Wayne Miller was born in Cincinnati, Ohio, studied at Oberlin College, and after working briefly in the Manhattan District Attorney’s Office, received an MFA from the University of Houston. He is the author of a chapbook, What Night Says to the Empty Boat (Notes for a Film in Verse), and the recipient of a Ruth Lilly Fellowship from the Poetry Foundation, the Lucille Medwick Memorial Award from the Poetry Society of America, and Poetry magazine’s Bess Hokin Prize. His poems have appeared in Boulevard, Chelsea, Crazyhorse, Epoch, FIELD, The Gettysburg Review, Hotel Amerika, LIT, The Paris Review, Poetry, Quarterly West, Sycamore Review, and on Poetry Daily. He lives in Kansas City and teaches at Central Missouri State University, where he co-edits Pleiades: A Journal of New Writing.
Also by Wayne Miller
Only the Senses Sleep
Only the Senses Sleep
*Winner of the 2007 William Rockhill Nelson Award in Poetry from the Kansas City Star and The Writer's Place
*A The Kansas City Star's top 100 noteworthy book of 2006
"‘We breathe light’—this epigraph, a quotation from James Wright placed over one of the poems, is a key to Wayne Miller’s poetry. His poems are meditations on light and shadow as they enter our lives—as our lives enter them. Only The Senses Sleep is the author’s first book—amazingly mature."
"Miller describes both the visible and the invisible with elegant ease. These poems dissolve the boundaries between things and across time, so that the strangeness of the world is apparent: 'the sunlight comes as if through a phonograph needle' . . . Charting shifting perceptions of an ever-shifting world, Miller's is a welcome new voice: 'What's at issue is air', he writes, "words gripping its thick wet fur / while it fills us and leaves us.'"
"[This] gorgeously confident book is proof again of the vitality of poetry in the small presses."
"For Miller, memory is treacherous yet essential: its operation foregrounds the absences that haunt him yet preserves, imperfectly, those present moments that fall away. . . . the present tense is where the poet seeks to dwell, though he mourns––eloquently, compassionately––that only language takes him there."