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Collected Poems
A collection of the young writer's major poems and translations, reflecting his closeness to life and nature
- GenresPoetryLiterary Fiction
230 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 1970
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January 3, 2023Usually, as you read a book, you learn more and more about it. But sometimes, as you read a book, you learn more and more about yourself.
Such was the case with James Wright's Collected Poems. Containing poems, as it does, from early in Wright's career to late, you watch his progression from formal poet accomplished in rhyme, to freelance poet extraordinaire, to experimental poet as he listens for fate's footsteps.
What did I learn? I'm not a fan of form poetry or of rhyming poetry. Subtle rhymes, yes, but rhyme schemes sound sing-songy to my philistine ears. And long poems? Lord, I lack patience. Once it travels to a third page, I'm dogging it like Mile 24 on the marathon. Just throw me across the line! Just give me a tall, cold drink of 12-line poetry.
You get the point. The true poetry readers may now shake their heads at me.
OK, that out of the way, I can tell you that this collection, while good, was beyond good in the case of poems from The Branch Will Not Break, issued in 1963. Wright was in his free verse phase, and I was right at home. And my, how lovely these were. The nature and horses, the trees and water, the light and the dark playing off of each other.
True, Wright is obsessed by death, but who isn't? All literature is obsessed by it. Thematically, it is the unstoppable frontrunner. Two of Wright's most famous poems are in The Branch. I love them both, even though loving popular poems is unpopular. Eh. Who am I to deem cool poetry uncool strictly by dint of its popularity? If I like it, I like it--whether the cheese stands alone or in a crowd.
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.
It's pretty, but the last line is shockingly pretty. If regret rides like remoras on all of our spirits, then this line resonates. And what about this beauty?
A Blessing
Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl’s wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.
And hey, the poem hiding the title isn't bad, either. It speaks to why Wright left sooner than he'd wish: alcoholism.
Two Hangovers
Number One
I slouch in bed.
Beyond the streaked trees of my window,
All groves are bare.
Locusts and poplars change to unmarried women
Sorting slate from anthracite
Between railroad ties:
The yellow-bearded winter of the depression
Is still alive somewhere, an old man
Counting his collection of bottle caps
In a tarpaper shack under the cold trees
Of my grave.
I still feel half drunk,
And all those old women beyond my window
Are hunching toward the graveyard.
Drunk, mumbling Hungarian,
The sun staggers in,
And his big stupid face pitches
Into the stove.
For two hours I have been dreaming
Of green butterflies searching for diamonds
In coal seams;
And children chasing each other for a game
Through the hills of fresh graves.
But the sun has come home drunk from the sea,
And a sparrow outside
Sings of the Hanna Coal Co. and the dead moon.
The filaments of cold light bulbs tremble
In music like delicate birds.
Ah, turn it off.
Number Two: I Try to Waken and Greet the World Once Again
In a pine tree,
A few yards away from my window sill,
A brilliant blue jay is springing up and down, up and
down,
On a branch.
I laugh, as I see him abandon himself
To entire delight, for he knows as well as I do
That the branch will not break.
Here you see a remnant from Wright's formal past--capitalization at the beginning of every line. Now that's old school!
Sad, lovely, full of nature and sensitivity, Wright's a poet I'm glad I met.
Such was the case with James Wright's Collected Poems. Containing poems, as it does, from early in Wright's career to late, you watch his progression from formal poet accomplished in rhyme, to freelance poet extraordinaire, to experimental poet as he listens for fate's footsteps.
What did I learn? I'm not a fan of form poetry or of rhyming poetry. Subtle rhymes, yes, but rhyme schemes sound sing-songy to my philistine ears. And long poems? Lord, I lack patience. Once it travels to a third page, I'm dogging it like Mile 24 on the marathon. Just throw me across the line! Just give me a tall, cold drink of 12-line poetry.
You get the point. The true poetry readers may now shake their heads at me.
OK, that out of the way, I can tell you that this collection, while good, was beyond good in the case of poems from The Branch Will Not Break, issued in 1963. Wright was in his free verse phase, and I was right at home. And my, how lovely these were. The nature and horses, the trees and water, the light and the dark playing off of each other.
True, Wright is obsessed by death, but who isn't? All literature is obsessed by it. Thematically, it is the unstoppable frontrunner. Two of Wright's most famous poems are in The Branch. I love them both, even though loving popular poems is unpopular. Eh. Who am I to deem cool poetry uncool strictly by dint of its popularity? If I like it, I like it--whether the cheese stands alone or in a crowd.
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.
It's pretty, but the last line is shockingly pretty. If regret rides like remoras on all of our spirits, then this line resonates. And what about this beauty?
A Blessing
Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl’s wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.
And hey, the poem hiding the title isn't bad, either. It speaks to why Wright left sooner than he'd wish: alcoholism.
Two Hangovers
Number One
I slouch in bed.
Beyond the streaked trees of my window,
All groves are bare.
Locusts and poplars change to unmarried women
Sorting slate from anthracite
Between railroad ties:
The yellow-bearded winter of the depression
Is still alive somewhere, an old man
Counting his collection of bottle caps
In a tarpaper shack under the cold trees
Of my grave.
I still feel half drunk,
And all those old women beyond my window
Are hunching toward the graveyard.
Drunk, mumbling Hungarian,
The sun staggers in,
And his big stupid face pitches
Into the stove.
For two hours I have been dreaming
Of green butterflies searching for diamonds
In coal seams;
And children chasing each other for a game
Through the hills of fresh graves.
But the sun has come home drunk from the sea,
And a sparrow outside
Sings of the Hanna Coal Co. and the dead moon.
The filaments of cold light bulbs tremble
In music like delicate birds.
Ah, turn it off.
Number Two: I Try to Waken and Greet the World Once Again
In a pine tree,
A few yards away from my window sill,
A brilliant blue jay is springing up and down, up and
down,
On a branch.
I laugh, as I see him abandon himself
To entire delight, for he knows as well as I do
That the branch will not break.
Here you see a remnant from Wright's formal past--capitalization at the beginning of every line. Now that's old school!
Sad, lovely, full of nature and sensitivity, Wright's a poet I'm glad I met.
December 21, 2011
I may skip a detailed review on this, simply because poetry reviews are a real ass kicker for me. Like work. But, that said, it deserves one. Wright is one best poets I've read (and I've read A LOT). One reason for this is that he's SO American in his settings and voice. If you like Whitman, you should like this guy. But for me he speaks more directly to the post WW 2 American consciousness. Hell, updating things a bit, he speaks directly to the post financial meltdown consciousness. Wright's America is a dead one. Drunk poets, slag heaps, whores, rivers, cities, and a nature of tooth & claw. Oh, there is beauty, but it's usually tinged with sadness.
This particular collection spans Wright's career (though I think there is a more up to date version). The arc of Wright's career is remarkable, since he starts out as a formalist (and a really good one), and evolves into an experimental one. Clearly, here's a poet constantly pushing beyond his comfort zone. I mentioned above how Wright was such American poet, but he's more than that. Some of the best work in this collection are his translations of European poets. In particular, I liked his translations of Jorge Guillen (a new name for me), and Georg Trakl ( a personal favorite). You can't go wrong with Wright.
This particular collection spans Wright's career (though I think there is a more up to date version). The arc of Wright's career is remarkable, since he starts out as a formalist (and a really good one), and evolves into an experimental one. Clearly, here's a poet constantly pushing beyond his comfort zone. I mentioned above how Wright was such American poet, but he's more than that. Some of the best work in this collection are his translations of European poets. In particular, I liked his translations of Jorge Guillen (a new name for me), and Georg Trakl ( a personal favorite). You can't go wrong with Wright.
October 29, 2015
The moon drops one or two feathers into the field.
The dark wheat listens.
Be still.
Now.
There they are, the moon's young, trying
Their wings.
Between trees, a slender woman lifts up the lovely shadow
Of her face, and now she steps into the air, now she is gone
Wholly, into the air.
I stand alone by an elder tree, I do not dare breathe
Or move.
I listen.
The wheat leans back toward its own darkness,
And I lean toward mine.
The dark wheat listens.
Be still.
Now.
There they are, the moon's young, trying
Their wings.
Between trees, a slender woman lifts up the lovely shadow
Of her face, and now she steps into the air, now she is gone
Wholly, into the air.
I stand alone by an elder tree, I do not dare breathe
Or move.
I listen.
The wheat leans back toward its own darkness,
And I lean toward mine.
May 11, 2019
I encountered James Wright in reading his entries in a Donald Hall anthology, CONTEMPORARY AMERICAN POETRY, first printed in l962. Of course only a few of his poems were included, but one in particular caught my attention, "The Blessing" in which he writes a bout seeing two ponies emerging from the twilight. He is struck by their natural beauty, and compares one of their soft ears as being "delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist." He concludes the poem,
". . .Suddenly, I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom."
I just thought that was a remarkable way of expressing his love and appreciation for nature.
That led me to seek out his collected poems, hundreds of them, and while I found some gems, nothing approached my sense of discovery in Hall's selection of probably his best eight poems. This collection includes hundreds of his poems. Many, if not most, seem obsessed with death and the sense of loss that comes with transience.
"Pity so old and alone, it is not alone, yours or mine,
The pity of rivers and children, the pity of brothers, the pity
Of our country, which is our lives" - from "Many Of Our Waters; Variations On A Poem By A Black Child"
Added to that is a sense of injustice, of wrongs never being righted, except by expressions of the poet, but seldom any resolution. That leads to sadness, if not depression. One of his collections is called "Saint Judas" in which one poem states,
". . .And weeping in the nakedness
Of moonlight and of agony. . ."
That to me reveals two aspects of Wright's thought, a sense of nature as expressed in the moonlight, and a dual sense of helplessness and even despair - "weeping", "nakedness," and "agony."
Obviously Wright writes out of personal experience, much of it unhappy (he died at age 52 in 1980), one poem ending, "I have wasted my life." But beyond his own existence, there is always something larger, the America, much of it rooted in images of Minnesota and the midwest where he had lived. The spirit of Walt Whitman is invoked in "The Minneapolis Poems" which is a prayer, a hope, that wholeness may be found.
". . .I could not bear
To allow my poor brother my body to die
In Minneapolis.
The old man Walt Whitman our countryman
Is now in America our country
Dead.
But he was not buried in Minneapolis
At least.
And no more may I be
Please God."
". . .Suddenly, I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom."
I just thought that was a remarkable way of expressing his love and appreciation for nature.
That led me to seek out his collected poems, hundreds of them, and while I found some gems, nothing approached my sense of discovery in Hall's selection of probably his best eight poems. This collection includes hundreds of his poems. Many, if not most, seem obsessed with death and the sense of loss that comes with transience.
"Pity so old and alone, it is not alone, yours or mine,
The pity of rivers and children, the pity of brothers, the pity
Of our country, which is our lives" - from "Many Of Our Waters; Variations On A Poem By A Black Child"
Added to that is a sense of injustice, of wrongs never being righted, except by expressions of the poet, but seldom any resolution. That leads to sadness, if not depression. One of his collections is called "Saint Judas" in which one poem states,
". . .And weeping in the nakedness
Of moonlight and of agony. . ."
That to me reveals two aspects of Wright's thought, a sense of nature as expressed in the moonlight, and a dual sense of helplessness and even despair - "weeping", "nakedness," and "agony."
Obviously Wright writes out of personal experience, much of it unhappy (he died at age 52 in 1980), one poem ending, "I have wasted my life." But beyond his own existence, there is always something larger, the America, much of it rooted in images of Minnesota and the midwest where he had lived. The spirit of Walt Whitman is invoked in "The Minneapolis Poems" which is a prayer, a hope, that wholeness may be found.
". . .I could not bear
To allow my poor brother my body to die
In Minneapolis.
The old man Walt Whitman our countryman
Is now in America our country
Dead.
But he was not buried in Minneapolis
At least.
And no more may I be
Please God."
November 16, 2021
A lifetime of poetry. I love seeing how writing style changes over time.
September 19, 2012
Certainly one of my all time favorite collections.
December 12, 2018
I love so many of these poems. But my favorites are these two:
A Blessing
Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl’s wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.
Lying in a Hammock 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.
A Blessing
Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl’s wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.
Lying in a Hammock 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.
June 28, 2020
Collection of Poems - James Wright
Here are my eleven favorite poems from this Pulitzer Prize (1973) winning collection.
1. Autumn Begins in Martin’s Ferry
2. Saint Judas
3. At the Executed Murderer’s Grace
4. A Girl Walking into the Shadow
5. A Note Left in Jimmy Leonard’s Shack
6. An Offering for Mr. Bluehart
7. My Grandmother’s Ghost
8. Two Poems about President Harding
9. Inscription for the Tank
10. Youth
11. Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island Minnesota
5 stars.
Here are my eleven favorite poems from this Pulitzer Prize (1973) winning collection.
1. Autumn Begins in Martin’s Ferry
2. Saint Judas
3. At the Executed Murderer’s Grace
4. A Girl Walking into the Shadow
5. A Note Left in Jimmy Leonard’s Shack
6. An Offering for Mr. Bluehart
7. My Grandmother’s Ghost
8. Two Poems about President Harding
9. Inscription for the Tank
10. Youth
11. Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island Minnesota
5 stars.
April 16, 2022
I like James Wright's poetry. When I read it, I see myself at dusk, looking down from the Franklin Ave bridge at the swirling waters of the Mississippi, or out a car window at the snow crusted wastes of northwestern Minnesota. I'm not sure this collection would be compelling if so many of the poems weren't about my home state -- if instead of Minneapolis, Wright wrote about the ugliness of Des Moines. But they are, so I like them. That's the narcissism of small differences for you.
November 9, 2023
James Wright is an amazing poet. Have read him since college, a long, long time ago. His poems do not seem to age. He has many fine poems. A Response to the Rumor that the Oldest Whorehouse in Wheeling, WA really needs to be anologized more. Some of his poems drift into self pity but the many do not. The best ones do not. His poems seems so simple but his words are chosen carefully and while focusing on the Midwest are universal.
June 21, 2018
James Wright was one of my favorite poets when I was and English major in the 1960s. Many of his poems are still stunning, but reading the Collected Poems this time I found I was not as engaged by his earlier work when his technique (rhyme, rhythm) was more conventional.
July 26, 2020
Wright is always right. Beauty tinged with sadness, and a whole lot of America. Like Whitman for a new generation. This collection of poems draws from a long career. Full of Minnesota memories and familiar settings. Highly recommended, if poetry is your thing.
January 3, 2023
It was Garrett Hongo, in an undergrad poetry class at the University of Houston, who guided me back to the poems of James Wright. I re-read this collection every decade or so. To think I might outgrow it would make me a pretentious fool. Like Larry Levis, Wright has such a lingering presence.
December 4, 2016
I wonder how many poets out there were writing about North Dakota? Or about the shame of your teenage sister getting knocked up in the 1960s?
May 21, 2018
I don't like his earlier work at all, but _The Branch Will Not Break_ is great.
June 6, 2022
"She's gone. She was my love, my moon or more."
November 17, 2024
It's nice to have a slimmer volume than the Complete
November 19, 2025
The best of the best…
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.
May 12, 2013
James Wright's poetry is incredibly beautiful. This book provides a wonderful overview of his poetry, since it contains poems from his early days as well as his later, and his style changed dramatically during that time. He was heavily influenced by Robert Bly and the Spanish Surrealists, and moved to a very sincere form of poetry. That is what I love about this book, is that it is, above all things, honest.
March 23, 2024
Adding this book to Goodreads after finishing the translations and new poems that first appear in this book - the majority of the poems I reread in their original volumes over the past month. I'm alternating between the works of James Wright and his son Franz Wright (my favorite poet). James is sometimes lost on me, but overall I enjoy his poems.
February 19, 2012
i don't dare finish reading any single poem in this collection. the words are of such precision they are like incantations. if i follow them through to the end, my life will be required to change. i will be altered, perhaps transformed.
January 4, 2009
Wonderful, part of an unintentional Minnesota Writer's kick.
October 4, 2014
Great autumn primer.
March 14, 2021
A truly great poet
July 25, 2008
Wright does place and melancholy beautifully. "Inscription for the tank" is a favorite.
Displaying 1 - 26 of 26 reviews