Wim's poetry

My poems have appeared in many publications, including Heron Tree, The Pangolin Review, The Opiate, Dissenting Voice, Tuck Magazine, Vita Brevis, The Esthetic Apostle, Dream Noir, Visitant, Open Arts Forum, and SOL: English Writing in Mexico. My first collection of poetry, I.O.U., is scheduled for publication in December 2020 by Adelaide Books.

Advance praise for Wim’s upcoming book:

Wim Coleman’s poetry pulls us into his unique vision, a world of light and dark, giddy with magic and somber with truth—a world of mystery, relatable self-reflection, and a depth of feeling that’s all-too-human. 
—Jim Uhls, screenwriter, Fight Club and Jumper

Wim Coleman’s new book of prophetic incantations and reflections will take you whirling, drawing from great periods and great literature throughout history and winding you up with new insights into American reality today. You will be surprised and entertained.
—Lucina Kathmann, Vice President Emerita, PEN International

Whether exquisitely detailing the intricate dismantling of a bedroom dresser by his precocious adopted daughter or chastising the criminal assault of corrupt worldly powers on the integrity of our human experiment, the poetry of Wim Coleman always uncovers the astonishing wonder at the heart of all things human.
—Nicholas Patricca, playwright, Professor Emeritus at Loyola University Chicago

To read the poetry of Wim Coleman is to venture into an intimate realm of humor, whimsy, intelligent flights of fancy, and cautionary tales—all told in a uniquely singular voice. I.O.U. is at once an immersive and expansive work by a master poet at the top of his game.
—Rollin Jewett, award-winning playwright, poet, songwriter, singer, actor

About Wim’s poetry

One of the most common bits of advice a poet can get (or give) is “Find your own voice.” That’s not what I do. My creative roots are in theatre, and I use my training as an actor and a playwright to try to create compelling and entertaining voices and characters. My poems tell stories. I also think that one of the key ingredients of a good poem is surprise. I try to bring surprise to my poems—surprise, thought, passion, and sometimes laughter.

But what is poetry? Adrienne Rich once wrote, “A language is a map of our failures.” Poetry happens when words set us free from language. It is a liberation from unwitting collective prisons of thought and habit, for language binds us in more ways than we know. Fresh images, metaphors, and stories bring new vitality to our world of words and to our lives.

I also agree with the late Israeli poet Yehuda Amichai that all poetry is political:

This is because real poems deal with a human response to reality, and politics is part of reality, history in the making. Even if a poet writes about sitting in a glass house drinking tea, it reflects politics.

In these days when the forces of oligarchy and autocracy threaten to consume America and much of the world, poetry keeps us alive to the value of freedom and human decency.

Every poem is an act of resistance.

Samples of Wim’s poetry

The Minstrel Savior

Video of Wim reading “The Minstrel Savior”:

If I remember right,
Jesus arrived at the trailer where we lived in Glenville
during the summer when Papaw Henry
poured gasoline all around the elm tree stump
and incinerated the Japanese beetles.

He could do anything, that man.

But Papaw wasn’t around
when Jesus showed up. I recognized
him at once as he emerged like a daddy longlegs
from his Volkswagen bug stuffed full of books.

“Jesus is here,” I said to Mom.

I knew because I’d seen him
gleaming in glass and sunlight at church—
the autumnal tint of his beard and long wavy hair
and his eyes as blue as the plastic cup
I used to brush my teeth mornings and nights,
and yet not nursery-hued
like funny pages or Sunday School booklets
filled with pictures of him and Moses,
but in dingy linen and gray corduroy,
with a face cavernous and tired
and veins of silver through his hair.

Mom offered him coffee—
yes, with cream and sugar please,
and my little brother was in diapers
and had scant knowledge of theology
so he wasn’t especially intrigued,
but like Thomas in a spasm of doubt
I asked him, “Are you Jesus?”
and he and Mom laughed, “You can call me Mark,”
and I thought maybe I could call him Jesus
after we’d spent more time together.

Out of his bag he took a shallow box
lopped sidelong like one of those slate markers
on the battle graves up on Tank Hill,
but when he touched its strings
with those infinite fingernails of his,
I knew it was a harp like I’d heard
the angels playing in the clouds.
He cuddled its cheek against his own
and set his arms caressing all around it
the way I’d always hoped and wanted to be touched
and sang in rhyme, and Mom sang too,
the vanishing parables of those hills.

(First published in Open Arts Forum, January 10, 2020)


Amid the Ashes of the House of Commons

London, May 1941

Video of Wim reading “Amid the Ashes of the House of Commons”:

And Churchill wept as he saw his beloved House in ruins.
—Vernon Bartlett

Deliverance wears thus a mocking face,
the last bomb of the last raid
stabbing sharp and deep into our moral belly.
How rapidly may men, unteachable from infancy to tomb,
match long eroding centuries in ruin!
As England sighs reprieve and licks her wounds,
you creep amid the rubble toward the Speaker’s Chair
now pulverized beneath smoking debris,
inhaling the mortal residue of the Hun’s contempt
for norm and decency and truth and law.

I am a House of Commons man.

Here you first tested your youthful tongue and timbre,
your heavy but not very mobile guns,
urging a principled peace in the war against the Boer.
Heckled and prodded you were by riotous voices
as cacophonous as sirens and bomb blasts,
the warring factions kept from each other’s throats
solely by an invisible barrier of honor,
that inviolable corridor measured across by two swords plus one inch.
This never was meant to be a place of peace.

We shape our buildings, and afterwards our buildings shape us.

Upon your cheeks, twin tears cut rivers through the caking dust.
How shall you rebuild?
Listen as the rivers whisper their reply …

Words are the only things that last forever.

The law has ever carved
its own path through the dust of chaos;
men must forever stand aside in humbled awe
and follow its chosen course.
Change nothing, rebuild it as you left and lost it,
so that rivers of words may find their way again
amid moldering wonders of stone, mortar, and timber,
vainglorious and doomed.

I am a House of Commons man.

The carnivorous sheep of the Reich
are done with grazing the bitter weeds of England;
the herd skulks its way toward fatal pastures of the East.
Let Britain prevail;
let the council of Europe join familial hands
and America bring forth her kindred vengeance;
let the sun set forever on the tyrant and his monstrous evil;
let him taste the bile of his transgression;
let presently burst from these coals the cleansing and devouring flame.
The Blitz has ended.
Let the True War begin.

(Appeared in Dissident Voice, January 20, 2019.)


America in 2019

(after Shelley’s “England in 1819”)

A demagogic moron mad with power;
his brood snapping their tongues at golden flies
with reptile grins of brazed entitlement;
the people’s servants rioting in rooms
reserved for dire and solemn undertakings,
crazed to thwart the law’s unerring hand;
children orphaned at the gates of hope,
lives heedlessly and gleefully destroyed;
trusted, trusting comrades in trust betrayed,
left to the mercy of their foes and ours;
blind Justice crawling on her hands and knees
searching for the scales some shyster stole—
are dung from which a mutant flower might grow,
of shapes and colors hitherto unknown.

(Appeared in Open Arts Forum: Poetry 2019.)


Tarot Trump XXI: The World

Up here so high that you and I
can peer into the secret deep concavity of the earth
and no one can hear us speak

I dare to tell you …

… that love is here
here tangled amid these raptures of ice
or else it is nowhere …

(click here to read more)


Let the pebble learn from the wave
the art of its own shaping.

Let the wave be freed
of its bondage to the tide.…

(click here to read more)

American Recessional

The City on the Hill is turning out its lights
and closing up for a long, long night.
Heroes are cast out of their Valhalla;
the halls ring with a clamor of cowards.…

(click here to read more)

Story Catcher

The thrall of Scheherazade
is a hoop shaped of bitterest willow
stretched taut with sheep-gut webbing
that buoys a dozen or so ripe dangling gemstones
graced with dancing peacock feathers.…

(click here to read more)

Jimi Hendrix plays “The Star-Spangled Banner” at Max Yasgur’s dairy farm on August 18, 1969

You stood in the morning on
that high square scaffold wet
with yesterday’s rainwater braving
execution by tangled power cables and
towering half-ton speakers and
2000 amp transformers
remembering your parachute drops
in the 101st Airborne.…

(click here to read more)


Jade tree with big knuckles
and thick polished leaves

go tell the California ivy I can’t
pay back the sadness I borrowed

until the L.A. River flows
as ample and hubristic as the Nile …

(click here to read more)