B H Fairchild
B.H. Fairchild is an award-winning American poet and former college professor. His most recent book is Usher, and his poems have appeared in literary journals and magazines including The New Yorker, The Paris Review, and The Southern Review.
He was born in Houston, Texas, and grew up in small towns in the oil fields of Oklahoma, Texas, and Kansas, later working through high school and college for his father, a lathe machinist. He taught English and Creative Writing at California State University, San Bernardino and Claremont Graduate University. He lives in Claremont, California with his wife, Patti, and dog, Minnie.
His third poetry collection, The ... more »
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B H Fairchild Poems
Body and Soul
Half-numb, guzzling bourbon and Coke from coffee mugs, our fathers fall in love with their own stories, nuzzling the facts but mauling the truth, and my friend's father begins to lay out with the slow ease of a blues ballad a story
Thermoregulation in Winter Moths
How do the winter moths survive when other moths die? What enables them to avoid freezing as they rest, and what makes it possible for them to fly -- and so to seek food and mates -- in the cold? Bernd Heinrich, Scientific American 1. The Himalayas
The Art of the Lathe
Leonardo imagined the first one. The next was a pole lathe with a drive cord, illustrated in Plumier's L'art de tourner en perfection. Then Ramsden, Vauconson, the great Maudslay,
"Gesang ist Dasein" A small thing done well, the steel bit paring the cut end of the collar, lifting delicate
I am tired of the heave and swell, the deep lunge in the belly, the gut's dumb show of dance and counterdance, sway and pause, the pure jig of nausea
Elliot Ray Neiderland, home from college one winter, hauling a load of Herefords from Hogtown to Guymon with a pint of Ezra Brooks and a copy of Rilke’s Duineser
Early Occult Memory Systems Of The Lower...
In his fifth year the son, deep in the backseat of his father's Ford and the mysterium of time, holds time in memory with words, night, this night, on the way to a stalled rig south
Outside my window the wasps are making their slow circle, dizzy flights of forage and return, hovering among azaleas
How in Heraclitus ideas of things, quality, and event coalesce—sun/warmth/dawn— the perceiver/perceived, too,
Dust storm, we thought, a brown swarm plugging the lungs, or a locust-cloud, but this was a collapse, a slow sinking to deeper brown, and deeper still, like the sky
Comments about B H Fairchild
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
Body and Soul
Half-numb, guzzling bourbon and Coke from coffee mugs,
our fathers fall in love with their own stories, nuzzling
the facts but mauling the truth, and my friend's father begins
to lay out with the slow ease of a blues ballad a story
about sandlot baseball in Commerce, Oklahoma decades ago.
These were men's teams, grown men, some in their thirties
and forties who worked together in zinc mines or on oil rigs,
sweat and khaki and long beers after work, steel guitar music
whanging in their ears, little white rent houses to return to
where their wives complained about ...