poem index

sign up to receive a new poem-a-day in your inbox

Recorded at the Chancellors Reading, Poets Forum 2014. NYU Skirball Center.
About this Poem 

"Geographically speaking, this is just California dreaming, from the Sierras to a ranch in Marin, presided over until very recently by an aged blind sheep named Annie. Otherwise it's one of those solitary evenings with an enhanced sense of elucidation."

—C. D. Wright

Imaginary June

C. D. Wright, 1949

Night:     wears itself away    clouds too dense to skim
over the shear granite rim       only a moment before
someone sitting in a mission chair       convinced  101%
convinced    she could see into her very cells
with her unassisted eyes     even into extremophiles
even with the light dispelled     until the mind sets sail
into its private interval of oblivion     a hand falls from its lap
a pen drops to a carpet     a stand of leaves whispers as if
to suggest something tender      yet potentially heart robbing  
 
Sequel:     to a dream in which faces flare up    fuse     dissolve
but there is a lot of color before their vanishing      and a name
for such phenomena      that comes from the belly of a lamb
rather     not a lamb anymore      from the stomach
of a particular canny but kind and     blind-from-birth ewe 

                                                             

                                                       for Susie Schlesinger

Copyright © 2013 by C. D. Wright. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-A-Day on November 4, 2013. Browse the Poem-A-Day archive.

Copyright © 2013 by C. D. Wright. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-A-Day on November 4, 2013. Browse the Poem-A-Day archive.

C. D. Wright

C. D. Wright

Author of numerous volumes of poetry, Wright has served as the poet laureate of Rhode Island, and in 2013 was elected a Chancellor of the Academy of American Poets.

by this poet

poem
       Not the mental lethargy in which the days enveloped her

       Nor the depleted breasts not the hand that never knew

       tenderness nor eyes that glistened

       Not the people dragging canvas bags

       through the ragged fields

       Not the high mean whine of mosquitoes

       Not another
poem

Whether or not the water was freezing. The body

would break its sheathe. Without layer on layer

of feather and air to insulate the loving belly.

A cloudy film surrounding the point of entry. If blue

were  not blue how could love be love. But if the body

were made of rings. A loose halo

2
poem

You could ask any one of them up by the lake
                                               It had presence

Fold of coldness folded over cold

The rumors of what was beyond
                                         mostly worthless

You had to take into account who was telling

2