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Caribou: Poems
A powerfully moving meditation on life, nature, and the beyond, from one of our finest American poets
This is an old man’s poetry,
written by someone who’s spent his life
Looking for one truth.
Sorry, pal, there isn’t one.
—from “Ancient of Days”
Charles Wright’s truth—the truth of nature, of man’s yearning for the divine, of aging—is at the heart of the renowned poet’s latest collection, Caribou. At once an elegy to simple beauty (a sunset the same color as the maple tree in his neighbor’s yard, “Nature and nature head-butt”) and an expression of Wright’s restless questing for a reality beyond the one before our eyes (“Between the divine and the divine / lives a lavish shadow. / Do we avoid it or stand in it? / Do we gather the darkness around us, / or do we let it slide by?”), Caribou’s strength is in its quiet, subtle profundity.
“It’s good to be here,” Wright tells us. “It’s good to be where the world’s quiescent, and reminiscent.” And to be here—in the pages of this stirring collection—is more than good; it’s another remarkable gift from the poet around whose influence “the whole world seems to orbit in a kind of meditative, slow circle” (Poetry).
This is an old man’s poetry,
written by someone who’s spent his life
Looking for one truth.
Sorry, pal, there isn’t one.
—from “Ancient of Days”
Charles Wright’s truth—the truth of nature, of man’s yearning for the divine, of aging—is at the heart of the renowned poet’s latest collection, Caribou. At once an elegy to simple beauty (a sunset the same color as the maple tree in his neighbor’s yard, “Nature and nature head-butt”) and an expression of Wright’s restless questing for a reality beyond the one before our eyes (“Between the divine and the divine / lives a lavish shadow. / Do we avoid it or stand in it? / Do we gather the darkness around us, / or do we let it slide by?”), Caribou’s strength is in its quiet, subtle profundity.
“It’s good to be here,” Wright tells us. “It’s good to be where the world’s quiescent, and reminiscent.” And to be here—in the pages of this stirring collection—is more than good; it’s another remarkable gift from the poet around whose influence “the whole world seems to orbit in a kind of meditative, slow circle” (Poetry).
96 pages, Hardcover
First published March 18, 2014
14 people are currently reading
375 people want to read
About the author
Charles Wright
238 books110 followersCharles Wright is an American poet. He shared the National Book Award in 1983 for Country Music: Selected Early Poems and won the Pulitzer Prize in 1998 for Black Zodiac.
From 2014 to 2015, he served as the 20th Poet Laureate of the United States. Charles Wright is often ranked as one of the best American poets of his generation. He attended Davidson College and the Iowa Writers’ Workshop; he also served four years in the U.S. Army, and it was while stationed in Italy that Wright began to read and write poetry. He is the author of over 20 books of poetry.
Charles Wright is a Chancellor of The Academy of American Poets and the Souder Family Professor of English at the University of Virginia in Charlottesville. His many collections of poetry and numerous awards—including the Pulitzer Prize, the Griffin International Poetry Prize, and a Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize—have proven that he is, as Jay Parini once said, “among the best poets” of his generation. Yet Wright remains stoic about such achievements: it is not the poet, but the poems, as he concluded to Genoways. “One wants one’s work to be paid attention to, but I hate personal attention. I just want everyone to read the poems. I want my poetry to get all the attention in the world, but I want to be the anonymous author.”
From 2014 to 2015, he served as the 20th Poet Laureate of the United States. Charles Wright is often ranked as one of the best American poets of his generation. He attended Davidson College and the Iowa Writers’ Workshop; he also served four years in the U.S. Army, and it was while stationed in Italy that Wright began to read and write poetry. He is the author of over 20 books of poetry.
Charles Wright is a Chancellor of The Academy of American Poets and the Souder Family Professor of English at the University of Virginia in Charlottesville. His many collections of poetry and numerous awards—including the Pulitzer Prize, the Griffin International Poetry Prize, and a Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize—have proven that he is, as Jay Parini once said, “among the best poets” of his generation. Yet Wright remains stoic about such achievements: it is not the poet, but the poems, as he concluded to Genoways. “One wants one’s work to be paid attention to, but I hate personal attention. I just want everyone to read the poems. I want my poetry to get all the attention in the world, but I want to be the anonymous author.”
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 58 reviews
March 31, 2015
This is an old man's poetryAncient of Days
written by someone who's spent his life
Looking for one truth.
Caribou is an uncertain prayer to the life beyond this life. Charles Wright is in his late seventies, and many of these poems caress the years and hopes behind the poet in wistful elegy. Wright hopes that whatever awaits him, it will be gentle, and he asks to be forgiven for being uncertain what truth he believes in.
October, Mon Amour
Our history is the history of the City of God.
What's-to-come is anybody's guess.
Whatever has given you comfort,
Whatever has rested you,
Whatever untwisted your heart
is what you will leave behind.
He also passes on the wisdom of his years, a quiet admonishment not to expect more, not to do more, than what is within reach, to be at peace with the now of your life:
Cake Walk
To do what you have to do—unrecognized—and for no one.and
The language in that is small,
sewn just under your skin.
Grace II
It's true, aspirations of youth burn down to char strips with the years.
Tonight, only memories are my company and my grace.
How nice if they could outlive us.
But they can't. Or won't.
Elements of Christian faith, its dutiful redemption, mystical transubstantiation, and the wonder of heaven mingle with cyclical process of Buddhism. But the natural world is most precious to Charles Wright:
L'Amor Che Move Il Sol E L'Altre Stelle
I love walking into the setting sun
where nothing is visible but light,
And that nor really visible, just a sweet blinding.
Then coming back to the world
Unharmed, but altered slightly,
as though it were not the same setup anymore.
So much beautiful language here: cloud gobbets and creeks that sniddle along and armadas of clouds Spanished along the horizon, the stepchild hour that belongs to neither the light nor the dark--passages that make me glad this is one of my rare book purchases, for I have scribbled notes in the margin, starred favorite poems, underlined words and verses to refer to again and again.
Caribou is a meditation on the human condition, the end of which is inevitable. And ultimately, it is silent.
Time and the Centipedes of Night
The condition of everything tends toward the condition of
silence.
When the wind stops, there's silence.
When the waters go down on their knees and touch their heads
To the bottom, there's silence, when the stars appear
face down, O Lord, then what a hush.
February 1, 2022
I have read quite a few of Wright's books on poetry.
While the genius is evident in his works none of his prior books grabbed me the way this one did. He wrote this collection as he approached his eighties. Unsurprisingly it is focused on old age with some nature mixed in.
I read this collection aloud. Most of the poems had the same poetic structure and reading aloud sounded pleasing to my ear. The imagery is also good.
I find sometimes that authors' works late in life can be quite revealing and satisfying - a little bolder with the pretense of patience stripped away.
5 stars
While the genius is evident in his works none of his prior books grabbed me the way this one did. He wrote this collection as he approached his eighties. Unsurprisingly it is focused on old age with some nature mixed in.
I read this collection aloud. Most of the poems had the same poetic structure and reading aloud sounded pleasing to my ear. The imagery is also good.
I find sometimes that authors' works late in life can be quite revealing and satisfying - a little bolder with the pretense of patience stripped away.
5 stars
June 28, 2016
Is Transcendental Grandparentish Appalachianism a genre?
Should be.
Should be.
July 16, 2019
Another great book of poetry.
However, almost every poem concerns growing old, which of course is understandable considering Wright's age. I'm going to track down some older books because this guy is incredible.
Highly Recommended!
However, almost every poem concerns growing old, which of course is understandable considering Wright's age. I'm going to track down some older books because this guy is incredible.
Highly Recommended!
January 1, 2015
Nothing’s as far away as love is,
not even the new stars,
Though something is moving them
We hope in our direction, albeit their skin’s not on fire.
not even the new stars,
Though something is moving them
We hope in our direction, albeit their skin’s not on fire.
November 30, 2025
Great, accessible--a model for our daily mournings.
February 13, 2015
This collection of poems by Charles Wright reminded me so much of Chinese poetry, and in his Acknowledgements he does credit the poetry of Du Fu and the poetry of ancient China. Consider this:
Or this:
In this collection Wright speaks much of death, the transitory nature of things, of seeing things for perhaps the last time. He will be 80 years old this year, so he is deservedly feeling his years.
There is so much here that captured me, though he and I are divided by years. Would that we learned his lessons earlier, but
So many of his phrases I yearn to post but he warns us
Wright, immersed as he is in the end of things, shares his wisdom:
The deer walk out the last ledge of sunlight, one by one. –fm “Cake Walk”
Or this:
Moon soft-full just over the tips of the white pine trees. –-fm “Life Lines”
In this collection Wright speaks much of death, the transitory nature of things, of seeing things for perhaps the last time. He will be 80 years old this year, so he is deservedly feeling his years.
When is it we come to the realization
That things are wandering away? -- “Waterfalls”
There is so much here that captured me, though he and I are divided by years. Would that we learned his lessons earlier, but
Contentment comes in little steps, like old age --fm “Chinoiserie VI”
So many of his phrases I yearn to post but he warns us
Musician says, beauty is the enemy of expression.But much of what he writes in this book is distilled to its essence. So few words, so much meaning. He gets right to the heart of things.
I say, expression is the enemy of beauty.
God says, who gives a damn anyway,
Bon mots, you see, are not art or sublimity. --fm “Chinoiserie VI”
There’s an old Buddhist saying I think I read one time:
Before Enlightenment, chop wood and carry water.
After Enlightenment, chop wood and carry water.--fm “Ducks”
Wright, immersed as he is in the end of things, shares his wisdom:
Beware of prosperity, friend, and seek affection.--fm “Heaven’s Eel”
March 18, 2014
An excerpt from my review on The Literary Man Blog. Go buy this book!
"Caribou reads, in many ways, like a great poet’s last gasp. In many of the poems, Wright seems to acknowledge that everything is headed to a world of dark, but he continuously affirms his acceptance of that fact. The poems, relying heavily on the natural world, appeal to the great mysteries of life and death in a way that questions our insistent dependence on things that fail us – religion, language, nature, humanity, etc. The looming essence of death has had a profound impact on Wright, who can’t seem to shake the idea that his eternity is behind some locked door, and he can never seem to find the proper key. His poems orbit the culture of the world, and use it to prepare himself for the long walk to the end of his life.
In many ways, this book was very difficult to read because it seemed like a great mentor accepting his home in the grave – the end of his life’s work. In other ways, this book is another testament to the power and wisdom that seethe from the surface of Wright’s poems. Charles Wright is the great minister of the dead, and remains a great teacher in the world of poetry. Caribou is another must-read book, maybe the final one, in an illustrious career filled with some of the most enlightening poems in the American canon."
Link to full review: http://literaryman.com/2014/03/17/a-g...
"Caribou reads, in many ways, like a great poet’s last gasp. In many of the poems, Wright seems to acknowledge that everything is headed to a world of dark, but he continuously affirms his acceptance of that fact. The poems, relying heavily on the natural world, appeal to the great mysteries of life and death in a way that questions our insistent dependence on things that fail us – religion, language, nature, humanity, etc. The looming essence of death has had a profound impact on Wright, who can’t seem to shake the idea that his eternity is behind some locked door, and he can never seem to find the proper key. His poems orbit the culture of the world, and use it to prepare himself for the long walk to the end of his life.
In many ways, this book was very difficult to read because it seemed like a great mentor accepting his home in the grave – the end of his life’s work. In other ways, this book is another testament to the power and wisdom that seethe from the surface of Wright’s poems. Charles Wright is the great minister of the dead, and remains a great teacher in the world of poetry. Caribou is another must-read book, maybe the final one, in an illustrious career filled with some of the most enlightening poems in the American canon."
Link to full review: http://literaryman.com/2014/03/17/a-g...
May 31, 2020
Still trying to figure out why it took me so long to come to Charles Wright's poetry. Writing in a form and with a sensibility that reminds me of Chinese lyrics and a bit of a less political Gary Snyder, Wright crafts poems that rest on a truly unusual clarity of perception and, in Caribou, a calm acceptance of and wisdom about aging and mortality. I could almost choose poems at random as favorites, but I'll recommend "Crystal Declension," "Heaven's Eel," "Ancient of Days," "Road Warriors," "Pack Rats," "Chinoserie IV," and "Lost Highways." And, quoted in full, "Things Have Ends and Beginnings":
Cloud mountains rise over mountain range.
Silence and quietness,
sky bright as water, sky bright as lake water.
Grace is the instinct for knowing when to stop. And where.
Cloud mountains rise over mountain range.
Silence and quietness,
sky bright as water, sky bright as lake water.
Grace is the instinct for knowing when to stop. And where.
January 14, 2019
Reading Caribou by Charles Wright taught me a valuable lesson: I’m not too bright. This is especially the case with poetry. To say I’m a casual is a disservice to actual casuals. I have never been good at dissecting and breaking down poems; Honestly, I’m here because I love concise language and drool over beautiful similes and metaphor. I liken it to when I try to read a mystery novel—I do not get enjoyment out of being more active in the story, meaning I don’t wanna sit here and try and figure shit out. If you do, more power to ya. It’s just not my thing. I suppose that makes me a passive consumer, which I’m totally okay with.
In short: I felt out of my depth, but that depth is about the size of a kiddy pool, so take it as you will.
3/5
In short: I felt out of my depth, but that depth is about the size of a kiddy pool, so take it as you will.
3/5
July 18, 2019
Oof. Megan selected this book for me off a shelf in a little London bookstore and thank God she did. I read it aloud to myself in my hotel room and later on the plane ride home, so my neighbors probably thought I was crazy (especially when I started grinning like a fool because the section “Apocrypha” was just so amazing).
January 17, 2022
This is an old man’s poetry,
written by someone who’s spent his life
Looking for one truth.
Sorry, pal, there isn’t one.
— from Ancient of Days
The lines quoted above betray the fatigue that is present throughout the collection. Indeed, the poet is an old man (79 y/o when Caribou was published in 2014). Perhaps he is acknowledging what I have identified, having identified it himself and having anticipated that others will identify it. Though it seems unlikely. The lines are less self-depricating than I'm painting them. On the contrary, the lines have been repeatedly held up as an example of what's good about this collection. Adhering to a romanticism worthy of the outdated poet archetype: the old man coming down from the mountain to share his wisdom. There's a lot that's good about this collection, but this isn't it.
The canonized lines of "Ancient of Days" aren't the first symptoms of fatigue, and they aren't the last. There seems to be a disharmony in the arrangement of the poems. Although the collection is divided into three parts (Echoes, End Papers, and Apocrypha), the three parts fail to dictate a thematic arrangement. Indeed, the poems are unruly. They say what they want, where they want, when they want. A poem entitled "Things Have End and Beginnings" stresses that "Grace is the instinct for knowing when to stop. And where." at the risk of betraying his lack of grace...
Cloud mountains rise over mountain range.
Silence and quietness,
sky bright as water, sky bright as lake water.
Grace is the instinct for knowing when to stop. And where.
- "Things Have Ends and Beginnings" (pg. 26)
Not a bad poem. It's eloquence, however, is lost on me. His use of repetition is awkward. What's more, it is placed not at the beginning, not at the end, but second to last in the first part (Echoes). It is followed by a blank page. A false ending! The blank page is followed by another poem. And then on to the second part (End Papers). An uncommonly short poem, one could argue that the message ("knowing when to stop. And where.") is limited to the lines in the poem, rather than the poem in the collection. But this is reductive. Shouldn't the meaning be universal? The lines in the poem, the poem in the collection, the collection in the body of work, the body of work in the canon of literature, etc...
I have stated that the poems say "what they want, where they want, when they want". That covers the arrangement (or lack thereof). But what about the content? The poems that say "what they want, where they want, when they want"... what are they saying? Here the fatigue is most evident. Wright's subject matter includes toadstools. That's right, toadstools. I don't know what's worse, the fact that he's writing a poem about toadstools, or the fact that he stresses the importance of "nothing will touch them" by telling us not once, but twice. I cannot think of a more conclusive symptom of fatigue than this: Wright tells us twice something he didn't need to tell us once...
The toadstools are starting to come up,
circular and dry.
Nothing will touch them,
Gophers or chipmunks, wasps or swallows.
They glow in the twilight like rooted will-o'-the-wisps.
Nothing will touch them.
As though orphans rode herd in the short grass,
as though they had heard the call.
- Toadstools (pg. 38)
What redeems this poem about toadstools is what redeems the overall collection, and that is Wright's transcendental inclinations. Rather than focusing on "nothing will touch them", the poet should have focused on "they will always be with us", a line that carries more weight, in which there seems to be a deeper underlying message. The profundity of Wright's poems rests entirely in these moments of transcendentalism. Whether its the toadstool that "will always be with us" or the poet himself
They will always be with us,
transcenders of the world.
Someone will try to stick his beak into their otherworldly
styrofoam.
Someone may try to taste a taste of forever.
For some it's a refuge, for some a shady place to fall down.
Grief is a floating barge-boat,
who knows where it's going to moor?
- Toadstools (pg. 38)
A second time, and who can blame him?
If he disappears again, your mind's back on transubstantiation.
We live beyond the metaphysician's fingertips.
It's sad, dude, so sad.
There is no metaphor, there is no simile,
and there is no rhetoric
To nudge us to their caress.
The trees remain the trees, God hlp us.
And memory, for all its worth,
is merely the things we forget to forget.
- Dude (pg. 40)
Like the eloquence of "Things Have End and Beginnings", the profundity of the poet's transcendental inclinations is lost on me. All of it seems to be undermined by Wright's use of informal language. Words like "pal" (in "Ancient of Days") and "dude" (in "Dude") instantly erase any profundity the poet was building, reducing him to a form of self-parody. Again, the Wright seems to anticipate my reaction with his line, his confession, that "there is no metaphor, there is no simile, / and there is no rhetoric". But even if the poet is admitting to some shortcoming in his work, that doesn't redeem the work itself. On the contrary, if he knows what he's doing and he does it anyway, then it's worse than if he were oblivious.
As a result, the poems are neither profound nor humorous. They amount to back-peddling and name dropping. Not literal names, but words like "transcend" or "metaphysical" that the reader reads and immediately attributes an assumed depth. My conclusion is that the water is not deep, but mirky. You may not want to dive in for fear of bumping your head on the deceptively shallow bottom.
What I like best is the poet's form. His line breaks may be simple to the point of tedium, but I like the way he fills spreads out sentences and fills a page. It may not be Ferlinghetti, but it's something worth praising...
There is a heaviness inside the body
that leans down, but does not touch us.
There is a lassitude that licks itself, but brings no relief.
There is a self-destructiveness no memory can repeal.
Such breath in the unstopped ear,
such sweet breath, O, along the tongue.
Cloud swatches brilliance the sky
Over the Alleghenies,
unpatterned as Heaven.
Across the street, Amoret's family picnic has ended.
Memorial Day,
the dead like plastic bags in the blown trees.
In Paradise, springtime never arrives.
The seasons
Are silent, and dumb, and ghost-walk outside our windows.
And so it is down here -
we grovel on our extremities
An rise, rise up, halfway to where the new leaves begin.
- Homage to Samuel Beckett (pg. 10-11)
August 4, 2014
I have long been an admirer of Wright's poetry, and this volume only supports that feeling.
". . .
This is an old man's poetry,
written by somebody who's spent his life
Looking for one truth.
Sorry, pal, there isn't one.
Unless, of course, the trees and their blown-down relatives
Are part of it.
. . ."
--"Ancient of Days"
The book is divided into three parts: "Echoes," "End Papers," "Apocrypha."
Firmly grounded in the natural world, these poems reflect one being between an evanescing past and an unknown future. The poetry is certainly superior, and I have some clear favorites: "Homage to Samuel Beckett," "Heaven's Eel," ""I've Been Sitting Here Thinking Back Over My Life . . .,'" "Lost Highways."
I shall to return to this volume often and to the rest of his work as well. It strikes me like seeing a wet tree in the twilight, beautiful yet familiar.
". . .
This is an old man's poetry,
written by somebody who's spent his life
Looking for one truth.
Sorry, pal, there isn't one.
Unless, of course, the trees and their blown-down relatives
Are part of it.
. . ."
--"Ancient of Days"
The book is divided into three parts: "Echoes," "End Papers," "Apocrypha."
Firmly grounded in the natural world, these poems reflect one being between an evanescing past and an unknown future. The poetry is certainly superior, and I have some clear favorites: "Homage to Samuel Beckett," "Heaven's Eel," ""I've Been Sitting Here Thinking Back Over My Life . . .,'" "Lost Highways."
I shall to return to this volume often and to the rest of his work as well. It strikes me like seeing a wet tree in the twilight, beautiful yet familiar.
April 1, 2014
Charles Wright is, well, Charles Wright. He seldom makes any missteps, but he also doesn't ever veer away from what he does. Unlike poets who experiment with different forms, styles, and language, Wright stays on course. Yes, because of this he can be a bit repetitive, but he always speaks to the deep mystery of life, the questions we have about now and after now, and he does it with self-deprecation and wit. There's always a bit of irony in his work. This book is darker than the others--he's 78 years old, will be 79 in August, and he's acutely conscious of the passage of time. In fact, some of the poems in this book seem to indicate that he's almost done with what he has to say. But I'm betting he's not. If you love his work, as I do, you will be pleased to enter into his particular sensibility once again.
September 23, 2014
Charles Wright is the ideal poet for our time: accessible, yet veiled. Spiritual yet pragmatic. Traditional yet innovative. I was first bewitched by his short lyric "spider crystal ascension" and it's spirit pervades this wonderful collection.
This collection contained the essences of so many poets I adore: Dickinson's meditation, Basho's attention to nature and man's place within, Whitman's cadence and embrace, I could go on.
There is a reason he is the next Poet Laureate, even with the embarrassment of that office. His southern voice is uniquely american, common and insightful. Caribou is a contemporary classic.
This collection contained the essences of so many poets I adore: Dickinson's meditation, Basho's attention to nature and man's place within, Whitman's cadence and embrace, I could go on.
There is a reason he is the next Poet Laureate, even with the embarrassment of that office. His southern voice is uniquely american, common and insightful. Caribou is a contemporary classic.
December 26, 2019
I am thoroughly more depressed now that I’ve read this book than I was before. It seems so hopeless and bleak. The author does a good job of conveying hopelessness and resignation, and I’m sure others will connect with him and enjoy this poetry on a deeper level, but it gave me an overwhelming sense of dread and I regret what it did to my mood today. Maybe it’s because I haven’t yet experienced this level of regret with my life, or this level of questioning emptiness, but I’m just not there yet and honestly I don’t want to go there. This was depressing.
April 1, 2015
Staggeringly bad. A monument to outdated, quixotic pastoralism. Deaf. Institutional poetry in its blandest form.
August 12, 2024
There's light, we learn, and there's Light.
To do what you have to do -- unrecognized -- and for no one.
The language in that is small,
sewn just under your skin.
The germs of stars infect us.
-- "Cake Walk"
To live a pure life, to live a true life,
is to live the life of an insect.
-- "Sentences II"
There is no metaphor, there is no simile,
and there is no rhetoric
To nudge us to their caress.
The trees remain the trees, God help us.
And memory, for all its warmth,
is merely the things we forgot to forget.
-- "Dude"
The beautiful evenings of early summer, blue sky
At its end, and green of the arborvitae,
green of the lime trees.
Such a wide membrane
Holding eternity back, stretched tight, holding it back.
-- "Life Lines"
Who knows how long this will go on?
Stand still, young soldier boy,
don't move, don't move, young sailor.
Whose night sky is this
With no one under it?
Whose darkness has closed our eyes?
-- "Translations from a Forgotten Tongue"
To do what you have to do -- unrecognized -- and for no one.
The language in that is small,
sewn just under your skin.
The germs of stars infect us.
-- "Cake Walk"
The unforgiven are pure, as are the unremembered.
-- "Grace II"
To live a pure life, to live a true life,
is to live the life of an insect.
-- "Sentences II"
Narrow road, wide road, all of us on it, unhappy,
Unsettled, seven yards short of immortality
And a yard short of not long to live.
Better to sit down in the tall grass
and watch the clouds,
To lift our faces up to the sky,
Considering -- for most of us -- our lives have been one constant mistake.
-- "Road Warriors"
There is no metaphor, there is no simile,
and there is no rhetoric
To nudge us to their caress.
The trees remain the trees, God help us.
And memory, for all its warmth,
is merely the things we forgot to forget.
-- "Dude"
It's 10 p.m. in New York, Eastern Daylight Standard Time,
whatever that is,
And then the divisional waters,
the North Atlantic humping toward Greenwich,
Where time's a still point.
Or it's not, arbitrary headwater.
The shadows don't care, they keep on inching across the meadow,
Unaware they might be going backward,
unaware
They might be seeping into themselves.
May the turn of the great star be with them,
may it tangle their fingers.
-- "Shadow Play"
The beautiful evenings of early summer, blue sky
At its end, and green of the arborvitae,
green of the lime trees.
Such a wide membrane
Holding eternity back, stretched tight, holding it back.
-- "Life Lines"
Whatever has given you comfort,
Whatever has rested you,
Whatever untwisted your heart
is what you will leave behind.
-- "October, Mon Amour"
Who knows how long this will go on?
Stand still, young soldier boy,
don't move, don't move, young sailor.
Whose night sky is this
With no one under it?
Whose darkness has closed our eyes?
-- "Translations from a Forgotten Tongue"
February 5, 2019
I am most likely in the minority here, but in reading one of the best works by one of America’s greatest poets, I was not really that impressed. Not sure if buying this book at the dollar store had anything to do with it, or the fact that my expectations were high upon reading his long list of awards.
I absolutely love Wright’s themes in his poems; life, death, memory, the beauty of nature, the reminder of a realm beyond our physical world, and the life-long search for truth. A few I found to be deeply profound; “Waterfalls”, “Heaven’s Eel”, “I’ve Been Sitting Here Thinking Back Over My Life…”, “Toadstools”, “Shadow Play”, “Whatever Happened To Al Lee?”, and “Solo Joe Revisited”.
BUT…I was not a personal fan of his poetic style, and couldn’t relate to his constant confusion about truth. One minute he says truth is out there and we need to find it, and the next minute he claims truth doesn’t exist. I understand he is agnostic and I see where he’s coming from. But it just didn’t appeal to me, and occasionally appeared depressing.
Again, his writing style wasn’t to my personal liking, but he managed to weave mystery, the essence of time, and the beauty of nature into his written thoughts…until this happened:
“The past is closing fast and is just about in front of us.
I like the wind at its back.
I like the way its butt twitches and its shoulders shrug.”
Sorry, Charles, I just about lost it there.
Also this collection was split into three different parts, which to me appeared to have no correlation to each other or have any coinciding theme. Unless I’m missing something here.
In all, I'd give it 3.5 stars; a decent book with some decent poetry. But at times repetively boring and convinced me that Wright seems to be the style-inspiration for some of the Instagram poetry I’ve been seeing lately. Not necessarily a good thing.
I absolutely love Wright’s themes in his poems; life, death, memory, the beauty of nature, the reminder of a realm beyond our physical world, and the life-long search for truth. A few I found to be deeply profound; “Waterfalls”, “Heaven’s Eel”, “I’ve Been Sitting Here Thinking Back Over My Life…”, “Toadstools”, “Shadow Play”, “Whatever Happened To Al Lee?”, and “Solo Joe Revisited”.
BUT…I was not a personal fan of his poetic style, and couldn’t relate to his constant confusion about truth. One minute he says truth is out there and we need to find it, and the next minute he claims truth doesn’t exist. I understand he is agnostic and I see where he’s coming from. But it just didn’t appeal to me, and occasionally appeared depressing.
Again, his writing style wasn’t to my personal liking, but he managed to weave mystery, the essence of time, and the beauty of nature into his written thoughts…until this happened:
“The past is closing fast and is just about in front of us.
I like the wind at its back.
I like the way its butt twitches and its shoulders shrug.”
Sorry, Charles, I just about lost it there.
Also this collection was split into three different parts, which to me appeared to have no correlation to each other or have any coinciding theme. Unless I’m missing something here.
In all, I'd give it 3.5 stars; a decent book with some decent poetry. But at times repetively boring and convinced me that Wright seems to be the style-inspiration for some of the Instagram poetry I’ve been seeing lately. Not necessarily a good thing.
March 22, 2025
This is the poetry of an old man attempting to come to terms with his mortality. That was the prominent impression as I read, though not every poem focused on aging or the specter of death.
I have never been a fan of Charles Wright so I knew this was a risk going in. Though I can't say I disliked this poetry, neither can I say I liked it. It was easy to read through the volume but nothing really struck or stuck during the course of it. Charles Wright and I are somehow on different wavelengths. Here's a taste, two poems on facing pages, to see if you are on the same wavelength with him. His line breaks can't be duplicated on Goodreads.
The Children of the Plain
Small they are, and rudderless,
They wander in the hot places
and touch their burn marks from time to time.
You've seen them, avoided them,
Watching the birds circling over them,
Their blood full of ashes, city boys lost in the sun.
Their eyelids, it happens, are weighed down by birds, small birds
And colorless, who lead them beside the dry waters.
They've become the invisible ones,
Their footprints like tiny monuments
In the ever-erasing sands,
the ever-erasing sands.
Plain Song
Where is the crack, the small crack
Where the dead come out
and go back in?
Only the dead know that, the speechless and shifting dead.
But it does ooze, half inch by half inch,
Under the doorway of dejection,
under the brown, arthritic leaves.
The clock strikes, but the hands don't move.
The night birds outside
The window are gone away.
The halo around the quarter-moon
Means no good.
Is this the hour of our undoing?
If so, we are perfected.
I have never been a fan of Charles Wright so I knew this was a risk going in. Though I can't say I disliked this poetry, neither can I say I liked it. It was easy to read through the volume but nothing really struck or stuck during the course of it. Charles Wright and I are somehow on different wavelengths. Here's a taste, two poems on facing pages, to see if you are on the same wavelength with him. His line breaks can't be duplicated on Goodreads.
The Children of the Plain
Small they are, and rudderless,
They wander in the hot places
and touch their burn marks from time to time.
You've seen them, avoided them,
Watching the birds circling over them,
Their blood full of ashes, city boys lost in the sun.
Their eyelids, it happens, are weighed down by birds, small birds
And colorless, who lead them beside the dry waters.
They've become the invisible ones,
Their footprints like tiny monuments
In the ever-erasing sands,
the ever-erasing sands.
Plain Song
Where is the crack, the small crack
Where the dead come out
and go back in?
Only the dead know that, the speechless and shifting dead.
But it does ooze, half inch by half inch,
Under the doorway of dejection,
under the brown, arthritic leaves.
The clock strikes, but the hands don't move.
The night birds outside
The window are gone away.
The halo around the quarter-moon
Means no good.
Is this the hour of our undoing?
If so, we are perfected.
November 29, 2019
[rating = B+]
I know you're not supposed to judge a book by its cover, but I really liked the shading and simplicity of Caribou. Also the fact that Charles Wright has won every major American Prize is not something to look over. Simultaneously reading Don't Call Us Dead by Danez Smith, I found this an interesting if not bipolar comparison. This collection is about old age and nature, of light on water and of Fate and God and the astonishing-ness of this world. Such lovely lines, sincere and tenderly strung together, and though I did not always immediately decode or "get" a poem, there was a feeling emanating from the words that held me attention. One problem I did find in this work was the oriented audience, which was obviously male/masculine. Furthermore, I dislike the use of "boy" or "Jack" and the overall speaking to male readers, the way he seemed to confide in them selectively. And though nature is stereotypically connotated as having feminine qualities, they seemed to be non-existent here. But otherwise, I found the collection interesting as I had not considered the ideas of mortality in his sort of light. This will be a good book to go back to when I have aged twenty years.
I know you're not supposed to judge a book by its cover, but I really liked the shading and simplicity of Caribou. Also the fact that Charles Wright has won every major American Prize is not something to look over. Simultaneously reading Don't Call Us Dead by Danez Smith, I found this an interesting if not bipolar comparison. This collection is about old age and nature, of light on water and of Fate and God and the astonishing-ness of this world. Such lovely lines, sincere and tenderly strung together, and though I did not always immediately decode or "get" a poem, there was a feeling emanating from the words that held me attention. One problem I did find in this work was the oriented audience, which was obviously male/masculine. Furthermore, I dislike the use of "boy" or "Jack" and the overall speaking to male readers, the way he seemed to confide in them selectively. And though nature is stereotypically connotated as having feminine qualities, they seemed to be non-existent here. But otherwise, I found the collection interesting as I had not considered the ideas of mortality in his sort of light. This will be a good book to go back to when I have aged twenty years.
December 6, 2023
"When is it we come to the realization / that all things are wandering away? / Is it age, is it lack of adoration, is it / Regret there's no ladder to the clouds? / Whatever, we inhabit this quotidian, as we must, / While somewhere behind our backs, / waterfalls tumble and keep on going / Into the deep desire of distance."
Wright uses these poems to contemplate nature, the divine, old age, and death. Their quiet lyricism is matched by their immense profundity. I went to a different library in town in order to procure a poetry collection from Sharon Olds, but while I was there, I decided to pick up a few books from authors I was not familiar with. Much like life, we can find great measures of beauty on a whim, when we are not looking for or expecting them. Many of these pieces could be used as mantras to repeat to oneself daily; or they could be used as inspiration to go out and live the life we are all granted. The work produces vivid imagery which not all poetry can achieve. I look forward to exploring more from this author. 4.5 stars.
Wright uses these poems to contemplate nature, the divine, old age, and death. Their quiet lyricism is matched by their immense profundity. I went to a different library in town in order to procure a poetry collection from Sharon Olds, but while I was there, I decided to pick up a few books from authors I was not familiar with. Much like life, we can find great measures of beauty on a whim, when we are not looking for or expecting them. Many of these pieces could be used as mantras to repeat to oneself daily; or they could be used as inspiration to go out and live the life we are all granted. The work produces vivid imagery which not all poetry can achieve. I look forward to exploring more from this author. 4.5 stars.
April 11, 2019
"Nothing's as far away as love is,
not even the new stars,
Though something is moving them
We hope in our direction, albeit their skin's not on fire."
Maybe it's not the greatest collection of poems ever assembled, but it has so much of what characterizes Wright's best work and makes him a really good poet, in my opinion: nature imagery, reflections on existence and self, questions about God and immortality.
"Whose night sky is this
With no one under it?
Whose darkness has closed our eyes?"
not even the new stars,
Though something is moving them
We hope in our direction, albeit their skin's not on fire."
Maybe it's not the greatest collection of poems ever assembled, but it has so much of what characterizes Wright's best work and makes him a really good poet, in my opinion: nature imagery, reflections on existence and self, questions about God and immortality.
"Whose night sky is this
With no one under it?
Whose darkness has closed our eyes?"
September 6, 2021
Every one of these poems is an absolute gem, so beautiful and profound and true that it hurts. These poems are flinty, hard, shining, brilliant, all excess has been chipped away, so they are shining and painful and hit straight at the heart. They hurt so much that I couldn't bear to read more than one or two at a time.
Waterfalls
When is it we come to the realization
that all things are wandering away?
Is it age, is it lack of adoration, is it
Regret there’s no ladder to the clouds?
Whatever, we inhabit the quotidian, as we must,
While somewhere behind our backs,
waterfalls tumble and keep on going
Into the deep desire of distance.
October 8, 2020
Cheap imitation of Pound: Charles Wright here is trying hard to be oriental, to rebuild natural fragments of landscapes and other panoramic inhibitions—to show he went through it all.
Dull.
His art of stanza is very modernist, but the style implies artificial conduct, very uninviting unlike what Eliot and Pound did. It can’t be denied though, there are some lines shining, but the ekphrasis is confusing, and Charles Wright has that predictable American elderly tone contemplating the last of his light—and it was done before.
Dull.
Dull.
His art of stanza is very modernist, but the style implies artificial conduct, very uninviting unlike what Eliot and Pound did. It can’t be denied though, there are some lines shining, but the ekphrasis is confusing, and Charles Wright has that predictable American elderly tone contemplating the last of his light—and it was done before.
Dull.
July 25, 2017
Quite pessimistic in tone, Wright revisits questions about the meaningfulness of life, the reality of death, and the doubts associated with religious faith time and time again throughout this collection. I appreciated the tone and consistent focus of these poems, but rarely was I absorbed into the language or imagery used to convey these thoughts and emotions.
June 6, 2024
There are some lines (and poems) that are flatter and seem less surprising, and I agree the book's beginning is stronger than its middle (and perhaps end). But many of the poems are simply sublime, such as "Time and the Centipedes of Night" and "Cake Walk." It had been too long since I had read Wright, and I loved the return.
April 10, 2024
solid collection of poems about aging, nature, divinity, time. at times inaccessible and using interesting words just to use them (which isn’t a bad thing)
favorites: heaven’s eel, “my old clinch mountain home,” and lost highways
favorites: heaven’s eel, “my old clinch mountain home,” and lost highways
May 16, 2024
maybe i’m not a poetry person, but i struggled with many of the poems in this book. however the ones that resonated REALLY resonated, and i’m a big fan of the style of poetry charles writes. his structure is wonderful.
August 7, 2018
Loved the poems just wish it was a little longer or there was a second book
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