Biography of William Matthews
an American poet and essayist.
Raised in Cincinnati, Ohio, Matthews earned a bachelor's degree from Yale University, and a master's from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.
In addition to serving as a Writer-in-Residence at Boston's Emerson College, Matthews held various academic positions at institutions including Cornell University, the University of Washington (Seattle), the University of Colorado at Boulder, and the University of Iowa. He served as president of Associated Writing Programs and of the Poetry Society of America. At the time of his death he was a professor of English and director of the creative writing program at City College of New York A reading series has been named for him at City College of New York. His son is Sebastian Matthews.
This page is based on the copyrighted Wikipedia William Matthews; it is used under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. You may redistribute it, verbatim or modified, providing that you comply with the terms of the CC-BY-SA.
William Matthews Poems
A Poetry Reading At West Point
I read to the entire plebe class, in two batches. Twice the hall filled with bodies dressed alike, each toting a copy of my book. What would my
"First, do no harm," the Hippocratic Oath begins, but before she might enjoy such balm, the docs had to harm her tumor. It was large, rare, and so anomalous
I like divorce. I love to compose letters of resignation; now and then I send one in and leave in a lemon- hued Huff or a Snit with four on the floor.
A Happy Childhood
My mother stands at the screen door, laughing. “Out out damn Spot,” she commands our silly dog. I wonder what this means. I rise into adult air
Homer's Seeing-Eye Dog
Most of the time he worked, a sort of sleep with a purpose, so far as I could tell. How he got from the dark of sleep to the dark of waking up I'll never know;
What did I think, a storm clutching a clarinet and boarding a downtown bus, headed for lessons? I had pieces to learn by heart, but at twelve
A Life Of Crime
Frail friends, I love you all! Maybe that's the trouble, storm in the eye of a storm. Everyone wants too much.
Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife He would have written sonnets all his life? DON JUAN, III, 63-4
Mingus At The Showplace
I was miserable, of course, for I was seventeen and so I swung into action and wrote a poem and it was miserable, for that was how I thought
Poem (The Lump Of Coal My Parents Teased...
The lump of coal my parents teased I'd find in my Christmas stocking turned out each year to be an orange, for I was their sunshine.
On The Porch At The Frost Place, Francon...
So here the great man stood, fermenting malice and poems we have to be nearly as fierce against ourselves as he
A Roadside Near Ithaca
Here we picked wild strawberries, though in my memory we're neither here nor missing. Or I'd scuff out by myself at dusk, proud
the only parts of the body the same size at birth as they'll always be. 'That's why all babies are beautiful,' Thurber used to say as he grew
Foul Shots: A Clinic
Already this description is perilously abstract: the ball and basket are round, the nailhead
Mingus At The Showplace
I was miserable, of course, for I was seventeen
and so I swung into action and wrote a poem
and it was miserable, for that was how I thought
poetry worked: you digested experience shat
literature. It was 1960 at The Showplace, long since
defunct, on West 4th st., and I sat at the bar,