By C. D. Wright
Rebellious and fiercely lyrical, the poems of C.D. Wright include parts of disjunction and atypical juxtaposition of their exploration of unfolding context. "In my book," she writes, "poetry is a need of lifestyles. it's a functionality of poetry to find these zones within us that might be loose, and claim them so."
C.D. Wright was once born and raised within the Ozark Mountains of Arkansas. She has acquired various awards for her paintings, together with offers from the nationwide Endowment for the humanities, the Guggenheim origin, the yankee Academy and Institute for humanities and Letters, and the Lila Wallace-Reader's Digest origin. She teaches at Brown college in Rhode Island.
"Expertly elliptical phrasings, and an uncounterfeitable, beneficiant suppose for actual humans, our bodies and areas, have in recent years made Wright considered one of America's oddest, top and so much attractive poets. Her 10th publication involves a unmarried lengthy poem whose sentences, segments and prose-blocks weave loosely round and approximately, and develop out of, a street journey throughout the rural South. Clipped twangs, lyrical ‘goblets of magnolialight,’ and recurrent, mysterious, semi-allegorical figures like ‘the snakeman’ and ‘the boneman’ proportion house with position names, lexicographies, exhortations and wacky graffiti (‘God is Louise’).… cherish Wright's most up-to-date ‘once-and-for-all factor, opaque and revelatory, eternally burning.’"—Publishers Weekly
"For me, C.D. Wright's poetry is river gold. 'Love no matter what flows.' Her language is at the web page part pulled out of earth and rivers—still maintaining onto the reality of the weather. i admire her voice and pitch and the lengthy snaky fingers of her language that's keen to carry everything—human and offended and beautiful."—Michael Ondaatje
"C.D. Wright is solely her personal poet, a real original."—The Gettysburg assessment
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Page 67 IV. Page 69 Before Thanksgiving Abundant deprivation, glossolalia of hail on windows, the splintered ice-crust of the roadside muck: I take names of things that remain stinkhorn rising over dead sweet basil, the roses' chokehold, still, on the frozen summerhouse. Page 70 Doctrine for the Cessation of Misery I don't know if the Buddha was right, if life is suffering, or whether, if all appetite for things were spent, I'd lie easy along this lawn studded with hundreds of cracked acorns, mangled moles cats dragged from their tunnels I don't know if the October morning sun would touch me then without touching anything, or the damp cool of its wind press onward toward another more vulnerable perceiver But I know there's a weariness dulling me: throb of blood through the temples, squeak and scrape of mockingbird cry, train's rattling jangle behind the creek.
Wind riffles pages of The Roots of Lyric: Page 72 the chaptersChant, Charm, Riddle, Emblem, Ideogram accuse me of disaffection, the wonder of being dulled to a life so lured into words. Page 73 The Edges of Things Always language on the edges of things, parasitic, hungry for meaning How I want it: mourn and extinguish, exoskeleton and wing... I murmur ''Lent" means spring, murmur cracked rocks on the creekbank, slimy with moss, and whisper in incantation: ammonia, amnesia, memoria, Medusa... What a sweet heap it falls into: mash and windfall, rot and ferment.
Came home. Raked yard. Jumped on pogo stick. Made fire in back yard and roasted hot dogs. Daddy was drunk. He kept hitting Mama. Watched TV. " Page 40 From My Dream Diary, Age 10 "We were primitive people. Daddy had to hunt for our food. " Silent Night The year I quit talking to my father, he saw Jesus under the Christmas tree, crouching, tense, accusing He woke me at midnight and insisted I sing. Silent night, holy night, All is calm, all is bright The furniture around us was smashed, the mirror splintered on the wall Inferno This region of Hell is constructed from the brains of the damned, stitched one to another, still conscious, eternally despairing, my dream- guide tells me, Look, Page 41 this oneviscid, pinkish-gray, throbbing is your father's...