[New-Poetry] From the Other World: Poems in Memory of James Wright

[David Graham]

I still love a lot of Wright.

Here's my favorite.

As I Step Over A Puddle At The End Of Winter, I Think Of An Ancient  
Chinese Governor


      And how can I, born in evil days
      And fresh from failure, ask a kindness of Fate?

             -- Written A.D. 819


Po Chu-i, balding old politician,
What's the use?
I think of you,
Uneasily entering the gorges of the Yang-Tze,
When you were being towed up the rapids
Toward some political job or other
In the city of Chungshou.
You made it, I guess,
By dark.

But it is 1960, it is almost spring again,
And the tall rocks of Minneapolis
Build me my own black twilight
Of bamboo ropes and waters.
Where is Yuan Chen, the friend you loved?
Where is the sea, that once solved the whole loneliness
Of the Midwest?Where is Minneapolis? I can see nothing
But the great terrible oak tree darkening with winter.
Did you find the city of isolated men beyond mountains?
Or have you been holding the end of a frayed rope
For a thousand years?

--James Wright



========================================
David Graham
grahamd at ripon.edu

Home Page:
http://web.mac.com/drjazz/iWeb/Site/About%20Me.html

Poetry Library:
http://web.mac.com/drjazz/iWeb/Site/DGPoLibrary.html
==========================================



On Nov 15, 2007, at 10:42 AM, Rsgwynn1 at cs.com wrote:

> I still love this one.
>
> A Note Left in Jimmy Leonard's Shack
>
>
>
> Near the dry river's water-mark we found
> Your brother Minnegan,
> Flopped like a fish against the muddy ground.
> Beany, the kid whose yellow hair turns green,
> Told me to find you, even if the rain,
> And tell you he was drowned.
>
> I hid behind the chassis on the bank,
> The wreck of someone's Ford:
> I was afraid to come and wake you drunk:
> You told me once the waking up was hard,
> The daylight beating at you like a board.
> Blood in my stomach sank.
>
> Beside, you told him never to go out
> Along the river-side
> Drinking and singing, clattering about.
> You might have thrown a rock at me and cried
> I was to blame, I let him fall in the road
> And pitch down on his side.
>
> Well, I'll get hell enough when I get home
> For coming up this far,
> Leaving the note, and running as I came.
> I'll go and tell my father where you are.
> You'd better go find Minnegan before
> Policemen hear and come.
>
> Beany went home, and I got sick and ran,
> You old son of a bitch.
> You better hurry down to Minnegan;
> He's drunk or dying now, I don't know which,
> Rolled in the roots and garbage like a fish,
> The poor old man.
>
>
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> New-Poetry mailing list
> New-Poetry at wiz.cath.vt.edu
> http://wiz.cath.vt.edu/mailman/listinfo/new-poetry

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