By Robert Wrigley
A robust new assortment from an award-winning poet Robert Wrigley has develop into considered one of his generation's so much finished poets, popular for his irony, energy, and lucid variety and for his skill to fuse narrative and lyrical impulses. Like its namesake—Robert Burton's seventeenth-century exam of human techniques and emotions—Wrigley's new assortment capacity to ascertain our international throughout the lens of melancholia. From imagined conflict memorials to insomniac chickens; from Descartes' misplaced daughter to a dreaming tree; from King Kong to hurry Limbaugh; and from Anna Karenina to a guy named Lucy Doolin (short for Lucifer), those are poems that elegize and have a good time that almost all appealing, exasperating, joyous, depressing, and completely imperfect of all creatures—the human being.
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We saw the parallels, but we, not him, braced against the walls and dreamt of rupture. Then came the birdless Monday when he moaned: "I'm dying. " He did, but it was not, praised be the Lord. That was three days ago. The layer out then bathed his body, strapped him to a board, and tied his legs so his soul couldn't walk. Blue fingers were so curled into his palm we kept them straight by fixing them to sticks. We tied his goitered chin so Lucifer and witches couldn't coven on his tongue. We placed two copper pennies on the eyes that nevermore would see they couldn't see.
I wept, which I did not expect to do. That's the story best as I can tell it. I'd like to sleep in but still wake at four my tongue outstretched where Babel has been razed. We've sold his library to pay his debts and buy Deborah that harpsichord inside. < previous page page_27 next page > < previous page page_28 next page > Page 28 Well, sir, you may enter at your leisure. We're grateful for your visit, but I didn't hear your name. Peter? That is strange, In "Lycidas," St. Pewell, never mind. You've come for Papa, he's laid out within.
The tip of his brush strokes the place where the back of her ear meets her neck. If he were different, he thinks, he would put down his palette, press his lips into that tight tent of flesh. Instead he captures it in oil: no man to risk permanent work for passing pleasure. The woman turns an indolent page, shifts: a rearranging of his props. II. The Woman She reflects on the light, knows her profile delicate as a Belleek tea cup, with a luster as translucent, but knows too how this light spoils, how the sun passing through the eye of the window will rise on shoulders other than hers.