Born in Norfolk, Virginia, in 1924, John Haines studied at the National Art School, the American University, and the Hans Hoffmann School of Fine Art. The author of more than ten collections of poetry, his recent works include At the End of This Summer: Poems 1948-1954 (Copper Canyon Press, 1997); The Owl in the Mask of the Dreamer (1993); and New Poems 1980-88 (1990), for which he received both the Lenore Marshall Poetry Prize and the Western States Book Award.
He has also published a book of essays entitled Fables and Distances: New and Selected Essays (1996), and a memoir, The Stars, the Snow, the Fire: Twenty-five Years in the Northern Wilderness (1989).
Haines spent more than twenty years homesteading in Alaska, and has taught at Ohio University, George Washington University, and the University of Cincinnati. Named a Fellow by The Academy of American Poets in 1997, his other honours include the Alaska Governor's Award for Excellence in the Arts, two Guggenheim Fellowships, an Amy Lowell Travelling Fellowship, a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship, and a Lifetime Achievement Award from the Library of Congress. John Haines lives in Helena, Montana. [source]
John Haines' poetry is brilliant. His imagination is informed by dark, severe nights on the Alaskan tundra. A place that is much different than just an abstract mental darkness, like modern computer dwelling folk might imagine, like a literary device standing for nothingness, which I think only exists in our heads. It was shocking and beautiful and completely alluring to me that there is a certain magical somethingness about the winter nights that Haines writes about (that feels so lived in!), something that walks and fly's in the darkness, something that meets us nightly in our sleep, something that sparkles in the sky, something that we may only truly approach in death.
It is so hard to find good poetry that I rarely try. It can be incomprehensible twaddle or the most inspiring thing you've ever read--or worse, something crass or mediocrity. I thank whatever chance brought me to John Haines. The first poem I fell in live with was the Girl Who Buried Snakes in a Jar, and the second was In the Sleep of Reason, both of which you can find on Poetry.org. This collection is a bonanza of the most beautiful poetry I've ever read. Haines truly mastered the art of almost-storytelling, and I find it a great irony that I discovered my favorite poet the year he died.
I am stunned by these poems. Haines builds poems like igloos, every word fits just right, together sculpted into a taut and solid structure to crawl inside of, a frozen haven from the bitter cold around us.
I read very little poetry. After reading some of the American classics and developing a great dislike for Whitman, Haines is really the only other poet who I read these days.