The Wind and the Rain by Anthony Wilson
Anthony Wilson is one of those “unmet literary friends” that Carolyn Heilbrun talks about in an essay in a book I no longer own and wish I had back. I’ve read his blog for ages and he’s been such a tremendous supporter of mine. When his new book came out I ordered it immediately. The cover is perfect. The quiet, the empty vessels (which speak to an emptying a filling up, the holding/carrying of perhaps rain), the waiting, the contemplation, the soothing tones, the always present theme in a still life: memento mori. It’s very satisfying when the cover really reflects the contents, and this one does.
I read it, fittingly, in the rain. When I was finished I wanted more. I wanted the voice, and the sensibility, and the wisdom, and the good company, good words.
I’ve gone back and read passages:
“During my creativity lecture
in which not one soul
had heard of Joni Mitchell
it was raining.”
and:
“When I began writing
about rain
forty-seven poems ago
I’d no idea
it would take over
my life.
What was it my therapist said?
To move on
you need to stop boxing
things up.
I won’t say I’ve enjoyed it
but it’s been fun.”
__________________________
Did I mention the humour? A quiet intelligent wry soft humour.
I won’t share the whole poem (you’ll need to buy the book to read it), but there’s one that just settled into me so tenderly. It’s titled “After Raymond Carver” and begins, “Did I sleep that time? / You know I did. I did nothing else. Just not at night.” And then comparing his early mornings to his mother’s early mornings. “The laughter, the elegance, the smell of onions frying. / How did she do it? She never stopped.” Then the blackness that we’ll all walk into or have at some point.
Our losses, oh our losses. And then the awareness of the gravy, the pure gravy, that Raymond Carver writs about. A good poet, a generous one, as Anthony Wilson is, will send you on to other poets. So I found my way to the Carver poem which I’ve lived with for a long while, the gravy reminder.
Then I circled on over to Sarah Manguso’s 300 Arguments, on my shelf. These lines are the epigraph to TWATR:
There will come a time when people decide you’ve had enough of your grief, and they’ll try to take it away from you.
All of this a reminder that the best part of the literary life is the conversation you have, with real people, unmet friends, books, words, lines of poetry. So much gravy.
That there’s someone somewhere right now this evening trying to express a thing, an ineffable feeling, what loss is like, what grief is, what happiness is in spite of it all. That is what comforts me and fills me with hope. The expression of something that is so particular and unique to one soul reaches out through a poem and meets a reader….that gift.
And the beautiful thing about Anthony Wilson is he’s helped so many people connect to that perfect necessary poem through his blog and through his book Lifesaving Poems.
