Synopses & Reviews
After the end of something, there comes another end,This one behind you, and far away.
Only a lifetime can get you to it,
and then just barely.
Littlefoot, the eighteenth book from one of this countrys most acclaimed poets, is an extended meditation on mortality, on the narrators search of the skies for a road map and for last instructions on the other side of my own death.” Following the course of one year, the poets seventieth, we witness the seasons change over his familiar postage stamps of soil, realizing that we are reflected in them, that the true affinity is between writer and subject, human and nature, one becoming the other, as the river is like our blood, it powers on, / out of sight, out of mind.” Seeded with lyrics of old love songs and spirituals, here we meet solitude, resignation, and a glad cry that while a return to the beloved earth is impossible, all things come from splendor,” and the urgent question that the poet cant help but ask: Will you miss me when Im gone? Charles Wright, winner of the Pulitzer Prize, the National Book Critics Circle Award, and the National Book Award, teaches at the University of Virginia in Charlottesville. After the end of something, there comes another end,
This one behind you, and far away.
Only a lifetime can get you to it,
and then just barely.
Littlefoot, the eighteenth book from one of this countrys most acclaimed poets, is an extended meditation on mortality, on the narrators search of the skies for a road map and for last instructions on the other side of my own death.” Following the course of one year, the poets seventieth, we witness the seasons change over his familiar postage stamps of soil, realizing that we are reflected in them, that the true affinity is between writer and subject, human and nature, one becoming the other, as the river is like our blood, it powers on, / out of sight, out of mind.” Seeded with lyrics of old love songs and spirituals, here we meet solitude, resignation, and a glad cry that while a return to the beloved earth is impossible, all things come from splendor,” and the urgent question that the poet cant help but ask: Will you miss me when Im gone?" After the end of something, there comes another end,
This one behind you, and far away.
Only a lifetime can get you to it,
and then just barely. Though we seldom speak of Charles Wright as a religious poet, at least not as we might discuss George Herbert or Gerard Manley Hopkins, he is nevertheless among the most spiritual of American poets of the last 50 years . . . This latest collection, actually one long poem composed of 35 numbered but unnamed sections, is another in a series of maps that illustrate Wrights way of living, as pilgrim, between the seen and the unseen, attempting to come as close as possible to the light. This life and art of pilgrimageWright has always been conscious of his age, of the ticking of the clock, and Littlefoot makes much of his arrival at 70involves a rich and detailed awareness, in this case very like Hopkins own uncanny sensitivity, of the physical world. Landscape, memory, desire, and a wistful acknowledgment of death crowd each page . . . Wright is a pilgrim of the spirit, always on the road, like the Japanese poet Basho, always the reluctant disciple, unambiguous about the holy but burdened with doubt about the holes where the nails have been. And this confluence of spirituality and emptiness brings us to the heritage of Appalachia still present in Wrights work.”David Garrison, America
Review
Praise for
Buffalo Yoga: "[Wright's] penetrating and ravishingly gorgeous lyrical poems are at once classically philosophical and freshly revealing. For Wright, the brimming natural world is holy, yet he anthropomorphizes nature with rampant inventiveness, intimacy, wit, and wonder . . .
Buffalo Yoga, the title of this elegantly contemplative collection and of the long, enrapturing poem at its heart, evocatively names the union between nature and human consciousness . . . Wright, a profoundly yogic poet, illuminates and exalts in the entire astonishing spectrum of existence." -Donna Seaman,
Booklist Praise for Charles Wright: "Has any other American poet been writing as beautifully and daringly over the past twenty-five years as Charles Wright? Possibly. But I cannot imagine who it would be . . . Wright has a hunk of the ineffable in his teeth and he won't let go. In poem after poem he plumbs our deepest relationships with nature, time, love, death, creation." -Philip Levine,
American Poet, citation for the Lenore Marshall Poetry Prize
"His easy meditative line, drawing on details of nature and history, is never laconic, but full of flashes and jolts to another order of awareness . . . Such poetry welcomes the reader into its landscapes, then takes her or him through their vanishing points." -Bonnie Costello, Newsday
"There is no poet of his generation whose career has unfolded with such genuine authority as Charles Wright's, or whom I read with more astonishment and gratitude." -J.D. McClatchy, Poetry
Review
"If Nature is a haunted house, as Emily Dickinson told us, and Art a house that tries to be haunted, then Wright has created in
Littlefoot one of the most satisfyingly possessed landscapes of his career . . . Inside his lyric, there resides a world well beyond the ordinary . . . It is the heart and soul that he delivers so eloquently." —Thomas Curwen,
Los Angeles Times“Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs dont often get mentioned in the works of Pultizer Prize-winning writers, but thats precisely what puts Charles Wright in his unique position among contemporary poets. Somewhere in his work, layered with echoes of the masters, there is always room to connect his highly polished poems to the world where most of us lead mundane lives . . . More often than not, [Littlefoot] is a celebration, which is something else that sets Wright apart . . . [Wright] speaks with a sadness that makes the uplifting moments quite credible. Mortality is as inescapable in Wrights depiction of life as it is in life itself.” —Dionisio Martinez, Miami Herald
“By using a combination of short poetic sections and long and stepped-down lines, Wright blends dense, musical imagery with meditative longings to make a poetry thats unique in the contemporary American scene.” —Michael Chitwood, The News & Observer (Raleigh)
“Charles Wright has been on the lookout for transcendence in his back yard for years. His poems often examine the way an ordinary bit of perception or speech turns suddenly musical. Wrights back yard is his own little piece of the pastoral, world in which ease and wisdom coexist and create each other, where Eastern mysticism merges with Southern laziness…In Littlefoot, a book-length poem, Wright continues in this way, this time with a greater attention paid to the particulars of his own life and death.” —Katie Peterson, The Chicago Tribue
“[Wrights] long open verse lines mix genres and sources with seeming effortlessness, but he never stops thinking . . . In Wrights poems, the mysteries of consciousness interface with the mysteries of natural beauty, and the music of the whole often leaves a lump in the throat.” —Tom DEvelyn, Providence Journal
“For the past thirty-five years Charles Wright has been one of the most intriguing figures in our literary landscape…[There are] truly epic and monumental dimensions...[to his] work.” —Kevin Bowen, Harvard Review
Review
"What makes Wright's lines here (but also everywhere) so satisfying? It is the singing rhythmic pulse, of course (ascribable in part to the poet's decision to compose only in lines with odd numbers of syllables); and it is the way the poetry imitates, in its dropped half-lines, the second wave of second thoughts." Helen Vendler, The New York Review of Books (read the entire New York Review of Books review)
Synopsis
After the end of something, there comes another end,This one behind you, and far away.
Only a lifetime can get you to it,
and then just barely.
Littlefoot, the eighteenth book from one of this country's most acclaimed poets, is an extended meditation on mortality, on the narrator's search of the skies for a road map and for last instructions on "the other side of my own death." Following the course of one year, the poet's seventieth, we witness the seasons change over his familiar postage stamps of soil, realizing that we are reflected in them, that the true affinity is between writer and subject, human and nature, one becoming the other, as the river is like our blood, "it powers on, / out of sight, out of mind." Seeded with lyrics of old love songs and spirituals, here we meet solitude, resignation, and a glad cry that while a return to the beloved earth is impossible, "all things come from splendor," and the urgent question that the poet can't help but ask: "Will you miss me when I'm gone?
Synopsis
After the end of something, there comes another end,
This one behind you, and far away.
Only a lifetime can get you to it,
and then just barely.
Littlefoot, the eighteenth book from one of this country's most acclaimed poets, is an extended meditation on mortality, on the narrator's search of the skies for a road map and for last instructions on "the other side of my own death." Following the course of one year, the poet's seventieth, we witness the seasons change over his familiar postage stamps of soil, realizing that we are reflected in them, that the true affinity is between writer and subject, human and nature, one becoming the other, as the river is like our blood, "it powers on, / out of sight, out of mind." Seeded with lyrics of old love songs and spirituals, here we meet solitude, resignation, and a glad cry that while a return to the beloved earth is impossible, "all things come from splendor," and the urgent question that the poet can't help but ask: "Will you miss me when I'm gone?
Synopsis
After the end of something, there comes another end,This one behind you, and far away.
Only a lifetime can get you to it,
and then just barely.
Littlefoot, the eighteenth book from one of this country's most acclaimed poets, is an extended meditation on mortality, on the narrator's search of the skies for a road map and for last instructions on "the other side of my own death." Following the course of one year, the poet's seventieth, we witness the seasons change over his familiar postage stamps of soil, realizing that we are reflected in them, that the true affinity is between writer and subject, human and nature, one becoming the other, as the river is like our blood, "it powers on, / out of sight, out of mind." Seeded with lyrics of old love songs and spirituals, here we meet solitude, resignation, and a glad cry that while a return to the beloved earth is impossible, "all things come from splendor," and the urgent question that the poet can't help but ask: "Will you miss me when I'm gone?
About the Author
Charles Wright, winner of the Pulitzer Prize, the National Book Critics Circle Award, and the National Book Award, teaches at the University of Virginia in Charlottesville.