebars_width":0,"ocean_sidebar":"0","ocean_second_sidebar":"0","ocean_disable_margins":"enable","ocean_add_body_class":"","ocean_shortcode_before_top_bar":"","ocean_shortcode_after_top_bar":"","ocean_shortcode_before_header":"","ocean_shortcode_after_header":"","ocean_has_shortcode":"","ocean_shortcode_after_title":"","ocean_shortcode_before_footer_widgets":"","ocean_shortcode_after_footer_widgets":"","ocean_shortcode_before_footer_bottom":"","ocean_shortcode_after_footer_bottom":"","ocean_display_top_bar":"default","ocean_display_header":"default","ocean_header_style":"","ocean_center_header_left_menu":"0","ocean_custom_header_template":"0","ocean_custom_logo":0,"ocean_custom_retina_logo":0,"ocean_custom_logo_max_width":0,"ocean_custom_logo_tablet_max_width":0,"ocean_custom_logo_mobile_max_width":0,"ocean_custom_logo_max_height":0,"ocean_custom_logo_tablet_max_height":0,"ocean_custom_logo_mobile_max_height":0,"ocean_header_custom_menu":"0","ocean_menu_typo_font_family":"0","ocean_menu_typo_font_subset":"","ocean_menu_typo_font_size":0,"ocean_menu_typo_font_size_tablet":0,"ocean_menu_typo_font_size_mobile":0,"ocean_menu_typo_font_size_unit":"px","ocean_menu_typo_font_weight":"","ocean_menu_typo_font_weight_tablet":"","ocean_menu_typo_font_weight_mobile":"","ocean_menu_typo_transform":"","ocean_menu_typo_transform_tablet":"","ocean_menu_typo_transform_mobile":"","ocean_menu_typo_line_height":0,"ocean_menu_typo_line_height_tablet":0,"ocean_menu_typo_line_height_mobile":0,"ocean_menu_typo_line_height_unit":"","ocean_menu_typo_spacing":0,"ocean_menu_typo_spacing_tablet":0,"ocean_menu_typo_spacing_mobile":0,"ocean_menu_typo_spacing_unit":"","ocean_menu_link_color":"","ocean_menu_link_color_hover":"","ocean_menu_link_color_active":"","ocean_menu_link_background":"","ocean_menu_link_hover_background":"","ocean_menu_link_active_background":"","ocean_menu_social_links_bg":"","ocean_menu_social_hover_links_bg":"","ocean_menu_social_links_color":"","ocean_menu_social_hover_links_color":"","ocean_disable_title":"default","ocean_disable_heading":"default","ocean_post_title":"","ocean_post_subheading":"","ocean_post_title_style":"","ocean_post_title_background_color":"","ocean_post_title_background":0,"ocean_post_title_bg_image_position":"","ocean_post_title_bg_image_attachment":"","ocean_post_title_bg_image_repeat":"","ocean_post_title_bg_image_size":"","ocean_post_title_height":0,"ocean_post_title_bg_overlay":0.5,"ocean_post_title_bg_overlay_color":"","ocean_disable_breadcrumbs":"default","ocean_breadcrumbs_color":"","ocean_breadcrumbs_separator_color":"","ocean_breadcrumbs_links_color":"","ocean_breadcrumbs_links_hover_color":"","ocean_display_footer_widgets":"default","ocean_display_footer_bottom":"default","ocean_custom_footer_template":"0","_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"ocean_post_oembed":"","ocean_post_self_hosted_media":"","ocean_post_video_embed":"","ocean_link_format":"","ocean_link_format_target":"self","ocean_quote_format":"","ocean_quote_format_link":"post","ocean_gallery_link_images":"off","ocean_gallery_id":[],"footnotes":"","jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[48,62],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-4092","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-archives","category-issue-13","entry","has-media"],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/farefwd.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/09\/CW-Gallery-005.jpg?fit=765%2C581&ssl=1","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/farefwd.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4092","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/farefwd.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/farefwd.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/farefwd.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/farefwd.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=4092"}],"version-history":[{"count":16,"href":"https:\/\/farefwd.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4092\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":4440,"href":"https:\/\/farefwd.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4092\/revisions\/4440"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/farefwd.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/4093"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href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