East of me, west of me, full summer.
How deeper than elsewhere the dusk is in your own yard.
Birds fly back and forth across the lawn
looking for home
As night drifts up like a little boat.

Day after day, I become of less use to myself.
Like this mockingbird,
I flit from one thing to the next.
What do I have to look forward to at fifty-four?
Tomorrow is dark.
Day-after-tomorrow is darker still.

The sky dogs are whimpering.
Fireflies are dragging the hush of evening
up from the damp grass.
Into the world's tumult, into the chaos of every day,
Go quietly, quietly.

The structure of landscape is infinitesimal,


Like the structure of music,


                            seamless, invisible.


Even the rain has larger sutures.


What holds the landscape together, and what holds music together,


Is faith, it appears--faith of the eye, faith of the ear.


Nothing like that in language,


However, clouds chugging from west to east like blossoms


Blown by the wind.


                 April, and anything's possible.




Here is the story of Hsuan Tsang.


A Buddhist monk, he went from Xian to southern India


And back--on horseback, on camel-back, on elephant-back, and on 


                                                               foot.


Ten thousand miles it took him, from 29 to 645, 


Mountains and deserts, 


In search of the Truth,


                    the heart of the heart of Reality,


The Law that would help him escape it,


And all its attendant and inescapable suffering.


                                               And he found it.




These days, I look at things, not through them,


And sit down low, as far away from the sky as I can get.


The reef of the weeping cherry flourishes coral,


The neighbor's back porch light bulbs glow like anemones.


Squid-eyed Venus floats forth overhead.


This is the half hour, half-light, half-dark,


                            when everything starts to shine out,


And aphorisms skulk in the trees,


Their wings folded, their heads bowed.




Every true poem is a spark,


              and aspires to the condition of the original fire


Arising out of the emptiness.


It is that same emptiness it wants to reignite.


It is that same engendering it wants to be re-engendered by.


Shooting stars.


April's identical,


             celestial, wordless, burning down.


Its light is the light we commune by.


Its destination's our own, its hope is the hope we live with.




Wang Wei, on the other hand, 


Before he was 30 years old bought his famous estate on the Wang River 


Just east of the east end of the Southern Mountains,


                                                     and lived there,


Off and on, for the rest of his life.


He never travelled the landscape, but stayed inside it,


A part of nature himself, he thought.


And who would say no


To someone so bound up in solitude,


                           in failure, he thought, and suffering.




Afternoon sky the color of Cream of Wheat, a small 


Dollop of butter hazily at the western edge.


Getting too old and lazy to write poems,


                                      I watch the snowfall


From the apple trees.


Landscape, as Wang Wei says, softens the sharp edges of isolation.

19 This is the bird hour, peony blossoms falling bigger than wren hearts On the cutting border's railroad ties, Sparrows and other feathery things Homing from one hedge to the next, late May, gnat-floating evening. Is love stronger than unlove? Only the unloved know. And the mockingbird, whose heart is cloned and colorless. And who's this tiny chirper, lost in the loose leaves of the weeping cherry tree? His song is not more than three feet off the ground, and singular, And going nowhere. Listen. It sounds a lot like you, hermane. It sounds like me.

The brief secrets are still here,
and the light has come back.
The word remember touches my hand,
But I shake it off and watch the turkey buzzards bank and wheel
Against the occluded sky.
All of the little names sink down,
weighted with what is invisible,
But no one will utter them, no one will smooth their rumpled hair.

There isn't much time, in any case.
There isn't much left to talk about
as the year deflates.
There isn't a lot to add.
Road-worn, December-colored, they cluster like unattractive angels
Wherever a thing appears,
Crisp and unspoken, unspeakable
in their mute and glittering garb.

All afternoon the clouds have been sliding toward us
out of the
Blue Ridge.
All afternoon the leaves have scuttled
Across the sidewalk and driveway, clicking their clattery claws.
And now the evening is over us,
Small slices of silence
running under a dark rain,
Wrapped in a larger.

The late September night is a train of thought a wound that does'nt bleed, dead grass that's still green No off-shoots, no elegance The late Septembre night was deprived of adjectives, abstractions utmost ang gleam.It has been said there is and end to the giving out of names.
La darrera nit de setembre és un tren de pensament una ferida que no sagna, gespa morta que roman encara verda Sense acudits, sense elegància. La darrera nit de setembre fou desprovista d'adjectius, d'abstraccions absolutament i de lluentor. Això ha estat dit: això és la fi del repart de noms.

After Reading Tu Fu, I Go Outside to the Dwarf Orchard




East of me, west of me, full summer. How deeper than elsewhere the dusk is in your own yard. Birds fly back and forth across the lawn looking for home As night drifts up like a little boat. Day after day, I become of less use to myself. Like this mockingbird, I flit from one thing to the next. What do I have to look forward to at fifty-four? Tomorrow is dark. Day-after-tomorrow is darker still. The sky dogs are whimpering. Fireflies are dragging the hush of evening up from the damp grass. Into the world's tumult, into the chaos of every day, Go quietly, quietly.
From Chickamauga, published by Farrar, Straus & Giroux. Copyright © 1995 by Charles Wright. All rights reserved. Used with permission.





Body and Soul II
(for Coleman Hawkins) The structure of landscape is infinitesimal, Like the structure of music, seamless, invisible. Even the rain has larger sutures. What holds the landscape together, and what holds music together, Is faith, it appears--faith of the eye, faith of the ear. Nothing like that in language, However, clouds chugging from west to east like blossoms Blown by the wind. April, and anything's possible. Here is the story of Hsuan Tsang. A Buddhist monk, he went from Xian to southern India And back--on horseback, on camel-back, on elephant-back, and on foot. Ten thousand miles it took him, from 29 to 645, Mountains and deserts, In search of the Truth, the heart of the heart of Reality, The Law that would help him escape it, And all its attendant and inescapable suffering. And he found it. These days, I look at things, not through them, And sit down low, as far away from the sky as I can get. The reef of the weeping cherry flourishes coral, The neighbor's back porch light bulbs glow like anemones. Squid-eyed Venus floats forth overhead. This is the half hour, half-light, half-dark, when everything starts to shine out, And aphorisms skulk in the trees, Their wings folded, their heads bowed. Every true poem is a spark, and aspires to the condition of the original fire Arising out of the emptiness. It is that same emptiness it wants to reignite. It is that same engendering it wants to be re-engendered by. Shooting stars. April's identical, celestial, wordless, burning down. Its light is the light we commune by. Its destination's our own, its hope is the hope we live with. Wang Wei, on the other hand, Before he was 30 years old bought his famous estate on the Wang River Just east of the east end of the Southern Mountains, and lived there, Off and on, for the rest of his life. He never travelled the landscape, but stayed inside it, A part of nature himself, he thought. And who would say no To someone so bound up in solitude, in failure, he thought, and suffering. Afternoon sky the color of Cream of Wheat, a small Dollop of butter hazily at the western edge. Getting too old and lazy to write poems, I watch the snowfall From the apple trees. Landscape, as Wang Wei says, softens the sharp edges of isolation.
Excerpted from A Short History of the Shadow by Charles Wright. Copyright © 2002 by Charles Wright. Reprinted by permission of Farrar, Straus, and Giroux. All rights reserved.

From Littlefoot


19 This is the bird hour, peony blossoms falling bigger than wren hearts On the cutting border's railroad ties, Sparrows and other feathery things Homing from one hedge to the next, late May, gnat-floating evening. Is love stronger than unlove? Only the unloved know. And the mockingbird, whose heart is cloned and colorless. And who's this tiny chirper, lost in the loose leaves of the weeping cherry tree? His song is not more than three feet off the ground, and singular, And going nowhere. Listen. It sounds a lot like you, hermane. It sounds like me.
Reprinted from Littlefoot © 2007 by Charles Wright, by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Learn more about FSG poets at fsgpoetry.com.



Words and the Diminution of All Things



The brief secrets are still here, and the light has come back. The word remember touches my hand, But I shake it off and watch the turkey buzzards bank and wheel Against the occluded sky. All of the little names sink down, weighted with what is invisible, But no one will utter them, no one will smooth their rumpled hair. There isn't much time, in any case. There isn't much left to talk about as the year deflates. There isn't a lot to add. Road-worn, December-colored, they cluster like unattractive angels Wherever a thing appears, Crisp and unspoken, unspeakable in their mute and glittering garb. All afternoon the clouds have been sliding toward us out of the Blue Ridge. All afternoon the leaves have scuttled Across the sidewalk and driveway, clicking their clattery claws. And now the evening is over us, Small slices of silence running under a dark rain, Wrapped in a larger.
From Buffalo Yoga by Charles Wright. Copyright © 2004 by Charles Wright. Reprinted by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux. All rights reserved.