I came to this volume of work by Nick Virgilio virtually cold; I'd heard of him but had only read a poem or two here and there.
The book overwhelmed me with its beauty, its power, and its sadness.
First and foremost, this is not simply a retrospect of haiku by a master English language practitioner of the art. There is an insightful introduction and afterward, by Raffael de Gruttola and Kathleen O'Toole respectively, as well as an appended tribute by Michael Doyle, Nick's parish priest. Also, there are three essays by Virgilio and, most wonderfully, the transcript of a radio interview in which the poet comes truly alive on the page.
The cumulative effect of the volume reminded me of books by Makoto Ueda on Basho and Issa: insightful, scholarly, and biographical. We are given a full, three dimensional picture of the artist and, in this case, as in the cases of Basho and Issa, this expands our understanding of the work rather than detracts from it.
There is, above all, a deep sadness that permeates Virgilio's haiku, yet, miraculously, no negativity. His attentiveness to detail displays an over powering love, a love of life, and these two seeming opposites coalesce in a feeling akin to the Eastern concept of sabi.
Virgilio is an English language haiku poet imbuded in the spirit of the East, the spirit of haiku.
His life, ultimately, was his work, as is true of any great haiku poet. Most well-known is the profound impact of his brother's death in the Vietnam War on his life and poems. The details are hardly necessary to recount.
The work speaks for itself. The following is just the tip of the iceberg. Without hesitation, I must say: get this book. And, since this is a Small Press Friday, why not get it directly from Turtle Light Books.
in the empty church
at nightfall, a lone firefly
deepens the silence
Memorial Day:
staring at the grassy plot
set aside for me
telegram in hand,
the shadow of the marine
darkens our screen door
a skylark's song
and a billowing cloud
fills my emptiness
among the rows and rows
of white crosses
patches of young grass
my father and I
quarreling face to face
exchanging breath
filling the silence
on the long distance telephone
the things unsaid
my father and I
with no footprints to follow
step into deep snow
New Year's Eve:
pay phone receiver
dangling
Be sure to check out The Nick Virgilio Poetry Project (tip of the hat to friend Joy McCall), hosted by Rutgers University.
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Photo by Drew Leavy
a battle royal
with radishes...
children
translated by David G. Lanoue
best,
Don
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