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  • Written by Franz Wright
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  • Written by Franz Wright
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On Sale: February 24, 2010
Pages: 96 | ISBN: 978-0-307-55457-4
Published by : Knopf Knopf
The Beforelife Cover

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poetry (18)
poetry (18)
Synopsis|Excerpt

Synopsis

In this stunning collection, Franz Wright chronicles the journey back from a place of isolation and wordlessness. After a period when it seemed certain he would never write poetry again, he speaks with bracing clarity about the twilit world that lies between madness and sanity, addiction and recovery. Wright negotiates the precarious transition from illness to health in a state of skeptical rapture, discovering along the way the exhilaration of love--both divine and human--and finding that even the most battered consciousness can be good company.

Whether he is writing about his regret for the abortion of a child, describing the mechanics of slander ("I can just hear them on the telephone and keening all their kissy little knives"), or composing an ironic ode to himself ("To a Blossoming Nut Case"), Wright's poems are exquisitely precise. Charles Simic has characterized him as a poetic miniaturist, whose "secret ambition is to write an epic on the inside of a matchbook cover." Time and again, Wright turns on a dime in a few brief lines, exposing the dark comedy and poignancy of his heightened perception.

Here is one of the poems from the collection:



Description of Her Eyes

Two teaspoonfuls,
and my mind goes
everyone can kiss my ass now--

then it's changed,
I change my mind.

Eyes so sad, and infinitely kind.


From the Hardcover edition.

Excerpt

"Empty Cathedral"

There’s this pew
at the back
that’s been
waiting
for you
all your life, like your death bed.
Christ Criminal
hanging
above, eyes and mouth
closed suggesting
before you too enter
the third person, light
one candle
for the here,
will you.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

"Thanks Prayer at the Cove"

A year ago today
I was unable to speak
one syntactically coherent
thought let alone write it down: today
in this dear and absurdly allegorical place
by your grace
I am here
and not in that graveyard, its skyline
visible now from the November leaflessness
and I am here to say
it's 5 o'clock, too late to write more
(especially for the one whose eyes
are starting to get dark), the single
dispirited swan out on the windless brown
transparent floor floating
gradually backward
blackward
no this is what I still
can see, white
as a joint in a box of little cigars-
and where is the mate
Lord, it is almost winter in the year
2000 and now I look up to find five
practically unseeable mallards at my feet
they have crossed
nearly standing on earth they're so close
looking up to me
for bread-
that's what my eyes of flesh see (barely)
but what I wished to say
is this, listen:
a year ago today
I found myself riding the subway psychotic
(I wasn't depressed, I wanted to rip my face off)
unable to write what I thought, which was nothing
though I tried though I finally stopped trying and
looked up
at the face of the man
directly across from me, and it began
to melt before my eyes
and in an instant it was young again
the face he must have had
once when he was five
and in an instant it happened again only this
time
it changed to the face of his elderly
corpse and back in time
it changed
to his face at our present
moment of time's flowing and then
as if transparently
superimposed I saw them all at once
OK I was insane but how insane
can someone be I thought, I did not
know you then
I didn't know you were there God
(that's what we call you, grunt grunt)
as you are at every moment
everywhere of what we call
the future and the past
And then I tried once more
experimentally
I focused
on another's face, no need to describe it
there is only one
underneath
these scary and extremely
realistic rubber masks
and there is as I also know now
by your grace one
and only one person on earth
beneath a certain depth
the terror and the love
are one, like hunger, same
in everyone
and it happened again, das Unglück geschah
you might say nur mir allein it happened
no matter who I looked at
for maybe five minutes long enough
long enough
this secret trinity
I saw, the others
will say I am making it up
as if that mattered
Lord,
I make up nothing
not one word.


From the Hardcover edition.
Franz Wright|Author Q&A

About Franz Wright

Franz Wright - The Beforelife

Photo © Elizabeth Oehlkers Wright

Franz Wright’s most recent works include Wheeling Motel and Earlier Poems. Walking to Martha’s Vineyard was awarded the Pulitzer Prize in 2004, and he has also been the recipient of two National Endowment for the Arts grants, a Guggenheim Fellowship, a Whiting Fellowship, and the PEN/Voelcker Award for Poetry, among other honors. He lives in Waltham, Massachusetts, with his wife, the translator and writer Elizabeth Oehlkers Wright.

Author Q&A

Q: Only several years ago you were in and out of the hospital, struggling with various addictions and with mental illness. You thought you might die and were sure you’d never write again. How did this new collection come into being?
A: In the winter of 1998 I was still suffering from a psychotic and delusional depression from which it seemed unlikely to me (and to doctors I'd managed to consult) that I would ever recover. I was suddenly reunited with a young woman I had been in love with for over ten years, one who agreed to marry me, and quite literally gave me back confidence in my ability to go on living and trying to write. One evening on my way to see her I had the experience I would later try to describe in the poem "Thanks Prayer At the Cove,” which is coming out in the Fall 2000 issue of the journal Field. To me this is the book's central poem, though I had to write a lot of others and move around a bit before the possibility of writing something about this kind of experience ever occurred to me. By the time it did, in November 1999, in Waltham with Elizabeth, I was writing poems with a kind of dream speed or ease utterly unprecedented in my life. The poems of The Beforelife were written in one year, but they were the first poems I had written in nearly three.

Q: In poems like “Written With a Baseball Bat-Sized Pencil” you describe the touching, lost characters you met when you were hospitalized -- the people, you write, “who aren’t coming back.” Did you learn anything from these people? How does their presence figure in your poems and in you thoughts?
A: I feel an allegiance to those who are suffering from mental illness at different stages of despair and, sometimes, return from it. I shaped my previous book, one of selected and new poems called Ill Lit, as an attempt to give a voice to conditions or states of mind normally associated with speechlessness, and that impulse continues in The Beforelife, perhaps even more consciously.

Q: How would you define what you call “the beforelife”? It seems to refer to an in between space, a time between illness and health.
A: I am hesitant to explicate my title. I suppose it can be interpreted in different ways--all at once, I hope. There is of course a purgatorial gravity about it, for me, but also it emits expectation of some kind of light. I think Carol Carson's very beautiful and inspired cover, based on a photograph by Jane Yeoman, brings out in the title a true sense of image; that is, it presents whoever looks at it with the opportunity to remember that he is capable of inhabiting simultaneously different levels of sensation and thought, that this mysterious and maybe perilous pleasure is available to him. It suggests there is a connection between things or experiences which appear on the surface to exclude one another.

Q: You’ve known great pain, though you’ve described the writing of this collection as rhapsodic. Do you find your inspiration in anguish, or joy?
A: I doubt that it is possible to write anything of value in a state of genuine anguish. And I know that for me writing involves a rapt state of energy and joy. I did not write about dark things when I was going through them (in fact, I have had long stretches of time when such experiences seem to have killed in me the impulse to speak of them, or of anything else for that matter, ever again), but I wrote them because they were what I knew about; and often I think I wrote out of a sense of allegiance to those who are still in so much suffering that they will probably never again find words for what they are going through.

Q: The beauty of your words -- the craft of your poems, which are often short and gorgeously precise -- stands in stark contrast to the misery you often describe. How do you reconcile your life as both artist and recovering addict?
A: You use the term craft, and craft's just that, and an objective dedication to it can become a spiritual discipline--one among others--which makes it somewhat possible to confront, endure, and on occasion transcend the various torments any human being is going to encounter in the journey of his or her life. I doubt that anyone can get through this life as a sane person--that is, one capable of love--without spiritual discipline of some kind, and dedication to some kind of work. Or craft, as you say.

Q: The poems of this collection are highly personal. Was it difficult to expose yourself so fully?
A: During the year of this collection I was in a great passion to disclose, but also to make up, or sometimes to hide. Sometimes the poems look to me like little machines which either do or do not work; or they once again, in an instant, become personal-prayers or spells never actually meant for others' ears.

Q: What role does humor play in your work?
A: Someone writing in Boston Review, in a brief but thoughtful review of my work, recently spoke of a "dark levity" in some of the poems. I think his point was that this quality sometimes saved the poems from becoming what my friend the poet Thomas Lux would call "unremittingly grim." And I think it's a good point. And in times of great desperation, people do discover this dark funniness. James Tate and Charles Simic are great masters of this, as is Lux - humor is found to be a profoundly spiritual sustenance, either in shocking or nightmarish circumstances, or engulfed in the eerie normalcy where one appears to be safe. It's as terrible to live without as love.

Q: Your father James Wright, was an acclaimed poet of the postwar generation. How much of his spirit infuses your own work?
A: I always believed my father was a great poet, and that belief only intensified as I got older and we became rather close--through correspondence mainly, but also during memorable visits, in my mid-teens and early twenties. My parents were very painfully divorced when I was eight, but even from the distance of a couple thousand miles, or the entire breadth of the country, he and his books remained a powerful presence to me. But I think it is probably difficult for anyone not born at least in the 50’s to recall how much his books meant to practically everyone who loved poetry in the 60’s and throughout the next decade until his death in 1980. I think he continues to be present in the life of American poetry. His collected poems is such a magnificent gift to the world. There are instances of holiness in his work, an immense compassion and love for the entire creation, which people are going to go on discovering.

Q: In poems such as “The Dead Dads” and “Primogeniture,” your father has a powerful presence. Does he haunt you more as a poet, or more as a certain kind of father?
A: I don't think I realized until my mid-forties, which is the age my father was when I got to know him, that I had some bones to pick with him. Maybe that comes out a bit in this collection; however, throughout my books there is a small thread of poems which speak either about or to him, usually in the tenderest possible way. So there is that as well. I love my father very much, and believe he was an extraordinary man, a very great man.

Q: Where would you place yourself within the larger world of poetry?
A: I don't have the faintest idea of where I would place myself in the larger world of poetry. My dad's idea was that people discover poems they need, in secret--and in my experience that is certainly true. If one can add a poem or two to that place of great poetry, where people sometimes go for a form of sustenance nothing else in the world can provide--if one can be a part of that, or an instrument of it now and then, one can only be amazed and grateful.

Q: You dedicate this collection to your wife, who you credit with helping you put your life back together. Is “Description of Her Eyes” written about her? Are there any other poems in the collection that are written for her?
A: "Description of Her Eyes" is indeed about my wife Elizabeth, and it changed for a while as we moved from place to place in 1999. But the whole book is addressed to her--sometimes openly, or when not, it comes out of a general spirit of gratitude for her presence, without which there would have been no book.

Q: I’ve heard that you work with grieving children and other support groups. Could you tell us a little about what this work means to you?
A: I am a volunteer facilitator at The Center for Grieving Children in Arlington, part of a group of other facilitators working with 8 and 9 year old children who have recently lost a parent. I don't know what to say about this, except that very few experiences have ever made me happier, or made me feel more connected to other human beings.

Q: What are you working on now?
A: Right now I have a little limited edition book of twenty new poems about to come out from Half Moon Bay Press in Michigan. And the poems are from a larger body of new poems which were primarily religious, initially, but which are now starting to branch off in still unpredictable ways.


From the Hardcover edition.

Praise

Praise

"This luminous, courageous book is about all of us--about our daily torment and redemption, which we dare not speak even to our souls. But Wright has done so."

--Olga Broumas, author of
Rave: Poems, 1975-1999


"These poems break me; they're like jewels shaped by blunt, ruined fingers--miraculous gifts. At any one time only a handful of genuine poets reside on the planet. I consider Franz Wright to be one of these, and I'm grateful that we have him among us."

---Denis Johnson


"Writers who are genuinely original, who beat their own path, make up a kind of visionary company, to which Franz Wright, with this new book, must clearly be admitted. These poems seem haunted by their own dark imaginings, yet at surprising moments turn all of a sudden humorous, if mordantly so. Reading them will train readers to stay alert for whatever devastating surprises may be coming up next."

---Donald Justice


"In a language waking from delirium, these astonishing poems offer---in their spare, raw, and pure lyric clarity---the prayers of madness and the light of its aftermath. Wright is a poet apart in his gifts and his courage."

---Carolyn Forche

"Intriguing and always accessible, with no 'irrelevant / lies,' this book will expand the audience for poetry by showing readers that, in spite of stunning obstacles, it is always 'possible to live.'"
--Library Journal


"In these short meditations of anguish and hope, Wright achieves the clarity of 'seeing,' and a hard-won wisdom as well."--Kirkus Reviews


" 'Beforelife': the word is so striking that the halting suspence of a double-crostic puzzle overhangs the book, as each poem individually withholds final definition. These poems brilliantly duplicate the willfulness and self-spite of the drinker's impulse ... they're mostly miniatures, the beginnings or endings of Hopperesque stories with a European gloss, their diction mixing mid-American colloquial speech and turns that evoke out-of-context translations."--Elizabeth Macklin, The New York Times Book Review


From the Hardcover edition.

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