Initial by Franz Wright
To be able to say it: rose, oak, the stars.
And not to be blind!
Just to be here
for one day, only
to breathe and know when you lie down
you will keep on breathing;
to cast a reflection–,
oh, to have hands
even if they are a little damaged,
even if the fingers
leave no prints.
* * *
Another old favorite. It’s interesting reading his newest collection, Earlier Poems; there are lots of old familiar faces, and new ones to fall in love with.
I’ll probably regret posting this, but I have to get this out a bit: I just had one of the longest, most vivid dreams I’ve ever had in my life last night. Those that know me have probably heard me talk about the fact I very, very rarely remember my dreams, and so this has really stuck with me.
I’m at some kind of banquet or gathering of writers, maybe even all poets, I’m not quite sure (I’m already losing most of the dream, as I struggle to remember it. . .) and apparently I’m there with James Wright, except that in my dream he is Franz Wright (probably because I don’t know what James Wright looks like?). So we’re there at this banquet, except I feel like an outsider because I’m not a famous writer/poet and everyone else there is. At some point James/Franz hands me this absolutely massive book (it looks like some of those monstrous expensive dictionaries you might see somewhere), and it’s basically an anthology of poetry, signed by everyone who has a poem in the book, and the title page has a massive autograph from Franz, who isn’t there, but the book is a gift from him to myself. At some point I have to stand up and give a little speech introducing myself to everyone, and I say something about growing up in a tiny Indiana town and then something else and then everyone claps, and then I wake up.
I want to say something like ‘how weird!’ but, of course, all dreams are. Obviously there was a lot more I’ve forgotten. . .