52 Books in 52 Weeks, it's called. The challenge is simple: read a book every week for a year.
43. The branch will not break.
Wright began as a formalist, but broke ranks and pushed into new territory with this one, writing free-form lyric poetry, often at the limits of abstraction. The review I noted when reading To a blossoming pear tree said that this is his masterwork, and it is full of power. There aren’t the prose poems that fill Pear tree; there are those heart stopping moments when a poem breaks open the world.
I’m not sure I’m the best reader, yet, for the more impressionistic poems. My friend Robert on the bus says that most people ask the wrong question of a poem, “What does this mean?” He says that ‘the idea’ has a place in poetry, but it’s less like ‘the point’ and more like the walls of the court in which the game of poetry is played. I find it hard to just let myself go to an abstraction of language and appreciate it for what it invokes — I want there to be reason. But I defer to my predecessors, who praise these.
That’s not to say that all of the abstractions fail to reach me. Sometimes there’s reason in the form, the arrangement, that slips past:
‘Lying In A Hammock At William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota’
Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,
Asleep on the black trunk,
Blowing like a leaf in green shadow.
Down the ravine behind the empty house
The cowbells follow one another
Into the distances of the afternoon.
To my right,
In a field of sunlight between two pines,
The droppings of last year’s horses
Blaze up into golden stones.
I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.
A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life.
That last line is like a smart bomb.
I am very happy here, now, among James Wright’s children. And not ready to leave.
I’ve long loved this poem. Do you know Michael Lohre’s response poem, “Dear Micheal, Love Pam”? I’ll paste it below, but then I’ll email it to you, too. Maybe we could discuss that one next?
Dear Michael, Love Pam
Just walked home for my 2-hour break
& I want to take a nap before I go back
at noon. Exhausted. Went to the Grain Bin
last night for a dance lesson in the Western Swing.
I learned to Barrel-turn and Dip, but I stayed out
too late. A chemical salesman disguised as my dance
partner asked me out to supper on Valentine’s Day.
I’m going but am not thrilled over the guy.
My guts say don’t trust a 44-year-old wearing
sneakers & sideburns. Hope you are doing better
than this old divorcée. Thank you for the letter,
pictures, and my goodness the poetry.
The one poem brought tears to my eyes–
the hammock one & he’s wasted his life.
That and Charlie Walhof’s death last Tuesday
had me thinking about making every day
count for something. Charlie was our local
entertainer who never found his star in Nashville
during his younger days but was giving music another
go now at 51. His Dodge van was halved by a train
in Maynard, MN, on a business trip that he’d hoped
might create an Opry near the lakes–in Alexandria, I think.
For the tourists. Charlie was a good man, Mike. Reminded
me of Dad. Same blue eyes, kind, & smile. He used to
hold my hand for a second after I passed his mail
to him. I wonder … I know this will sound odd …
could you write something for Charlie? I guess that must
seem silly. I don’t know how all that poetry stuff works.
Maybe if I sent a picture? That might not be the way
either. Somehow I just thought you might find the right
words? Anyway, I’m going to have to lie down now.
The kids and I miss you, Michael, and I want you to know
–I don’t believe that James Wright wasted his life.
Scrivener. June 3rd. 2010. 5:46 am.