Praise

William Matthews’ erudition, which was enormous, never compromised the creations of what he called his “baroque brain.” He had a talent for inventions that could occur to no one else, strokes of original genius: ‘When I’m asleep/ my navel is like the calm bubble in a carpenter’s bevel.’ The same humor lurks in most of Matthews’ poems; no matter how serious or intelligent the writing, it is never self-important. This collection represents the work of a lifetime of one of our finest poets, one we lost at the height of his powers but who lived enough—in his fifty-five years—to present a vision of such wildness and joy that it can lighten the way for all who read these poems.

— Galway Kinnell