Franz Wright Quotes

And let me ask you this: the dead,
where aren't they?

P.S."

I close my eyes and see
a seagull in the desert,
high, against unbearably blue sky.

There is hope in the past.

I'm writing to you
all the time, I am writing

with both hands,
day and night.

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When I was nine, I started reading Homer. I would get up at four o'clock in the morning, before I had to go to school, in third or fourth grade, and, for several hours, I would read 'The Iliad' or 'The Odyssey.'

Poem in other words may or may not result from inspiration but must (in reader and author alike) produce it

Think of it: a writer actually possesses the power to alter his past, to change what was once experienced as defeat into victory and what was once experienced as speechless anguish into a stroke of great good fortune or even something approaching blessedness, depending upon what he does with that past, what he makes out of it.

Ressurection of the little apple tree outside
my window, leaf-
light of late
in the April
called her eyes, forget
forget
but how
How does one go
about dying?
Who on earth
is going to teach me
The world is filled with people
who have never died

The poetic prose that most interests me is that of Henri Michaux.

If only I could tell someone.
The humiliation I go through
when I think of my past
can only be described as grace.
We are created by being destroyed.

Furless now, upright, My banished
and experimental
child
You said, though your own heart condemn you
I do not condemn you.

And the night smells like snow. Walking home for a moment you almost believe you could start again. And an intense love rushes to your heart, and hope. It's unendurable, unendurable

Which is more puzzling, the existence of suffering or its frequent absence?

Auto-Lullaby

Think of   a sheep
knitting a sweater;
think of   your life
getting better and better.

Think of   your cat
asleep in a tree;
think of   that spot
where you once skinned your knee.

Think of   a bird
that stands in your palm.
Try to remember
the Twenty-first Psalm.

Think of   a big pink horse
galloping south;
think of   a fly, and
close your mouth.

If   you feel thirsty, then
drink from your cup.
The birds will keep singing
until they wake up.

The road to Emmaus is this world.

It's hard for me to grasp that I might somehow be my father's equal in any way.

And I begin to learn.

There is only one heart in my body, have mercy
on me.

The moon's a dead rock, but I still like the word,
so black in its white space.
[ ... ]
what can we say to the
moon except You again?
You again.

I've always envied people who compose music or paint, because they don't have to be bothered with the sort of crude mess that language normally is, in everyday life and in the way we use it.

We are created by being destroyed.

We know there are poets who are chosen: by what or whom, we no more know than what lies beyond our final breath, or what caused a certain action which resulted in the fulfillment or the desecration and collapse of what we most cared for in life.

The long silences need to be loved, perhaps more than the words which arrive to describe them in time.

I am in no way different from anyone else, that my predicament, my sense of aloneness or isolation may be precisely what unites me with everyone.

For about twenty years, if I managed to write ten or twelve poems in a year; I considered that a pretty successful year, but I wrote 'The Beforelife' within a year.

Everyone agrees.
The dead singers have the best voices.
At four o'clock in the morning
the dead singers have the best voices.

When I'm in certain moods, a conversation will start up in my head, and suddenly I'll realize that the language has reached a very high and interesting level, and then lines and stanzas will just kind of appear, full-blown.

You gave me

in secret one thing

to perceive, the

tall blue starry


strangeness of being

here at all.

EPITAPH Now I'm not the brightest knife in the drawer, but I know a couple things about this life: poverty silence, impermanence discipline and mystery The world is not illusory, we are From crimson thread to toe tag If you are not disturbed there is something seriously wrong with you, I'm sorry And I know who I am I'll be a voice coming from nowhere, inside
be glad for me.

I wish my father could be around.

No one is a stranger, this whole world is your home

... All will be
forgotten, everything you perceived, thought,
dreamed, hoped, remembered ... all the past
all the crawling fucking coughing chestpounding
nose-picking and deathward attempts
to make real some desperate desire, like
standing upright for a minute in the sun. The
sun that will die.

So we sit there
together
the mountain
and me, Li Po
said, until only the mountain
remains.

This
final and long
longed-for job:
to be unhappy
without doing
evil.