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To a Blossoming Pear Tree
To a Blossoming Pear James To a Blossoming Pear Farrar Strauss and FIRST First Edition, First Printing. Not price-clipped. Published by Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1977. Octavo. Hardcover. Publisher review slip and photo laid in. Pink topstain. Book is very good with spotting to page ends. Dust jacket is very good with shelf wear. 100% positive feedback. 30 day money back guarantee. NEXT DAY SHIPPING! Excellent customer service. Please email with any questions. All books packed carefully and ship with free delivery confirmation/tracking. All books come with free bookmarks. Ships from Sag Harbor, New York.Seller 332009 Poetry We Buy Books! Collections - Libraries - Estates - Individual Titles. Message us if you have books to sell!
- GenresPoetry
256 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1977
42 people want to read
About the author
James Wright
504 books105 followersLibrarian Note: There is more than one author in the GoodReads database with this name.
On December 13, 1927, James Arlington Wright was born in Martins Ferry, Ohio. His father worked for fifty years at a glass factory, and his mother left school at fourteen to work in a laundry; neither attended school beyond the eighth grade. While in high school in 1943 Wright suffered a nervous breakdown and missed a year of school. When he graduated in 1946, a year late, he joined the army and was stationed in Japan during the American occupation. He then attended Kenyon College on the G.I. Bill, and studied under John Crowe Ransom. He graduated cum laude and Phi Beta Kappa in 1952, then married another Martins Ferry native, Liberty Kardules. The two traveled to Austria, where, on a Fulbright Fellowship, Wright studied the works of Theodor Storm and Georg Trakl at the University of Vienna. He returned to the U.S. and earned master's and doctoral degrees at the University of Washington, studying with Theodore Roethke and Stanley Kunitz. He went on to teach at The University of Minnesota, Macalester College, and New York City's Hunter College.
On December 13, 1927, James Arlington Wright was born in Martins Ferry, Ohio. His father worked for fifty years at a glass factory, and his mother left school at fourteen to work in a laundry; neither attended school beyond the eighth grade. While in high school in 1943 Wright suffered a nervous breakdown and missed a year of school. When he graduated in 1946, a year late, he joined the army and was stationed in Japan during the American occupation. He then attended Kenyon College on the G.I. Bill, and studied under John Crowe Ransom. He graduated cum laude and Phi Beta Kappa in 1952, then married another Martins Ferry native, Liberty Kardules. The two traveled to Austria, where, on a Fulbright Fellowship, Wright studied the works of Theodor Storm and Georg Trakl at the University of Vienna. He returned to the U.S. and earned master's and doctoral degrees at the University of Washington, studying with Theodore Roethke and Stanley Kunitz. He went on to teach at The University of Minnesota, Macalester College, and New York City's Hunter College.
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Displaying 1 - 11 of 11 reviews
October 28, 2017
This book, one of my favorites, has a grace like few others. I think it's the grace of having found a second style, lighter, no less committed to understanding the delicacy of that that saves one from their most destructive fidelities, an understanding of what is proper, and ceremonious, in laying oneself bare to an emotion. I don't think Wright knows here that he has cancer; I don't think he's achieved whatever measure of vision his last book may have glimpsed; but I do think the poems here have a quickness of thought that characterizes the extraordinary compression of Wright's imagining the poet of "An Excuse for Not Returning the Visit of a Friend" (the poet is Yao Che'n; the poem is included Rexroth's One Hundred Poems From the Chinese) through Po Chu-i's eyes, only to ask, "Where is the sea, that once solved the whole loneliness | of the Midwest?" The lines are from the opening poem in The Branch Will Not Break. That sort of density and power is in the "One Last Look At the Adige: Verona in the Rain," where Wright begins, "Some crumbling of igneous |far off in the coverts | Of my orplidean country," and notes, just traveling along with Dante, "I woke up and found myself | Dying, fair enough, still | Alive in the friendly city | Of my body, my secret Verona." That would be an example of both the lightness and the generosity, to let one's devotions lie upon the page, for how they'll telepathize without the poet fussing over them. Apparently the poet had much more than this, and his friend Robert Bly encouraged the savageness by which those journal-like prose pieces were cut from the book. A few terrific ones survived, though, my favorite "The Flying Eagles of Troop 62," which is Wright's most characteristic comic performance.
May 23, 2019
I’ve thought of a decent metaphor for explaining my experience reading this collection of poems, and it has to do with the mechanics of a bicycle. James Wright is the bicycle rider; he does the pedaling and controls the steering, which determines where he looks and the experiences he has. The bicycle chain represents the words he has chosen to pull readers through his experience, and the reader is the “cassette” on the rear wheel of the bike, that circle with the sharp points that engages with the chain and makes the wheels and tires turn and cover ground. If I am the cassette, I’m missing many of the sharp points that engage with the chain and put the bike in motion, allowing me to see and feel his experience. The chain slips, the wheels fail to go around, and I’m not sure of the experience he’s communicating.
Of course, within this metaphor, the chain does catch or connect occasionally, and I have moments of sharing his experience and insight. But on the whole I’m a malfunctioning cassette.
Part of this malfunction is because he is writing about places I have never been and for which I have no point of reference. A related part is simply that he is using vocabulary I don’t know or referencing other things of which I have no knowledge. And for me, the final problematic aspect of Wright’s “chain” of words is that I had trouble filling in the gaps of his logical connections. Filling in these gaps--comprehending the leap in any poem’s logical “turn”--is one of the satisfying things about reading poetry, but I consistently struggled to connect the turns in these poems. There are two possible conclusions to draw from my experience. One is that Wright has failed to communicate effectively, and the other is that I am simply not his “ideal reader” in literary terms. Given his reputation, I must conclude that the latter option is the correct one.
These difficulties aside, there are many moments where the Wright’s “chain” engaged with my “cassette” and I found pleasure in reading. The majority of these moments occurred in his micro-narrative poems, which are written in paragraph format, eschewing the conventional poetic device of intentional line breaks. These observed scenes are relayed with the reflective tone of a contemplative observer. While I read, I had the thought that it would be more fun to write about these experiences than it is to read about them, i.e. I could sense his pleasure but I was rarely able to muster its vicarious equivalent.
Of course, within this metaphor, the chain does catch or connect occasionally, and I have moments of sharing his experience and insight. But on the whole I’m a malfunctioning cassette.
Part of this malfunction is because he is writing about places I have never been and for which I have no point of reference. A related part is simply that he is using vocabulary I don’t know or referencing other things of which I have no knowledge. And for me, the final problematic aspect of Wright’s “chain” of words is that I had trouble filling in the gaps of his logical connections. Filling in these gaps--comprehending the leap in any poem’s logical “turn”--is one of the satisfying things about reading poetry, but I consistently struggled to connect the turns in these poems. There are two possible conclusions to draw from my experience. One is that Wright has failed to communicate effectively, and the other is that I am simply not his “ideal reader” in literary terms. Given his reputation, I must conclude that the latter option is the correct one.
These difficulties aside, there are many moments where the Wright’s “chain” engaged with my “cassette” and I found pleasure in reading. The majority of these moments occurred in his micro-narrative poems, which are written in paragraph format, eschewing the conventional poetic device of intentional line breaks. These observed scenes are relayed with the reflective tone of a contemplative observer. While I read, I had the thought that it would be more fun to write about these experiences than it is to read about them, i.e. I could sense his pleasure but I was rarely able to muster its vicarious equivalent.
October 2, 2025
We have the hardcover edition.
March 19, 2024
A good blend of poems and prose poems from the end of James Wright's career. James approached prose poetry very differently from his son Franz - whereas Franz's prose poems are always in one large blocky stanza, James cuts his up into different stanzas and indents them like paragraphs, making them look far more like short essays than poems. It's very weird, especially if you're more used to Franz's poetry, but it works.
Many of the poems here are written in and/or about Italy, where James and his wife Annie apparently spent a good amount of time. It's similar to how James used to write about his native Ohio in his earlier work, and some of his poems here do in fact mention both Italy and Ohio. Comparisons can also be made between this collection and James's seminal "The Branch Will Not Break."
Many of the poems here are written in and/or about Italy, where James and his wife Annie apparently spent a good amount of time. It's similar to how James used to write about his native Ohio in his earlier work, and some of his poems here do in fact mention both Italy and Ohio. Comparisons can also be made between this collection and James's seminal "The Branch Will Not Break."
June 11, 2025
Not bad. A lot of prose pieces in this collection, which appealed to me.
The poems that had to do with Wright's fixation on Italy, how beautiful it was, or whatever, I didn't really connect with; the poems that talked about the ordinary, but in a heightened way, I loved. Admittedly, some of the pieces did go over my head.
My favorites were The Secret of Light and First Days.
Rich language, lovely imagery, well organized syntax.
2.5 stars. Not bad.
The poems that had to do with Wright's fixation on Italy, how beautiful it was, or whatever, I didn't really connect with; the poems that talked about the ordinary, but in a heightened way, I loved. Admittedly, some of the pieces did go over my head.
My favorites were The Secret of Light and First Days.
Rich language, lovely imagery, well organized syntax.
2.5 stars. Not bad.
August 7, 2020
Some beautiful poems and interesting prose pieces. Midwestern poems ring true for me, some of the Italian poems are harder to hold onto. Written near the period in which he struggles with a cancer diagnosis, shortly before his last volume of poems. A fitting reflection on familiar themes, and a nice prelude to his final poems. A master!
March 3, 2025
NERUDA
Trees that are not trees easily,
The little leaves
That are trees in secret.
Under one bough,
One vein on one leaf,
One side of the sea
Sang for a thousand inches
Uphill, as though
The tree in the leaf
Were sorry for being human
And wanted to run back
Across a river
In the center of America
Into the arms of an old beard,
Architect of spiders
Climbing up the long
Hill to gain
The crumbling pinnacle and spin
One strand of his body to join
The earth to one star anyway,
And save it, maybe.
The leaves of the little
Secret trees are fallen,
And where the earth goes on spinning,
I don't know.
Trees that are not trees easily,
The little leaves
That are trees in secret.
Under one bough,
One vein on one leaf,
One side of the sea
Sang for a thousand inches
Uphill, as though
The tree in the leaf
Were sorry for being human
And wanted to run back
Across a river
In the center of America
Into the arms of an old beard,
Architect of spiders
Climbing up the long
Hill to gain
The crumbling pinnacle and spin
One strand of his body to join
The earth to one star anyway,
And save it, maybe.
The leaves of the little
Secret trees are fallen,
And where the earth goes on spinning,
I don't know.
September 16, 2016
I hadn't read much James Wright, and I didn't think we'd be kindred spirits, but I wanted to read more. Especially when I read that this book contains some excellent prose poems. I've read it now (it's a quick read), and my review has some good news and some bad news.
Good news: I really like Wright's obvious kinship with nature. You can tell he admires all forms of nature (from mammals to insects to trees to bodies of water), and he is very curious about the inner world of non-human beings. One thing that's very touching is that he often comes to the conclusion that he and the animals he observes are having the same spiritual experience.
Bad news: Some of the poems are really, really stinkers. There's one about his dog that ran away that's best skipped. Ditto the one about the hermit crab that has an ABAB rhyme scheme. The travel poems were a little boring to me--the language in them was not spectacular enough to really elevate them. On a different note, there's a poem (on page 34-35 in my version) where he talks about beating up one black boy and running another one off. I have no idea what that's about--I don't really care either if he did that or not. This book was written in 1977, so there's no excuse for "how it was back then." The only reason I could see including racial violence in a poem is to shock the reader or characterize the narrator, and it does neither here.
Good news: I really like Wright's obvious kinship with nature. You can tell he admires all forms of nature (from mammals to insects to trees to bodies of water), and he is very curious about the inner world of non-human beings. One thing that's very touching is that he often comes to the conclusion that he and the animals he observes are having the same spiritual experience.
Bad news: Some of the poems are really, really stinkers. There's one about his dog that ran away that's best skipped. Ditto the one about the hermit crab that has an ABAB rhyme scheme. The travel poems were a little boring to me--the language in them was not spectacular enough to really elevate them. On a different note, there's a poem (on page 34-35 in my version) where he talks about beating up one black boy and running another one off. I have no idea what that's about--I don't really care either if he did that or not. This book was written in 1977, so there's no excuse for "how it was back then." The only reason I could see including racial violence in a poem is to shock the reader or characterize the narrator, and it does neither here.
March 12, 2013
Has a friend ever told you about something that happened to them, a story of so little interest and such little moment that you wondered why they bothered telling you? Now imagine that story was a poem, and you have an idea of why I don’t like this book.
I was aware of Wright’s high esteem among poets and readers of poetry, but I had to wonder about that after I slogged through 40 pages before I found a poem I could connect with, and there were not many I liked following that.
However, I like those few poems a lot. A whole lot. Perhaps this means that Wright is a wonderful poet, but I’m not at a place in my life where the majority of poems in this collection are meaningful to me. Perhaps it means that Wright is way overrated, but occasionally comes up with a good poem. I really don’t know. I only know that his work isn’t for me.
I was aware of Wright’s high esteem among poets and readers of poetry, but I had to wonder about that after I slogged through 40 pages before I found a poem I could connect with, and there were not many I liked following that.
However, I like those few poems a lot. A whole lot. Perhaps this means that Wright is a wonderful poet, but I’m not at a place in my life where the majority of poems in this collection are meaningful to me. Perhaps it means that Wright is way overrated, but occasionally comes up with a good poem. I really don’t know. I only know that his work isn’t for me.
March 2, 2016
was led to read Wright poems by his letter exchanges with Silko in their book of correspondence (The Delicacy and Strength of Lace) only to discover in these pages that one of my favorite poems was within: "Hook." The poem has layers of complexity carried in only a few lines of narrative. His poems have the earthiness of Roethke and the sense of place (Ohio, Italy, France) and some masterful images.
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May 10, 2013Coll.
Displaying 1 - 11 of 11 reviews