George David Clark

George David Clark, born and raised in the South, is an associate professor at Washington & Jefferson College in Pennsylvania. He is also editor-in-chief at 32 Poems. His first poetry collection Reveille (Arkansas, 2015) won the Miller Williams Poetry Prize, and his latest collection is Newly Not Eternal (LSU, 2024). I had the privilege of meeting him in Grand Rapids, Michigan, where he was reading his poetry at an event with James Matthew Wilson, and John Poch.

His poetry is a musical experience, playing with rhythm, rhyme, alliteration, and onomatopoeia — sometimes cascading down the page in unexpected ways, that are more than mere measure. They are often fun to read, yet also engage with matters of significance — both relationally and spiritually.

The following poem originally appeared in The Hopkins Review. And is from Newly Not Eternal.

Ultrasound: Your Picture

-------------—Henry Thomas Clark, 10/7/14

We’ve framed an ultrasound
--------of you and Peter
holding hands
--------(or almost) in the womb,
your moon-bright arms
--------crossed in a black balloon
with week, and weights,
--------and heights in millimeters
penciled on the side.
--------We say it’s good
that he, at least, was with you
--------when you died,
that unlike us
--------you’ll never know the why
of being lonely
--------or what naked falsehood
feels like in one’s mind.
--------You see, it’s false

to say your death
--------was somehow grace. It’s grace
that spared Cain’s life
--------and later gave Eve other
sons, despite creation’s
--------wastes and faults.
I wish you could have known
--------love’s aftertastes.
I wish you’d had a chance
--------to hate your brother.

Posted with permission of the poet.

Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the author of six poetry collections including Angelicus (2021, Poiema/Cascade), plus three anthologies — available through Wipf & Stock. His new book The Role of the Moon, inspired by the Metaphysical Poets, is now available from Paraclete Press.