Perhaps you've paged through a New Yorker or Atlantic and seen the poems of Christian Wiman. But chances are you've never seen him do a reading.
Last night, while a light snow whispered over the commercial bustle of Milwaukee Avenue in Chicago, Wiman shook the foundations of a small, non-descript storefront jammed with hometown supporters in a way that made you think that if Poetry were the movies, this guy would be George Clooney.
Wiman would likely cringe at the comparison. But as a globally recognized poet, he's no stranger to praise. Even more important though, like the glowing fire at the core of all Wiman's work; the comparison is true.
Here is a poet that forces you to forget the uncomfortable metal folding chair you are sitting on at this reading, abandon any thoughts that you'd rather be at home, and instead take you on a journey deeper into your own mind and the wider world as well. A journey marked by road signs that just say "Truth."
Before Wiman, my favorite poet was Charles Bukowski. Strike that. Before Wiman, the only poet I liked was Charles Bukowski. Because I always knew what he was saying. Lots of Wiman's work is like that too. You know exactly what he's saying. But when he says it, somehow you see whatever it is differently. You think differently. Perhaps deeper. Richer.
But then some of Wiman's poems travel further and you do not understand everything he is saying. So you stand at the crossroads of this journey with a choice. Do I stop? Because this is not about me. So maybe I should stop?
Or, do I press on? Do I dance into the mystery of stuff I don't know?
In the Q and A at the end of the reading, I asked Wiman, who is the editor of Poetry Magazine, if he understood every poem he published. His answer, delivered with all the grit and the gravel of his West Texas birthplace, was "Hell no. That's the fun part."
At one point in the reading, Wiman cut through the mountains of easy pot shots taken by so many at religion, all religion, by saying something to the effect of, "And if you don't believe in a power higher than yourself, then I can't help you."
So Wiman writes poems that both illuminate a truth in a new way and poems that leave you with a mystery. Lyrical songs of praise. Poems that send you spinning into other lands, going face to face with hawks, the paths that might have been, that could be, the mysteries you hope for, like the big, beautiful, liquid eyes of a kindred soul you hope is staring at your back. Just beyond your sight.
When he finishes a poem, you want to applaud. But of course that's not what people do at poetry readings. You've never actually been to a poetry reading, but even you know that.
Stringing together adjectives to describe Wiman's poetry is futile. As he whispers and roars and crawls through the dirt and sends you spinning off into directions that belong only to you---all you can do is sigh. Make sounds. Just sounds.
But as the crowd slowly filtered back out on to the sidewalks of Milwaukee Avenue and the dancing snow, one couldn't help imagine that long ago there had to have been someone who walked up behind Picasso standing at his easel, tapped him on the shoulder, and said, "Hey Pablo. Nice painting! I think you got something there." There had to have been some one who stood next to the piano as Beethoven plunked out the chords to the "Ode To Joy" and said, Wow Ludwig! That was great!"
And as the crowd flowed out onto Milwaukee Avenue last night after Christian Wiman read his work, I am certain that more than one of us was simply thinking:
"Wow. That guy is really, really good."
