Wright’s most recent book of poems, Sestets, came out in March of this year. A much more astringent collection, partly because of working within a concise form, with each of the poems composed from only six lines (albeit, rather long lines at times and with his customary spread across the page), but more importantly in tone as well– a more bitter voice, tinted at times even with anger, contradictory, defiant, stoic, tighter in its demand to vocalize to the reader.

It’s a welcome move for Wright. On the surface it appears to be just another Wright collection, only of shorter works, but once burrowed in, a reader will find that this is a different Wright, not standing within the voluminous fields of life, but a Wright, now 70, who is acknowledging the nothingness of the void, where he finds both mockery, and grace.


Stiletto


Why does evening up here

.........................always, in summer, seem to be

The way-- as it does, with the light knifing low from right to left--

It will be on the next-to-last one?



The next-to-last one for me, I mean.

There is no music involved,

.........................so it must be the light, and its bright blade.

The last one, of course, will be dark.

.......................................And the knife will be dark too.