Poets

Search more than 3,000 biographies of contemporary and classic poets.

Andrew Zawacki

Andrew Zawacki is the author of four collections of poetry, most recently Videotape (Counterpath Press, 2013). His other books include Petals of Zero Petals of One (Talisman House, 2009), Anabranch (Wesleyan, 2004), By Reason of Breakings (Georgia, 2002), and his fifth collection, Unsun : f/11 is forthcoming from Coach House Books in 2019. He was a Howard Foundation Fellow in Poetry from 2015-2016 at Brown University, and currently is an Associate Professor of English at the University of Georgia.

By This Poet

2

Credo


You say wind is only wind
& carries nothing nervous
in its teeth.
        I do not believe it.

I have seen leaves desist
                        from moving
although the branches
                      move, & I
believe a cyclone has secrets
the weather is ignorant of.
                           I believe
in the violence of not knowing.

I've seen a river lose its course
& join itself again,
                  watched it court
a stream & coax the stream
into its current,

              & I have seen
rivers, not unlike
                 you, that failed to find
their way back.

                    I believe the rapport
between water & sand, the advent
from mirror to face.

                   I believe in rain
to cover what mourns,
                     in hail that revives
& sleet that erodes, believe
whatever falls
             is a figure of rain

& now I believe in torrents that take
everything down with them.

The sky calls it quits,
                        or so I believe,
when air, or earth, or air
has had enough.

               I believe in disquiet,
the pressure it plies, believe a cloud
to govern the limits of night.

                          I say I,
but little is left to say it, much less
mean it--
           & yet I do.

                        Let there be
no mistake:
        I do not believe
things are reborn in fire.
They're consumed by fire

& the fire has a life of its own.

Zerogarden

Within the horizon of gabardine
hills, raku-
fired as if forged in the kiln
of georgic Georgia mid-
July, the trees halloo Tallulah
Gorge, velarium & an event in
themselves, gouged by blunt per

-sephones of crimson & of green
—gren
-ache, wasabi, hen
-na, Fanta, ferric, gren
-adine—

& a few miles south
off 328, in Tugaloo State Park,
a beach that shouldn't
be there         is, the lake now
8 feet low, & fishing lures
& sinkers & bobbers are
snagged on roots of the
oak've eroded, & mica
speckling reddish clay where
one can walk beneath an
orphaned dock
are a trillion mini
mirrors among the mullions
composing, composting the bank,
to show the singular, macular
sun what it looks like—severally