Review by Publisher's Weekly Review
The six books that Wright published in the '90s were more or less split between Carnegie-Mellon University and Oberlin College presses, with the latter publishing Ill Lit: Selected Poems to little fanfare in 1998. Clearly, however, Knopf editor Deborah Garrison was paying attention, having made Wright's 13th collection her first for the house since taking over for the late Harry Ford last year. The poems here slowly make explicit a psychologically acute back story, featuring Haldol, codeine, drinking and childhood abuse. (Wright's father was the late poet James Wright.) They depend almost completely on a pared-down, querulous, alternatingly grandiose and self-deflating depression-speak, which can be terrific when on, and much less impressive when even slightly off. A laconic rhythm drives self-revelations like "Not Now": "This mask/ this glove/ of human flesh// is all I have/ and that's not bad/ and that's not good// not good enough// not now." But too many of these short monologues can't sustain their self-reflection, as in "Primogeniture," which opens "My dad beat me with his belt/ for my edification" and closes "may my hand whither// may it forget how to write/ if I ever strike a child." Single lines and thoughts can be better than whole poemsÄ"Dark the computer dies in its sleep"; "...so you are not/ going to hurt me again/ and I, I can't/ happen to you"; "I'll give you something to cry about"Ägiving this uneven collection depth and credibility. (Jan. 31) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Review by Library Journal Review
The persona in these poems inhabits a psychic hell poignantly familiar to recovering addicts and to "Franz Wrightwith his suitcase/ of codeine pills." It is a world where a "guy in white" comes "to see/ if you've killed yourself." In this persona, Wright, son of the celebrated poet James Wright, confronts his alcoholism as "the drunk son of a drunk," a lowly "cockroach/ in a psychiatrist's kitchen," committed because of his "psychotic" visions on a subway train a year earlier. His only salvation is the "word world" where he contemplates the ineffable beauty of mallards swimming in a cove or "January snowfall" clean as a "new page." Addressed to his wife and written between December 1998 and December 1999, the poems are formatted like brief telegrams, shocking in their honesty: "my dad beat me with his belt." Intriguing and always accessible, with no "irrelevant/ lies," this book will expand the audience for poetry by showing readers that, in spite of stunning obstacles, it is always "possible to live." Recommended for all general collections.DDaniel Guillory, Millikin Univ., Decatur, IL (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Review by Kirkus Book Review
The dominant moods of Wrights latest work are repentance and resolution. The former covers a lot of territory, but Wright consistently circles back to the prison of addictionto its vicious cycles and the possibility of release. The poets Christianity is admittedly unorthodox, but unless we give some credence to the notions of sin (not necessarily original sin), grace, and salvation, we are unlikely to find his vision compelling. Three of the poems are explicit prayers, and many others read like prayers: they dance among the attitudes of atonement, thanksgiving, and petition. The longer, more narrative works do not have the snap and clear vision of his prayerful poems, but this is merely to quibble. In Primogeniture he tells of a legacy of child abuse handed down from father to son over generations. It ends on a note of defiance: So thats how it is done / here, / I thought / and may my hand wither / may it forget how to write / if I ever strike a child. The pun on write works on several levelssince Wrights father, James Wright, was also a writerand clarifies the need to work free of inheritance and destructive habit. In these short meditations of anguish and hope, Wright achieves the clarity of seeing, and a hard-won wisdom as well.
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