Born on this day November 4, 1936, C. K. Williams was a towering figure in American literature. As a poet, he was renowned for his long, narrative style that captured the complexities of human emotions and experiences. His poems were not just mere verses; they were profound narratives that dealt with social issues, personal experiences, and the human condition.
One of his most acclaimed works, Flesh and Blood, won the National Book Critics Circle Award in 1987, exemplifying his ability to weave intricate narratives into his poems. This work was a testament to Williams’s exceptional storytelling abilities, where he used his distinct narrative style to explore familial relationships, love, loss, and mortality. The theme of ‘flesh and blood’ served as a metaphor for the tangible and intangible aspects of life, highlighting Williams’s knack for using everyday experiences as a medium to express profound philosophical insights.
Williams’s influence extends beyond his National Book Award-winning work. He was also a recipient of the prestigious Pulitzer Prize for poetry for his collection Repair in 2000. This accolade further underscored his significance in American literature and cemented his reputation as one of the most influential poets of his generation. The Pulitzer committee lauded his work for its elegantly expressed poetic lines that bared the depths of human emotions.
The versatility and influence of C. K. Williams are undeniable. His narrative style has been influential and his works resonating with many readers across generations. His ability to transform ordinary experiences into powerful poetic narratives earned him prestigious awards, including the National Book Award and the Pulitzer Prize. The legacy of C.K. Williams continues to inspire contemporary poets, reaffirming his place as one of the most versatile and influential figures in American literature.
Light
Another drought morning after a too brief dawn downpour,
unaccountable silvery glitterings on the leaves of the withering maples—
I think of a troop of the blissful blessed approaching Dante,
“a hundred spheres shining,” he rhapsodizes, “the purest pearls…”
then of the frightening brilliants myriad gleam in my lamp
of the eyes of the vast swarm of bats I found once in a cave,
a chamber whose walls seethed with a spaceless carpet of creatures,
their cacophonous, keen, insistent, incessant squeakings and squealings
churning the warm, rank, cloying air; of how one,
perfectly still among all the fitfully twitching others,
was looking straight at me, gazing solemnly, thoughtfully up
from beneath the intricate furl of its leathery wings
as though it couldn’t believe I was there, or were trying to place me,
to situate me in the gnarl we’d evolved from, and now,
the trees still heartrendingly asparkle, Dante again,
this time the way he’ll refer to a figure he meets as “the life of…”
not the soul, or person, the life, and once more the bat, and I,
our lives in that moment together, our lives, our lives,
his with no vision of celestial splendor, no poem,
mine with no flight, no unblundering dash through the dark,
his without realizing it would, so soon, no longer exist,
mine having to know for us both that everything ends,
world, after-world, even their memory, steamed away
like the film of uncertain vapor of the last of the luscious rain.
-C. K. Williams
Curated by Jennifer
