The Gift of William J. Harris

When I am trying to demonstrate specific poetic techniques to students—techniques that strike a unique emotional chord, are uncanny and surreal, or subtly display cognitive dissonance—no other poet’s work achieves such effects more precisely than that of William J. Harris. There are countless brilliant poets whom I also teach consistently but would not consider as essential. “You Can’t Write a One-Line Poem, Mister,” “My Friend, Wendell Berry,” “For Bill Hawkins, a Black Militant,” “I’m No Martian,” “On Wearing Ears,” “Haiku,” “Practical Concerns”—these poems are all classics of English poetry in my book. They have philosophical depth. They leave you musing at the end. No paraphrase could possibly be provided. These missives could only be poems, nothing else.

I first came to know Harris as a poet and only later came to appreciate his achievements and influence as an esteemed scholar and teacher. I had seen his poems occasionally in journals and anthologies of modern and contemporary African American poetry in the eighties (of which there were relatively few) and recognized a unique and intriguing voice that felt distinct from the dominant trends of the moment. I began to read his poetry in a serious and focused way in the late nineties when Aldon Lynn Nielsen and I set out to prepare a two-volume anthology set of formally innovative Black poetry from the end of WWII to the present (Every Goodbye Ain’t Gone was published in 2006 and What I Say was published in 2015, both from University of Alabama Press). On the surface, Harris’s poetry may look rather conventional—simple, even—compared to some of the visual, auditory, or semantic pyrotechnics of other key figures in these volumes, such as Bob Kaufman, Russell Atkins, Julie Ezelle Patton, N.H. Pritchard, and De Leon Harrison. But it’s that sly appearance of simplicity that is so startling and original. I find myself, breathlessly, somewhere I never saw coming. The indirection and subtlety have a meditative function at times: there are pauses, silences, indirection, and steps toward deeper contemplation after the poem has ended. Even poems with ostensibly witty conceits, that make me laugh outright at their ingenuity, are rueful rather than comical. Above all, Harris’s poems are life-embracing, which I hope doesn’t sound corny or reductive. Life’s challenges are there (passing time, loss, ineluctable changes), but the poet finds bright and humane meanings. I’ve recognized that I always feel better after reading a poem by Harris.

For the past fifteen years, Harris has regularly sent me sheafs of his new poems for responses. I believe I have read every poem he’s ever written, both published and unpublished, and his writing is core to my heart. I think his expert scholarship on Baraka has occluded fuller recognition of Harris’s own poetry, but he has worked on his poetry steadily and assiduously, sometimes wondering if his work was any good or if he should even bother. That’s his humility, which radiates throughout his poetry and poetics. I would name him among my favorite—and most surprising—poets, with the touch of a rural/urbane kick of a Lorine Niedecker. The poems lure us in with such seeming straightforwardness because there’s a kind of companionate or even friendly quality. His speakers seem to be observational, strolling, but I often find he’s about ten paces ahead on a totally different path than the one I thought I was following. I read his poems for the spirit of youth carried over decades of life. This folio affirms the exceptional level of maturity and mastery achieved over the longevity of a poetic career. It is a gift to meet Harris here on the page.