I have been reading and enjoying Christian Wiman's Ambition and Survival, picked up at the West Chester Poetry Conference in June and signed by himself . . . What did I say to him? Nothing much. What was I to him but another blurred face passing?
But when I woke at 4:00 a.m., I wandered here and there and settled on this Wiman essay. It has many figures and moments I recognize and respond to; it captures something of Traherne's visionary infant sight; it has facets, worth lifting into lamplight, here in the hours of dark. And so in the end, I commune with him, and though insomniac and weary, I am tossed by his joyful, painful instants of life.
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Alas, I must once again remind large numbers of Chinese salesmen and other worldwide peddlers that if they fall into the Gulf of Spam, they will be eaten by roaming Balrogs. The rest of you, lovers of grace, poetry, and horses (nod to Yeats--you do not have to be fond of horses), feel free to leave fascinating missives and curious arguments.