As the Council for Wisconsin Writers continues introductions of the 2015 CWW contests winners who received their awards at this year’s CWW Awards Banquet, this blog post features the Edna Meudt Poetry Book Award winner, University of Wisconsin’s Program in Creative Writing co-founder, and professor of English and poetry Ronald Wallace.
Here are the judge’s comments about Wallace’s book of poems, For Dear Life:
“There’s nothing more refreshing than unquestioned skill, and that discipline and lyrical dexterity in evident in every single one of the poems in this addictive volume. These are stories firmly rooted in the world, gorgeous and revelatory, deftly framed in classic forms that bolster the narrative. No matter how wildly poetry veers into odd and experimental, powerful poems that explore and affirm life will always be the cornerstone of the canon. And Ronald Wallace is at the forefront of that vital, important work.”
Following are Wallace’s remarks about his award:
“My grateful thanks to the Council for Wisconsin Writers for honoring my work with the Edna Meudt award. I met Edna Meudt when I first came to Wisconsin back in the 1970s and was immediately impressed with her and her work—she was a real force for poetry in Wisconsin. So, to get an award in her name really means a lot.
Getting the award made me think back to the first time I submitted an entry in the contest. It was 1981, my first book manuscript had been rejected ninety-nine times over five years in evolving versions, and had been accepted by the University of Missouri Press on the one-hundredth. In those days the Council invited finalists to the award ceremony without telling them whether they’d won or not. I went to the ceremony and participated on a panel on regional poetry and then they announced that someone else won the award! I thought, wait! You mean there are other good poets in Wisconsin? And indeed there are, many many terrific Wisconsin poets, so it’s especially nice to be recognized among them.”
Frankly, I was confident about my new book, since there are at least twenty poems in it that are brilliant, that are truly immortal. And I’m not talking about my poems, which are pretty good, but about the haikus by Basho and Issa that are included in the book. Twenty of the poems are in a form I developed and am calling the haiku sonnet. That is, the last words of each line of each sonnet, read vertically top to bottom, form a haiku by one of the classic Japanese haiku masters. I’m going to read just two of those. Thanks again to the Council, and to judge Patricia Smith, for this wonderful award.”
In addition to reading these remarkable poems, it was delightful to find the haiku Wallace created from the last word of each line in each poem:
Song of Myself
after Issa
I think it’s enough just to sit and meditate, heedless
of the needs of others close to us and of
their perpetual demands that seem to sap the
strength from us. My doorway and the morning dew
are all I need to make my day, and that
is where I’ll plan to be. And if that marks
me misanthropic, if that threatens to end our
relationship, I say that is not my problem, closing
my door. Thoreau knew how to spend the day
alone with his peas and beans and ledgers, and we
can do the same. So much for the ties that bind.
“We must find our occasions in ourselves,”
said self-reliant Thoreau. And so I’m going to sing to
myself. And the birds. And you. And one or two others.
Rounded With a Sleep
after Issa
My two-year-old granddaughter won’t go to bed. Life,
she thinks, is too good to sleep away, so, suddenly, she is
loquacious. Things that had held no interest all day—a
wooden block, a plastic doll, a piece of lint, a dewdrop–
are now worthy of her full attention. Oh, yes,
she is much too busy to attend to her mother, and I
am but a small annoyance, an impediment. I am
of little consequence. Bedtime? She’s not convinced.
And so we sit back and let her regale us. Life
is something she knows a lot about. She is
talking on and on to herself, she is a stream, a
flow, an ocean of talk, and we are but a dewdrop.
It’s late. We know this is going to have to end, and
we’re going to have to convince her. And yet, and yet.