Charles Wright, Extraordinary Poet

Got a used first edition in perfect shape.  Thank God for used books.

 

As often happens with magnificent poetry, I wanted to burn everything I'd written after reading this book, especially the title poem, "Buffalo Yoga".  Holy, holy, holy.  Thank you, Erin (you were so right about this poem...should be read aloud), for introducing me to this poet.  There is no joy better than discovering a new poet, especially through a friend.  I owe you one.  :-)

 

 

 

My good book karma continues with this book which I got in the mail today.  I ordered a used copy from Amazon and ended up with a pristeen, AUTOGRAPHED copy of this book.  I laugh because this happens all the time...it's part of the mystique of buying used books.  You never know what you'll get: love notes, autographs, photographs, bookmarks, more notes...I love them all.

 

I can only say this today:  READ CHARLES WRIGHT's POETRY!

 

I tried and tried to pick out a poem to share, but I couldn't make up my mind.  "Buffalo Yoga" is a long, delicious poem and I couldn't break out a piece no more than I can cut a piece of the sky.  So I looked around and found this slice of a poem from his poem titled, "Polaroids".  Of course, I was immediately drawn to the dragonfly imagery in the last verse...  Enjoy.

 

xo,

Marion

 

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From:  POLAROIDS by Charles Wright

 

The lapis lazuli dragonflies

                                             of postbelief, rising and falling near
The broken slab wood steps, now one by one, now in pairs,
Are not the dragonflies of death with their blue-black eyes.
These are the tiny ones, the stems, the phosphorescent,
Rising and falling like drowned playthings.
They come and they disappear. They come back and they disappear.

Horizon-hump of pine bristles on end toward the south,
Breath-stealer, cloudless drop cloth
Of sky,
             the great meadow beneath like a mirror face down in the earth,
Accepting nothing, giving it back.
We’ll go, as Mandelstam tells us, into a growing numbness of time,
Insoluble, as long as landscape, as indistinct.

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*Osip Emilyevich Mandelstam (1891 - 1938) was a Russian poet and essayist who lived in Russia during and after its revolution and the rise of the Soviet Union. He was one of the foremost members of the Acmeist school of poets.