This collection was curated by MA student Rebecca Grubb in May 2016.
I chose these poems after perusing the thousands of poems in Nick Virgilio’s archive, the papers yellowed and brittle with age, ink and pencil smeared across broken pieces of haikus in the making. I still haven’t seen it all—it’s still not done.
Virgilio, at first glance, does not seem to write a lot about himself. He brilliantly combines traditional, nature-oriented haiku with senryu, or haikus revolving around humanity, urban life, with his own style and voice. He writes about what he sees, the city, and narratives of people who are often overlooked. He hones in on them and catches the details that are not pretty or expected, but always authentic. Virgilio does not often share the details, the frozen snapshots of his life in his poems, so when he does, it captures the reader’s attention. Virgilio will write about his brother, his family, even ex-lovers. Sometimes he refers to himself in first-person, or in third person, as if he is trying to see himself from a distance, only as “the poet” rather than “I”. Of course, there is no telling that all of the poems that seem to indicate himself are autobiographical. I am not suggesting that. Any artist can creatively blend imagination with real life, or exaggerate details, or manipulate what the reader focuses on. This is not lying—it is only craft.
I chose Virgilio’s poems that seemed to be talking about himself. Weather in first person or talking about “the poet”, and his brushings with “the scarecrow” figure, Virgilio showcases his eye for detail, his sensitive heart, and his sense of humor. These poems can help us glimpse into the mystery of his life, something private, but eternal now that his works have finally been organized and digitized. Perhaps in these poems, we can see how Virgilio saw himself, or how he thinks other people saw him. In a way, by reading his works, I felt like I was conversing with Virgilio, trying to listen long and hard enough to hear what he meant, and to have the discretion to know how much I can interpret. Now, we can continue talking to Virgilio as his works continue to be completely digitized for future scholarly pursuits.
I hope you enjoy discovering his works as much as I have!
–Rebecca
Autumn twilight:
The banker asks the poet
How he makes a living.
Autumn twilight:
The banker asks the poet,
“But how do you live…?”
Autumn twilight:
The banker asks the poet,
“But how do you live…?”
Autumn twilight…
Someone’s misfortune flies in my face:
A twenty dollar bill!
The cicada shrill
in the withered linden:
my summer is cerebral.
Cicada shrill
from the withered linden’s crown:
my summer is cerebral.
Cicada shrill
from the withered linden’s crown:
my summer is cerebral.
A cicada shrills
from the withered linden’s crown:
my summer is cerebral.
Slipping through
the telephone…
she falls into my arms.
Epitaph, make me laugh:
carve a smile upon my face
while I lie in the coffin
The puddle reflects
my anguished face
an old love passes by
In the puddle –
My anguished face looks up at me –
An old love passes by .
The puddle –
my anguished face looks back at me –
an old love passes by.
The perched scarecrow
drops some inspiration
on the old bald poet.
While the teacher
counts the syllables
the poet slips away.
Twilight rain:
a mosquito dips his pen
in the poet’s pore.
The dead poet clutching…
his collected works –
out of the binding, a silverfish.
The poet’s pen plops:
writing in the ripples:
riddles
The poet’s pen plops…
written in the ripples:
riddle of the river.
The blind poet…
tapping code to a woodpecker,
capping his song.
A spring morning:
a woodpecker pecking rhythm
to the poet’s son
This blind poet…
feeling the character of spring:
the healing wind.
The blind poet…
Hearing the wind: touching the sand:
Smelling-tasting the sea.
This blind poet…
Feeling the character of spring:
Inspiring the wind.
This blind poet…
Feeling the character of the sea:
Riding waves.
This blind poet…
Feeling the character of the sea:
Riding the waves.
This blind poet…
Feling the character of summer:
Hearing the cicada
This blind poet…
Feeling the character of summer:
The cicada’s song
This blind poet…
Feeling the character of autumn:
The rustling leaves.
This blind poet…
Feeling the character of mountains:
Inspiring air.
This blind poet…
Feeling the character of spring:
Touching the wind.
This blind poet…
Touching the sand:
Tasting the sea.
This blind poet…
Hearing the wind, touching the sand,
And tasting the sea
This blind poet…
Swallowing the wind
And tasting the sea
This blind poet…
Hearing the wind: touching the sand:
Tasting the sea.
The blind poet…
Feeling the character of summer:
A humming gnat
This blind poet…
Feeling the character of spring:
The wet wind.