Franz Wright is incredibly gifted at saying something interesting in the simplest and most common of words, the sparest of poems. Flowery he is not. Many of these poems concern their speaker's--a person suffering from clinical depression or something similar, a person I can't help picturing in a hospital gown and scuffs, fragile but grateful that his heavy misery is lifting in little gulps--experience of God. They made me think, also, of Rilke's Book of Hours.

posted Mar 10, 2010 at 3:23PM

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