By Franz Wright
In those riveting poems, Wright pronounces, "I've acknowledged all that / I needed to say. / In writing. / I signed my identify. / It's death's move." As he considers his mortality, the poet reveals a brand new elation and readability at the web page, delivering for our exam the fallacious but kneeling-in-gratitude self he has develop into. F stands either for Franz, the poet-speaker who represents we all on our baffling lifelong trips, and for the alphabet, the application and occasionally brutality of our symbols. (It might be, he jokes grimly, his "grade in life.") From "Entries of the Cell," the lengthy imperative poem that information the loneliness of the one soul, to brief narrative prose poems and conventional lyrics, Wright revels within the compensatory strength of language, looking at the daylight hours headlights following a hearse, or the wind, "blessing one after the other the unlighted buds of the backbent peach tree's unnoted return." he's at his most sensible during this attractive and startling collection.
From the book
LEAVE ME HIDDEN
I was once having difficulty deciding
which to observe: Night
of the dwelling Bloggers, or
Attack of the Neck-Brace People.
In the tip I simply went for a walk.
In the woods i finished considering why
of all trees
this one: my hand
pressed to fissures
and ridges of
bark's highly magnified
resting opposed to it
a heartbeat, substantial, silently
booming there deep in
my hidden leaves, blessed
underworld, thank you
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Haunted By William Shakespeery Gaunt and ghastly, Greta Lynn Is scarcely bone with paper skin. Her breath is stale and cold as snow, And when she walks, the ravens crow. Poor Greta was a lonely child— She had no friends, she never smiled. In school I called her shameful things— I shouted cruel and painful things. Now every night at twelve o’clock, I hear her shuffling up the block. And every night, she tries my lock, Then gives my door a hollow knock. She calls my name, then thumps the wall. My bedroom quakes and pictures fall.
But where shall I begin my tales? I’ve seen much from this lonely post. Come closer; look me in the eyes, And hear what you should fear the most. Too late! I’ve cast my spell on you! Now you’re a gargoyle just like me; For those who gaze into my eyes Are doomed to keep me company. The Wishing Well By Laura Wynkoop Throughout the dark and creeping woods, there lies a hidden trail That wanders to a wishing well within a misty vale. The local townsfolk, young and old, all know the well is cursed, And those who dare to make a wish had best expect the worst.
We’re grim and gaunt, We love to haunt, We slither through the night. So bite your nails, lock your doors, And hug your pillows tight! 34 Zombie Kid Blues By Edna Cabcabin Moran Being a zombie is cool, And normally I like school. But today’s not my day, I’m sorry to say, I’m falling apart like a fool. While playing baseball outside, I ended up wanting to hide. Though I borrowed a mitt That perfectly fit, It came off with my hand still inside. At lunch, we lined up at the door, Where I was embarrassed once more.