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Best Famous James Wright Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous James Wright poems. This is a select list of the best famous James Wright poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous James Wright poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of James Wright poems.

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by James Wright |

Lying In A Hammock At William Duffys Farm In Pine Island Minnesota

 Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,
Asleep on the black trunk,
blowing like a leaf in green shadow.
Down the ravine behind the empty house, The cowbells follow one another Into the distances of the afternoon.
To my right, In a field of sunlight between two pines, The droppings of last year's horses Blaze up into golden stones.
I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.
A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life.


by James Wright |

On The Skeleton Of A Hound

 Nightfall, that saw the morning-glories float
Tendril and string against the crumbling wall,
Nurses him now, his skeleton for grief,
His locks for comfort curled among the leaf.
Shuttles of moonlight weave his shadow tall, Milkweed and dew flow upward to his throat.
Now catbird feathers plume the apple mound, And starlings drowse to winter up the ground.
thickened away from speech by fear, I move Around the body.
Over his forepaws, steep Declivities darken down the moonlight now, And the long throat that bayed a year ago Declines from summer.
Flies would love to leap Between his eyes and hum away the space Between the ears, the hollow where a hare Could hide; another jealous dog would tumble The bones apart, angry, the shining crumble Of a great body gleaming in the air; Quivering pigeons foul his broken face.
I can imagine men who search the earth For handy resurrections, overturn The body of a beetle in its grave; Whispering men digging for gods might delve A pocket for these bones, then slowly burn Twigs in the leaves, pray for another birth.
But I will turn my face away from this Ruin of summer, collapse of fur and bone.
For once a white hare huddled up the grass, The sparrows flocked away to see the race.
I stood on darkness, clinging to a stone, I saw the two leaping alive on ice, On earth, on leaf, humus and withered vine: The rabbit splendid in a shroud of shade, The dog carved on the sunlight, on the air, Fierce and magnificent his rippled hair, The cockleburs shaking around his head.
Then, suddenly, the hare leaped beyond pain Out of the open meadow, and the hound Followed the voiceless dancer to the moon, To dark, to death, to other meadows where Singing young women dance around a fire, Where love reveres the living.
I alone Scatter this hulk about the dampened ground; And while the moon rises beyond me, throw The ribs and spine out of their perfect shape.
For a last charm to the dead, I lift the skull And toss it over the maples like a ball.
Strewn to the woods, now may that spirit sleep That flamed over the ground a year ago.
I know the mole will heave a shinbone over, The earthworm snuggle for a nap on paws, The honest bees build honey in the head; The earth knows how to handle the great dead Who lived the body out, and broke its laws, Knocked down a fence, tore up a field of clover.


by James Wright |

Outside Fargo North Dakota

 Along the sprawled body of the derailed Great Northern freight car,
I strike a match slowly and lift it slowly.
No wind.
Beyond town, three heavy white horses Wade all the way to their shoulders In a silo shadow.
Suddenly the freight car lurches.
The door slams back, a man with a flashlight Calls me good evening.
I nod as I write good evening, lonely And sick for home.


by James Wright |

Northern Pike

 All right.
Try this, Then.
Every body I know and care for, And every body Else is going To die in a loneliness I can't imagine and a pain I don't know.
We had To go on living.
We Untangled the net, we slit The body of this fish Open from the hinge of the tail To a place beneath the chin I wish I could sing of.
I would just as soon we let The living go on living.
An old poet whom we believe in Said the same thing, and so We paused among the dark cattails and prayed For the muskrats, For the ripples below their tails, For the little movements that we knew the crawdads were making under water, For the right-hand wrist of my cousin who is a policeman.
We prayed for the game warden's blindness.
We prayed for the road home.
We ate the fish.
There must be something very beautiful in my body, I am so happy.


by James Wright |

Small Frogs Killed On The Highway

 Still,
I would leap too
Into the light,
If I had the chance.
It is everything, the wet green stalk of the field On the other side of the road.
They crouch there, too, faltering in terror And take strange wing.
Many Of the dead never moved, but many Of the dead are alive forever in the split second Auto headlights more sudden Than their drivers know.
The drivers burrow backward into dank pools Where nothing begets Nothing.
Across the road, tadpoles are dancing On the quarter thumbnail Of the moon.
They can't see, Not yet.


by James Wright |

May Morning

 Deep into spring, winter is hanging on.
Bitter and skillful in his hopelessness, he stays alive in every shady place, starving along the Mediterranean: angry to see the glittering sea-pale boulder alive with lizards green as Judas leaves.
Winter is hanging on.
He still believes.
He tries to catch a lizard by the shoulder.
One olive tree below Grottaglie welcomes the winter into noontime shade, and talks as softly as Pythagoras.
Be still, be patient, I can hear him say, cradling in his arms the wounded head, letting the sunlight touch the savage face.


by James Wright |

Goodbye To The Poetry Of Calcium

 Dark cypresses--
The world is uneasily happy;
It will all be forgotten.
--Theodore Storm Mother of roots, you have not seeded The tall ashes of loneliness For me.
Therefore, Now I go.
If I knew the name, Your name, all trellises of vineyards and old fire Would quicken to shake terribly my Earth, mother of spiraling searches, terrible Fable of calcium, girl.
I crept this afternoon In weeds once more, Casual, daydreaming you might not strike Me down.
Mother of window sills and journeys, Hallower of searching hands, The sight of my blind man makes me want to weep.
Tiller of waves or whatever, woman or man, Mother of roots or father of diamonds, Look: I am nothing.
I do not even have ashes to rub into my eyes.


by James Wright |

A Poem About George Doty In The Death House

 Lured by the wall, and drawn
To stare below the roof,
Where pigeons nest aloof
From prowling cats and men,
I count the sash and bar
Secured to granite stone,
And note the daylight gone,
Supper and silence near.
Close to the wall inside, Immured, empty of love, A man I have wondered of Lies patient, vacant-eye.
A month and a day ago He stopped his car and found A girl on the darkening ground, And killed her in the snow.
Beside his cell, I am told, Hardy perennial bums Complain till twilight comes For hunger and for cold.
They hardly know of a day That saw their hunger pass.
Bred to the dark, their flesh Peacefully withers away.
The man who sits alone, He is the one for wonder, Who sways his fingers under The cleanly shaven chin, Who sees, in the shaving mirror Pinned to the barren wall, The uprooted ghost of all: The simple, easy terror.
Caught between sky and earth, Poor stupid animal, Stripped naked to the wall, He saw the blundered birth Of daemons beyond sound.
Sick of the dark, he rose For love, and now he goes Back to the broken ground.
Now, as he grips the chain And holds the wall, to bear What no man ever bore, He hears the bums complain; But I mourn no soul but his, Not even the bums who die, Nor the homely girl whose cry Crumbled his pleading kiss.


by James Wright |

A Note Left In Jimmy Leonards Shack

 Near the dry river's water-mark we found
 Your brother Minnegan,
Flopped like a fish against the muddy ground.
Beany, the kid whose yellow hair turns green, Told me to find you, even if the rain, And tell you he was drowned.
I hid behind the chassis on the bank, The wreck of someone's Ford: I was afraid to come and wake you drunk: You told me once the waking up was hard, The daylight beating at you like a board.
Blood in my stomach sank.
Beside, you told him never to go out Along the river-side Drinking and singing, clattering about.
You might have thrown a rock at me and cried I was to blame, I let him fall in the road And pitch down on his side.
Well, I'll get hell enough when I get home For coming up this far, Leaving the note, and running as I came.
I'll go and tell my father where you are.
You'd better go find Minnegan before Policemen hear and come.
Beany went home, and I got sick and ran, You old son of a bitch.
You better hurry down to Minnegan; He's drunk or dying now, I don't know which, Rolled in the roots and garbage like a fish, The poor old man.


by James Wright |

Having Lost My Sons I Confront The Wreckage Of The Moon: Christmas 1960

 After dark
Near the South Dakota border,
The moon is out hunting, everywhere,
Delivering fire,
And walking down hallways
Of a diamond.
Behind a tree, It ights on the ruins Of a white city Frost, frost.
Where are they gone Who lived there? Bundled away under wings And dark faces.
I am sick Of it, and I go on Living, alone, alone, Past the charred silos, past the hidden graves Of Chippewas and Norwegians.
This cold winter Moon spills the inhuman fire Of jewels Into my hands.
Dead riches, dead hands, the moon Darkens, And I am lost in the beautiful white ruins Of America.