{"id":971,"date":"2026-07-17T18:06:19","date_gmt":"2026-07-17T18:06:19","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/cityrelocationnews.com\/?p=971"},"modified":"2026-07-17T18:06:19","modified_gmt":"2026-07-17T18:06:19","slug":"a-dying-poets-farewell-to-the-world","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/cityrelocationnews.com\/?p=971","title":{"rendered":"A Dying Poet\u2019s Farewell to the World"},"content":{"rendered":"
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Writing poetry made the late Franz Wright miserable, but it was an improvement on just about everything else in his life. His mentor in this essentially comic predicament was his estranged father, the poet James Wright. When Franz was fifteen, he sent his dad a seven-line poem. The elder Wright\u2019s response soon arrived from New York City, addressed jauntily from one \u201cgood craftsman\u201d to another: \u201cFranz, I am non-plussed,\u201d the younger Wright recalled, in a poem. \u201cI\u2019ll be damned. You can write. What can I say? Welcome to Hell.\u201d<\/p>\n

Read more Peter Hujar\u2019s Search for Secrets<\/a><\/p>\n

It was the only home they shared, and Wright took advantage of his father\u2019s hospitality. In fourteen volumes of poems, including \u201cWalking to Martha\u2019s Vineyard,\u201d which won a Pulitzer Prize in 2004, Franz Wright made Hell habitable, almost cheerful. \u201cAxe in Blossom: Last Poems & Fragments\u201d (Knopf), assembled by the poet\u2019s widow, Elizabeth Oehlkers Wright, after his death, in 2015, collects work from the days when Wright was maintaining what John Keats called a \u201cposthumous existence\u201d; dying from lung cancer, he dictated some of these tender, hardboiled, and wisecracking poems into a tape recorder, too weak to write, or left them as voice-mail messages for friends in an \u201codd-sounding croak that was once a good voice.\u201d Photos taken at Wright\u2019s apartment after his death show lines of verse written on the walls, on the appliances, on coffee filters, and, the most Boston thing evah, carved with a ballpoint into a Styrofoam Dunkin\u2019 Donuts cup. It looks like a crime scene, if writing poetry were a crime. \u201cI feel like Philip Marlowe sometimes,\u201d Wright wrote, lost in a \u201cLos Angeles of words.\u201d<\/p>\n

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What We\u2019re Reading<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

Discover notable new fiction, nonfiction, and poetry.<\/em><\/p>\n<\/div>\n\"\"<\/picture><\/div>\n<\/div>\n

As his voracious sentience began to cleave away from his suffering frame, this \u201cfacsimile of the person\u201d became more and more a poet of the estranged body: \u201cI am traveling away from my body in widening rings,\u201d he writes, and yet, \u201cIf I think I have problems, \/ I look for the mirror.\u201d Any errand outdoors makes him a kind of zombie Frank O\u2019Hara, clomping down the quiet chain-link and brick-faced blocks near his home in Waltham, Massachusetts. Even a trip six blocks to the post office is an \u201cexceptional event, long planned.\u201d Wright\u2019s spectacular disarray\u2014you worried about him, just running into him on the street\u2014was always first an occasion for self-ridicule: spotting his own reflection on a bus one afternoon, \u201cI looked like a suicide \/ returning an overdue book to the library.\u201d On the edge of death, though, the scenario becomes nearly slapstick; strangers who come across Wright\u2019s body on the sidewalk move \u201caround him, the way you would \/ dog shit.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

Wright\u2019s poems are usually at least a little funny, and often work like extended punch lines; the way to read them is to try to guess the elided sick joke. What happens to the body of a lifelong smoker when he dies? In \u201cInvoluntary Detox: Smoking Porch,\u201d it keeps smoking, of course, but not in any old crematorium:<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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Time for one more?<\/p>\n

What are you waiting for?<\/p>\n

Then come in.
The nicatorium\u2019s all yours.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Nicatorium! Wright went through many periods of detox, and was institutionalized several times; here he is welcomed by a stock character, the catatonic roommate who promises he hasn\u2019t \u201csaid a word \/ all day, and don\u2019t intend to \/ now.\u201d Or maybe that\u2019s a bored crematory worker, just punching the clock\u2014or is it God, whose weird, voyeuristic silence troubled Wright into composing some of his most powerful poems? In any case, the smoker gets his wish, and his comeuppance: \u201cConsider yourself completely alone.\u201d That\u2019s a poet\u2019s fantasy, and a child\u2019s darkest fear.<\/p>\n

In these poems, anticipation is inextricable from dread. Emily Dickinson received \u201cHeavenly Hurt\u201d from the winter \u201cSlant of light\u201d entering her bedroom. As a boy, Wright kept his eye on the door, hoping that the father he idolized would someday return; to maintain this vigil into adulthood is to open oneself up to grace but also to injury. Waking in the night, Wright wonders if there is \u201csomeone else \/ who wakes disturbed, alone; \/ too bad we can\u2019t talk \/ on our tiny phone.\u201d In another insomnia poem, \u201cWait,\u201d Wright keeps watch for the \u201clate light,\u201d which is \u201calways \/ leaving\u201d even \u201cas it arrives.\u201d For a child, this \u201csteplight\u201d could bring comfort, or it could bring a drunken thrashing. Wright wrote that his father beat him with a belt; his stepfather, he went on, \u201ctook over \/ somewhat more expertly.\u201d If the soul survives, these poems suggest, it\u2019s only by being battered out of the body.<\/p>\n

\u201cAxe in Blossom\u201d borrows its title from a line in \u201cI Hear,\u201d by the German Romanian poet and Holocaust survivor Paul Celan, who drowned in the Seine in 1970. Celan\u2019s shattered \u201cneversongs\u201d taught Wright important elements of his own style: the lines narrowing as they approach silence, like water disappearing down a drain; the clauses and multisyllabic words split like cordwood by line breaks; the pressurized neologisms picking up where available vocabulary runs out of road; the rich, sometimes asphyxiating details that make a beeline into the senses. In an homage, \u201cAxe in Blossom: To Paul Celan,\u201d the dead are called back to life by the \u201cmere scent of their wives baking bread.\u201d It takes a little more, in fact, than the \u201cmere scent\u201d: it takes an elegiac poetry of sensory nearness that mixes such things as warm bread and burning bodies. Wright is something like a laureate of the putrid, the stale, the acrid, and the moldy, but also of unbidden, stunning adjacent beauty: the \u201cstill-daytime \/ three-quarters moon, \/ the first snowflakes, swirling,\u201d even as the new day itself is unthinkable.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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Celan\u2019s influence is tricky to absorb for any poet who did not suffer in a labor camp or witness his parents taken away to be murdered by the S.S. It is impossible to isolate Celan\u2019s aesthetic innovations from his trauma and its historical meanings; Wright pre\u00ebmpts that bind by presenting his own suffering as sort of lame and clumsy. It keeps him, in these last poems, from putting his finger on the tragedy scale: there are \u201cso many things worse than death,\u201d he writes, and killing, even killing a fly, is one of them. He quotes the haiku master Issa:<\/p>\n

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Oh why would you swat them, the poor
things, forever
wringing their skinny hands<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Wright\u2019s body is dog shit, after all\u2014don\u2019t kill his companions! \u201cMore than ever I am haunted by the lives of the small, brief, powerless, filthy, and poor,\u201d he writes. But \u201cfilthy\u201d suggests something less than a Buddhist\u2019s commitment to the flies\u2019 well-being. In other poems, Wright has some fun at the expense of a cricket (\u201cmy friend describing you over the phone, chronicling your brief life and fairly gruesome end, both of us guiltily chuckling\u201d) and a moth (\u201conce it observes you have noticed it or given any indication its presence is a nuisance, you will very soon find yourself the perpetual loser in a chronic contest of wills\u201d). We don\u2019t read Wright for the purity of his moral life but for the erratic comedy of his good intentions yielding to blurted reversals and denunciations.<\/p>\n

Read more Who Owns the Odyssey?<\/a><\/p>\n

All the unresolved, zigzagging impulses give even Wright\u2019s finished work here some of the raggedness of drafts. \u201cAxe in Blossom\u201d is in every sense an open book, practically an open studio. We see its striking title gestate through multiple phases\u2014in a translation, an original poem, and a collage poem made from lines by Celan, Czes\u0142aw Mi\u0142osz, and Rainer Brambach. There are \u201cThree Homages,\u201d two poems called \u201cThe Writing\u201d (the second, marked \u201c2,\u201d is presented first), one poem called \u201cThe Lamp, 2\u201d that insinuates an absent predecessor, two called \u201cThe Kiss,\u201d and so on; the poems reshuffle the same vocabulary, the same images, the same settings and themes. The volume begins with more or less \u201ccomplete\u201d work, passes through some abandoned drafts, then trails off into an appendix, \u201cBurial Herbs,\u201d which works like a commonplace book of maxims, partial poems, and poems nominally complete but \u201cunfinishable,\u201d in the sense that certain poems, perhaps the most ambitious ones, only approximate their maker\u2019s vision.<\/p>\n

Among the \u201cunfinishables\u201d is a poem that I consider a masterpiece, probably one of Wright\u2019s very best. Dedicated to the German poet Karl Krolow, \u201cAt His Desk in the Past\u201d was \u201ctranscribed from self-recorded drafts on audio,\u201d in 2012. It\u2019s \u201craining in a dead language\u201d out the window, as Wright measures the duration of his life against various phenomena\u2014some brief, like an infant\u2019s fever, some ancient, like the stars. The poem, written in linked prose blocks, is too long to quote in full, and is quite intricate. But one passage gives a sense of its eerie logic. Wright describes the words of his poem \u201cstill traveling toward the world although he is not there although he is not here or anywhere\u201d:<\/p>\n

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AND we\u2019d do it again wouldn\u2019t we\u2014every last one of us choosing precisely what we had been given, a glimpse of a night sky\u2014no\u2014choosing precisely what we had been given not to be a sky of infinite diamonds unaware they live forever or exist at all but a pair of mortal eyes with the glory to see them, grieving their loss, a glimpse.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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Wright welcomes those stars into his own \u201cBRAIN or desert hive this named mind or single roaring.\u201d The poem ends by conferring a childish name, a name that a kid might dream up, on these sad, undying presences, with their \u201choney-colored irises\u201d and \u201cmuted wings\u201d of light and motion: \u201cBEE-iridescent.\u201d<\/p>\n

Rounding the bend, the book tours Wright\u2019s points of origin: recollections of his first poems, his first trip to Europe, his first cigarette, the first signs of the addictions that so blighted the poet\u2019s life. Wright hears now \u201cthe sound of my name posed, in my young mother\u2019s voice before I finally slept.\u201d The poet tucks into his deathbed, its \u201csheets \/ the color of old aspirin\u201d:<\/p>\n

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I had often wondered
where I would find it,
it find me, or
what it would look like.
Don\u2019t you?<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/blockquote>\n

But, hey, it\u2019s not a deathbed until you die in it: \u201cI could get some work done \/ here, I shrugged,\u201d Wright decides. \u201cI had done it before.\u201d\u00a0\u2666<\/p>\n

Read more Mother Tongue<\/a><\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Dan Chiasson writes on \u201cAxe in Blossom: Last Poems & Fragments,\u201d a posthumous collection by the poet, who died, in 2015, of lung cancer.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":970,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[12],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-971","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-books"],"yoast_head":"\nA Dying Poet\u2019s Farewell to the World - City Relocation News<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/cityrelocationnews.com\/?p=971\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"A Dying Poet\u2019s Farewell to the World - City Relocation News\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Dan Chiasson writes on \u201cAxe in Blossom: Last Poems & Fragments,\u201d a posthumous collection by the poet, who died, in 2015, of lung cancer.\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"https:\/\/cityrelocationnews.com\/?p=971\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"City Relocation News\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:published_time\" content=\"2026-07-17T18:06:19+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:image\" content=\"https:\/\/media.newyorker.com\/photos\/698119ed6a56722b07c239d6\/1:1\/w_200%2Cc_limit\/bestbooks2026_headermobile_animation_callout1.gif\" \/>\n<meta name=\"author\" content=\"admin\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:card\" content=\"summary_large_image\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Written by\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"admin\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:label2\" content=\"Est. reading time\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data2\" content=\"9 minutes\" \/>\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\\\/\\\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"Article\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/cityrelocationnews.com\\\/?p=971#article\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/cityrelocationnews.com\\\/?p=971\"},\"author\":{\"name\":\"admin\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/cityrelocationnews.com\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/person\\\/3e7ce0c0c60d21e12a5ac61fb2b786d4\"},\"headline\":\"A Dying Poet\u2019s Farewell to the World\",\"datePublished\":\"2026-07-17T18:06:19+00:00\",\"mainEntityOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/cityrelocationnews.com\\\/?p=971\"},\"wordCount\":1764,\"commentCount\":0,\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/cityrelocationnews.com\\\/?p=971#primaryimage\"},\"thumbnailUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/cityrelocationnews.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2026\\\/07\\\/dbccd4bff45cf6bbdca54b69687e09bf.webp\",\"articleSection\":[\"Books\"],\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"CommentAction\",\"name\":\"Comment\",\"target\":[\"https:\\\/\\\/cityrelocationnews.com\\\/?p=971#respond\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"WebPage\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/cityrelocationnews.com\\\/?p=971\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/cityrelocationnews.com\\\/?p=971\",\"name\":\"A Dying Poet\u2019s Farewell to the World - 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