Poet C. D. Wright Dies at Sixty-Seven
Prize-winning poet and Brown University professor C. D. Wright, age sixty-seven, passed away unexpectedly yesterday evening at her home in Providence, Rhode Island. The cause of death has yet to be determined.
A press release from Wright’s publisher, Copper Canyon Press, states that Wright was known for a “signature styling of journalistic investigation, hybrid language, collaborations, and sharp wordplay.” Her commitment to poetry was unmatched, as she wrote:
“I write it, study it, read it, edit it, publish it, teach it… sometimes I weary of it. I could not live without it. Not in this world. Not in my lifetime.”
2 thoughts on “Poet C. D. Wright Dies at Sixty-Seven”
I liked this poem:
More Blues and the Abstract Truth
By C. D. Wright
I back the car over a soft, large object;
hair appears on my chest in dreams.
The paperboy comes to collect
with a pit bull. Call Grandmother
and she says, Well you know
death is death and none other.
In the mornings we’re in the dark;
even at the end of June
the zucchini keep on the sill.
Ring Grandmother for advice
and she says, O you know
I used to grow so many things.
Then there’s the frequent bleeding,
the tender nipples, and the rot
under the floormat. If I’m not seeing
a cold-eyed doctor it is
another gouging mechanic.
Grandmother says, Thanks to the blue rugs
and Eileen Briscoe’s elms
the house keeps cool.
Well. Then. You say Grandmother
let me just ask you this:
How does a body rise up again and rinse
her mouth from the tap. And how
does a body put in a plum tree
or lie again on top of another body
or string a trellis. Or go on drying
the flatware. Fix rainbow trout. Grout the tile.
Buy a bag of onions. Beat an egg stiff. Yes,
how does the cat continue
to lick itself from toenail to tailhole.
And how does a body break
bread with the word when the word
has broken. Again. And. Again.
With the wine. And the loaf.
And the excellent glass
of the body. And she says,
Even. If. The. Sky. Is. Falling.
My. Peace. Rose. Is. In. Bloom.
I agree with Quasimodo;this poem has no ritualized language; butlifts us on a higher level of an epiphany. C.D.Wright is
up there in a pensive discursive revelation which makes us
listen to her linguistic innovative haunting phrases.Those
who knew her will miss her voice.