Breve storia dell'ombra

by Charles Wright

Luminous new poems from the author of The Appalachian Book of the Dead.

Landscape, as Wang Wei says, softens the sharp edges of
isolation.
Don't just do something, sit there.
And so I have, so I have,
the seasons curling around me like smoke,
Gone to the end of the earth and back without a sound. —"Body and Soul II"

This is Charles Wright's first collection of verse since the completion of his Appalachian Book of the Dead, the trilogy of trilogies hailed as "among the great long poems of the century" (James Longenbach, Boston Review). Wright speaks in these poems with characteristic charm, restlessness, and wit, writing again and again, "I sit where I always sit," only to reveal himself in a new setting every time. In A Short History of the Shadow, Wright's return to the landscapes of his early work finds his art resilient in a world haunted by death and the dead.

Charles Wright has won, among other honors, the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry, the National Book Critics Circle Award, the National Book Award, and the Academy of American Poets' 1996 Lenore Marshall Poetry Prize. He teaches at the University of Virginia.

Genres: Poetry

214 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 2002

About the author

Charles 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.”

Reviews

[Peycho Kanev · Rating 3 out of 5]

LOST LANGUAGE

October, and leaves fall down. One feels the world go by.
First frost. And a licking sound
Just under the earth,
great wheels, or a sluice of some sort.
Sunlight thin as Saran Wrap.
A licking sound, the suck and bump of something against something.
One lives one’s life in the word,
One word and a syllable, word and one syllable.
As though ice and its amulets could rise and rest us.
Whatever it is we look for is scattered, apart.
I have a thirst for the divine,
a long drink of forbidden water.
I have a hankering for the dust-light, for all things illegible.
I want to settle myself
Where the river falls on hard rocks,
where no one can cross,
Where the star-shadowed, star-colored city lies, just out of reach.

THE SECRET OF POETRY

The second Chinese said, all that you need to find poetry
Is to look for it with a lantern.
Tonight, one night after full, the full moon feminine
Is all you would need,
The lunar essence, the blind structure of matter,
perfection of pain,
Discharging unwilled and processional across the landscape.

Snow, and snow and ice, and snow again,
Came yesterday, before the moonlight.
It’s hard to find,
Despite what the Chinese said.
It’s hard to find despite what the moonlight jukes and joins.
Now that the snow and ice have stopped, and the light’s come back,
It hurts, and it’s difficult to see.

The north wind in the bare limbs of the oak trees bears down on us.
The song of the north wind fills our ears with no meaning.

[Luci · Rating 5 out of 5]

“Every true poem is a spark, / And aspires to the condition of the original fire / Arising out of the emptiness it wants the reignite. / It is that same engendering it wants to be re-engendered by. / Shooting stars.”

[Eliana · Rating 4 out of 5]

Decadent language.

[Shams Alkamil · Rating 2 out of 5]

"What isn't available is always what's longed for, it's written, erased, then written again."

2.5, a combination of too much imagery + free verse. But when a stanza hits home, it hits home.

[Jake Walter · Rating 2 out of 5]

Perhaps . 5

[Mike · Rating 2 out of 5]

Another tired-sounding post-Negative Blue collection from Charles Wright. Replaces a mystic curiosity about the world with a lot of subjective introspection. Sure, there is poetry within, but more fleeting than sustained.

Skip this (and Scar Tissue) and go get Littlefoot, it might be the best book Wright has ever produced.

[Andrew · Rating 2 out of 5]

same format, not quite the same poem...

[Sarah Byrd · Rating 5 out of 5]

second favorite poet, of the natural landscape in the mountains

[Lily · Rating 5 out of 5]

I always return to this collection when I need my feeling fix.

[Rachel · Rating 5 out of 5]

"I want to settle myself
Where the river falls on hard rocks,
Where no one can cross,
Where the star-shadowed, star colored city lies, just out of reach."
--"Lost Language"

Oh, CW. Oh.

[Michele Benson · Rating 3 out of 5]

Something about fall makes me want to read poetry. This is not Wright's best collection but there are a few gems. My favorite: " The moon was a promise only partially kept."

[Bojan · Rating 4 out of 5]

Lyrics, fresh.

[Patrick Mcgee · Rating 5 out of 5]

Charles Wright. 'Nough said.