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James Wright Short Poems

Famous Short James Wright Poems. Short poetry by famous poet James Wright. A collection of the all-time best James Wright short poems


by James Wright
 In the Shreve High football stadium,
I think of Polacks nursing long beers in Tiltonsville,
And gray faces of Negroes in the blast furnace at Benwood,
And the ruptured night watchman of Wheeling Steel,
Dreaming of heroes.
All the proud fathers are ashamed to go home.
Their women cluck like starved pullets, Dying for love.
Therefore, Their sons grow suicidally beautiful At the beginning of October, And gallop terribly against each other's bodies.



by James Wright
 This time, I have left my body behind me, crying
In its dark thorns.
Still, There are good things in this world.
It is dusk.
It is the good darkness Of women's hands that touch loaves.
The spirit of a tree begins to move.
I touch leaves.
I close my eyes and think of water.

by James Wright
 There is this cave
In the air behind my body
That nobodyt is going to touch:
A cloister, a silence
Closing around a blossom of fire.
When I stand upright in the wind, My bones turn to dark emeralds.

by James Wright
 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
 The moon drops one or two feathers into the fiels.
The dark wheat listens.
Be still.
Now.
There they are, the moon's young, trying Their wings.
Between trees, a slender woman lifts up the lovely shadow Of her face, and now she steps into the air, now she is gone Wholly, into the air.
I stand alone by an elder tree, I do not dare breathe Or move.
I listen.
The wheat leans back toward its own darkness, And I lean toward mine.



by James Wright
 1
Many animals that our fathers killed in America
Had quick eyes.
They stared about wildly, When the moon went dark.
The new moon falls into the freight yards Of cities in the south, But the loss of the moon to the dark hands of Chicago Does not matter to the deer In this northern field.
2 What is that tall woman doing There, in the trees? I can hear rabbits and mourning dovees whispering together In the dark grass, there Under the trees.
3 I look about wildly.

by James Wright
 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.