Biography of Dan Chiasson
Dan Chiasson (born 1971, in Burlington, Vermont) is an American poet and critic. His name is pronounced "chase-in."
He graduated summa cum laude from Amherst College (1993), and Harvard University, with a Ph.D in English.
He is currently an associate professor at Wellesley College. He lives in Wellesley, Massachusetts.
He is the poetry critic for The New Yorker, as well as a regular contributor to The New York Review of Books. He is advisory editor of the Paris Review.His poems have been translated into German by Jan Wagner, the selected poems have been published as "Naturgeschichte" at luxbooks, a publishing house focused on American poetry in bilingual editions.
He is on the editorial board of the literary magazine The Common, based at Amherst College.
Honors and awards:
2008 Guggenheim Fellowship for poetry
2004 Whiting Writers' Award
Dan Chiasson Poems
Snow up to our waists and coming down still. There was a field here once, when we began.
Everything scatters as the night wears on: but you, don't scatter, will you?
How to explain my heroic courtesy? I feel that my body was inflated by a mischievous boy.
Reality isn't one point in space. It isn't one moment in time—
Sound, 2 A.M.
A minute ago I was a child coughing: having had too much of everything today, except for air.
Whitman wrote this, before he started writing poetry. He was a journalist for years, you know;
It is impossible for me to remember the cozy room I slept in as a child.
I lack the rigor of a lightning bolt, the weight of an anchor. I am
The tendons flattened and the knot untied. You could do anything, then, with your hand;
All day I waited to be blown; then someone cut me down.
Find some other reason to sway, forest; old people get bent over
It is impossible for me to remember
the cozy room I slept in as a child.
Somebody made my bed up to be paradise.
It was hard for me, a hard night, when I entered art.
The tendons in my wrist are visible.
What will I do now I have made this fist?
To loosen it feels weird, anticlimactic—
a misuse, a misunderstanding, of fists.