The beforelife Poems

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

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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.

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

The dominant moods of Wright’s latest work are repentance and resolution. The former covers a lot of territory, but Wright consistently circles back to the prison of addiction—to its vicious cycles and the possibility of release. The poet’s 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 that’s 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 levels—since Wright’s father, James Wright, was also a “writer”—and 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.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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"Empty Cathedral" There's this pew at the back that's been waiting for you all your life, like your death bed. Christ Criminal hanging above, eyes and mouth closed suggesting before you too enter the third person, light one candle for the here, will you. -------------------------------------------------------------------- "Thanks Prayer at the Cove" A year ago today I was unable to speak one syntactically coherent thought let alone write it down: today in this dear and absurdly allegorical place by your grace I am here and not in that graveyard, its skyline visible now from the November leaflessness and I am here to say it's 5 o'clock, too late to write more (especially for the one whose eyes are starting to get dark), the single dispirited swan out on the windless brown transparent floor floating gradually backward blackward no this is what I still can see, white as a joint in a box of little cigars- and where is the mate Lord, it is almost winter in the year 2000 and now I look up to find five practically unseeable mallards at my feet they have crossed nearly standing on earth they're so close looking up to me for bread- that's what my eyes of flesh see (barely) but what I wished to say is this, listen: a year ago today I found myself riding the subway psychotic (I wasn't depressed, I wanted to rip my face off) unable to write what I thought, which was nothing though I tried though I finally stopped trying and looked up at the face of the man directly across from me, and it began to melt before my eyes and in an instant it was young again the face he must have had once when he was five and in an instant it happened again only this time it changed to the face of his elderly corpse and back in time it changed to his face at our present moment of time's flowing and then as if transparently superimposed I saw them all at once OK I was insane but how insane can someone be I thought, I did not know you then I didn't know you were there God (that's what we call you, grunt grunt) as you are at every moment everywhere of what we call the future and the past And then I tried once more experimentally I focused on another's face, no need to describe it there is only one underneath these scary and extremely realistic rubber masks and there is as I also know now by your grace one and only one person on earth beneath a certain depth the terror and the love are one, like hunger, same in everyone and it happened again, das Unglück geschah you might say nur mir allein it happened no matter who I looked at for maybe five minutes long enough long enough this secret trinity I saw, the others will say I am making it up as if that mattered Lord, I make up nothing not one word. Excerpted from The Beforelife: Poems by Franz Wright All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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