Flame - 火焰

by C.D. Wright

Drawn from Hong Kong International Poetry Nights 2011, "Flame" is a chapbook of poetry by C. D. Wright presented in both English and Chinese. "Flame" is also available along with the works of other internationally renowned poets in "Words and the World (Twenty-volume Set)." Selected poems from this volume are featured in the anthology "Words and the World: International Poetry Nights in Hong Kong."

45 pages, Paperback

First published April 10, 2012

About the author

C. D. Wright was born in Mountain Home, Arkansas. She earned a BA in French from Memphis State College (now the University of Memphis) in 1971 and briefly attended law school before leaving to pursue an MFA from the University of Arkansas, which she received in 1976. Her poetry thesis was titled Alla Breve Loving.

In 1977 the publishing company founded by Frank Stanford, Lost Roads Publishers, published Wright's first collection, Room Rented by A Single Woman. After Stanford died in 1978, Wright took over Lost Roads, continuing the mission of publishing new poets and starting the practice of publishing translations. In 1979, she moved to San Francisco, where she met poet Forrest Gander. Wright and Gander married in 1983 and had a son, Brecht, and co-edited Lost Roads until 2005.

In 1981, Wright lived in Dolores Hidalgo, Mexico and completed her third book of poems, Translation of the Gospel Back into Tongues. In 1983 she moved to Providence, Rhode Island to teach writing at Brown University as the Israel J. Kapstein Professor of English. In 2013,

C.D. Wright died on January 12, 2016 at the age of 67 in Barrington, Rhode Island.

Reviews

[mwpm]

Flame


the breath the trees the bridge 

the road the rain the sheen 

the breath the line the skin 

the vineyard the fences the leg 

the water the breath the shift 

the hair the wheels the shoulder 

the breath the lane the streak 

the lining the hour the reasons 

the name the distance the breath 

the scent the dogs the blear 

the lungs the breath the glove 

the signal the turn the need 

the steps the lights the door 

the mouth the tongue the eyes 

the burn the burned the burning

*

What Keeps


We live on a hillside
close to water
We eat in darkness
We sleep in the coldest
part of the house
We love in silence
We keep our poetry
locked in a glass cabinet
some nights we stay up
passing it back and
forth
between us
drinking deep

*

Privacy


The animals are leaving
the safety of the trees

Light sensors respond
to the footfall of every guest

To retard the growth of algae

The fishes must be moved
from the window

Stiller than water she lay
As in a glass dress

As if all life might come to its end
within the radius of her bed

Beyond the reef of trees a beach cannot be seen
The bya itself barely breathing

In the other wing of the house
A small boat awaits elucidation

*

Like Hearing Your Name Called in a Language You Don’t Understand


Since the day the bell was cast

I have sat in the bishop’s carved chair and waited my turn

with my feet crossed at the ankles, and the leather of my huaraches

cutting into the hide of my foot.

From where I was sitting I watched the light being drawn off

the magnolias in the Plaza de Armas

while the voices of the others choired an evening.

I have risen to the lectern when the eyes of the host summoned.

I faced the great open doors as the faces of strangers acknowledged their own losses.

I saw the white trousers of the vendor flapping in the dust

his body engulfed in balloons,

the children selling Chiclets dispersed;

the shoe shine boy putting away his brushes, the sum of his inheritance.

I have read what was written there, said, Gracias, and sat down again.

I have climbed the pyramidal steps and felt winded and humbled.

I have stood small and borracha and been glad
of not being thrown down the barranca alongside the pariah consul
in the celebrated book.

In every sense have I felt lonelier than a clod of clay, a whip, a bolsa,
a skull of chocolate.

I have been lured my host’s pellucid face and the blue salvia
where the rooster is buried.

Though I have worn the medal of the old town with forlorn pleasure
I say unto you:

Comrades, be not in mourning for your being

To express happiness and expel scorpions is the best job on earth.

*

Poem with Evening Coming On


a dog has appeared at the gate
for the second day in a row
against a dirty peach sky
a single car wobbles into the sun

*

Poem with a Dead Tree


It is late afternoon
she avoids looking
in its direction
she could feel
it moving toward her
in shaky black lines

*

Poem in Which Her Mortgage Comes Due


the folds of a dark brown dress
the knuckles of a hand spent in dishwater
the jars of rhubarb
the folios of poetry
the suitcase filled with worthless notes
the fiery fields
the fields on fire

*

Unconditional Love Song


Later she would remember it started to pour

the storm blew everything out

before the coffee finished its brew

and she could finish reading a report

on some boy holed up in a derelict house

after stoning a swan to death

she wrapped her head in a towel

and sat down by the open window

even though the sound of the river was not there

the memory of the sound was

even though her husband did not appear in the door

talking to her about the day ahead

the day ahead was there

[Edwin]

Goosebumps, with new poetic forms