Farragoblog

Cross-posted from my personal blog, so apologies if it pops up in your LJ feed or blog reader twice.
-Aaron

In my last year as an undergrad I picked up a copy of Craig Arnold's Shells. The book had just won the Yale Younger Poet's Prize. Allegedly a friend of mine's book trailed just behind it in the judging, so my introduction to Craig's work was a mix of good-natured cussing and wonder at some really, really nice writing.

Not long after moving to Denton, I heard Craig would be doing an afternoon reading at UT-Arlington, so I drove down. I was struck immediately by the energy of his reading. Having split time between the "academic" as well as the slam scene, Craig had all his poems memorized, and they were performed with an almost choreographed series of gestures and breath. Later, he'd say that while some look on memorizing one's own poems as a bit cocky, he was more a believer in the oral tradition, that the poem should work on paper, too, but should also be able to live and work audibly. We all went to lunch after the reading, and I joked about his beating out my friend for the Yale Prize. Later that night, he signed my book saying "To Aaron, who will hopefully never be runner-up for anything. See you soon in print!"

He had set up a whirlwind reading tour, driving cross country and reading wherever he could. The Arlington reading was the first of three he had scheduled that day and the next. Through a mutual friend I ended up being the driver for the evening, so after lunch and some conversation we drove to Dallas for another reading that night, then back to Arlington for the night. When we dropped him off where he was staying, we helped him to the door with his things. I extended my hand, which he took, then pulled toward him as he gave me a quick hug and said "Thank you." I was touched at such warm and genuine thanks for as simple a task as playing taxi-driver, but even only having spent a day with the guy, it made sense. He was energetic and spontaneous while warm and genuine. He was also the first book-having poet I'd met who really seemed of my generation. Maybe because his book first was still fresh on the scene, maybe because then he was only about as old as I am now. For that, he's always been a poet I've recommended to friends who tell me they're scared of poetry. You can't be scared of Craig, I'd say. He pulls you in with such easy talk, but the music is solid, as are the observations.

For those who haven't been following it, or haven't heard, Craig disappeared on the 26th on a small Japanese island while researching volcanoes for a new book. Teams have been looking for him, but yesterday the news came that they'd followed his tracks to a steep cliff, where they believe he fell after injuring his leg. While they have yet to recover him, the fall isn't the kind a person would survive.

Watching the comments coming in on the Find Craig Arnold page, it's clear that Craig made an impression on almost everyone who met him. I still talk about that day in Arlington years back--was just talking about it a day or so before I found out he was missing, in fact. It's always sad when an artist passes to think of the work that's lost. Craig's volcano blog, The Volcano Pilgrim, is full of the same vigor and calm that make his poems great, and give a small sense of the work he was doing until the end. But with Craig, it's even more apparent that the loss is not only to the world of poetry, but to all the students, colleagues, friends, and random folks he left and who will never have the chance to meet him.

I had typed up and was going to post his poem "Amateur" here. If not the best poem in Shells, it's always been one of my favorites just for a move he makes at the end. This is getting long enough, though, so I'll instead copy the poem I've seen a few other folks post, an elegy of his own. I'm sure there are many elegies for Craig to come, and they will come in time. For now, though, I think he's said it best himself.

My love to all who knew him, either well or briefly.

UBI SUNT . . . ?

You’re dead, poet who could smooth
the language like a sheet over
the body of a dying lover,
who made me realize how soothe

meant show the truth. That was the weight
you balanced lightly on your tongue.
Too young, too crude, or too high-​strung,
I under­stand at last, too late

to tell you, how much you’ve impressed
on me, my brain’s wet clay––your thumb
has ridged and whorled, your fin­gers drum
tight little rhythms still. A guest

in the House of Poetry, I slipped
downstairs at night to raid the fridge
and won the unearned privilege
of watching you, with a manuscript,

thin rows of syllables and strip
the bottom leaves of raw green shoots
to graft onto the black roots
of words––there, one firm fingertip

teases the gold leaf to lie still
along the bowed branch and the stem
of the first letter. Here’s a gem
set in the ink-​trussed windowsill:

a flower, a Greek name, a blue
willowware cup––all your hoard
is drawn out, piece by piece, and poured
into the hollow of a U.