One of Franz Wright’s miniatures—those exquisite small poems which open up worlds. (This one originally appeared in his Entry in an Unknown Hand, 1989).
Rooms
Rooms I (I will not say
worked in) once heard in. Words
my mouth heard
then—be
with me. Rooms,
you open onto one
another: still house
this life, be in me
when I leave
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One could, with a little prompting, wax rhapsodic in praise of the (almost) lost art of brevity. Centuries later, this poem is an enticing continuation of the Shakespeherian sonnet; what oft was thought but ne’er so well expressed. ‘Nuff said.
I value Franz Wright’s work above all others writing poetry today and recommend to everyone his WALKING TO MARTHA’S VINEYARD and GOD’S SILENCE. (Also WHEELING MOTEL.)
Franz Wright’s poetry reminds me that it’s important to take the time to pay attention. If I do I find worlds within worlds that are not the worlds I leave from or return to.
Birth to death in 9 lines. So poignant, so brilliant.