{"id":93491,"date":"2016-01-14T12:04:18","date_gmt":"2016-01-14T17:04:18","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=93491"},"modified":"2016-01-14T12:24:01","modified_gmt":"2016-01-14T17:24:01","slug":"c-d-wright-1949-2016","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/01\/14\/c-d-wright-1949-2016\/","title":{"rendered":"C. D. Wright, 1949\u20132016"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

C. D. Wright. Photo via Copper Canyon Press<\/p><\/div>\n

The poet C. D. Wright died unexpectedly this week at the age of sixty-seven, in Providence, Rhode Island.\u00a0\u201cIt is a function of poetry to locate those zones inside us that would be free<\/a>,\u201d Wright once said, \u201cand declare them so\u201d; poetry was \u201cthe one arena where I am not inclined to crank up the fog machine.\u201d Over the course of more than a dozen books, she \u201cfound a way,\u201d as\u00a0The New Yorker\u00a0<\/em>put it,\u00a0\u201cto wed fragments of an iconic America to a luminously strange idiom, eerie as a tin whistle.\u201d<\/p>\n

Wright\u2019s poem \u201cOur Dust,\u201d which might\u00a0double as a kind of eulogy\u2014\u201cI made \/\u00a0simple music \/\u00a0out of sticks and string … I \/ agreed to be the poet of one life, \/ one death alone\u201d\u2014appeared in the Winter 1988 issue of The Paris Review<\/em>, and is reprinted in full below. It was later collected in her book\u00a0Steal Away<\/a><\/em>.\u00a0You can watch her read it aloud here<\/a>. <\/p>\n

Our Dust<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I am your ancestor. You know next-to-nothing
\nabout me.
\nThere is no reason for you to imagine
\nthe rooms I occupied or my heavy hair.
\nNot the faint vinegar smell of me. Or
\nthe rubbed damp
\nof Forrest and I coupling on the landing
\nen route to our detached day.<\/p>\n

You didn\u2019t know my weariness, error, incapacity,
\nI was the poet
\nof shadow work and towns with quarter-inch
\nphone books, of failed
\nroadside zoos. The poet of yard eggs and
\nsharpening shops,
\njobs at the weapons plant and the Maybelline
\nfactory on the penitentiary road.<\/p>\n

A poet of spiderwort and jacks-in-the-pulpit,
\nhollyhocks against the tool shed.
\nAn unsmiling dark blond.
\nThe one with the trowel in her handbag.
\nI dug up protected and private things.
\nThat sort, I was.
\nMy graves went undecorated and my churches
\nabandoned. This wasn\u2019t planned, but practice.<\/p>\n

I was the poet of short-tailed cats and yellow
\nline paint.
\nOf satellite dishes and Peterbilt trucks. Red Man
\nChewing Tobacco, Black Cat Fireworks, Triple Hut
\nCreme Soda. Also of dirt dobbers, nightcrawlers,
\nmartin houses, honey, and whetstones
\nfrom the Novaculite Uplift. What remained
\nof The Uplift.<\/p>\n

I had registered dogs 4 sale; rocks, dung,
\nand straw.
\nI was a poet of hummingbird hives along with
\nredhead stepbrothers.<\/p>\n

The poet of good walking shoes\u2014a necessity
\nin vernacular parts\u2014and push mowers.
\nThe rumor that I was once seen sleeping
\nin a refrigerator box is false (he was a brother
\nwho hated me).
\nNor was I the one lunching at the Governor\u2019s
\nmansion.<\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t work off a grid. Or prime the surface
\nif I could get off without it. I made
\nsimple music
\nout of sticks and string. On side B of me,
\nexperimental guitar, night repairs and suppers
\nsuch as this.
\nYou could count on me to make a bad situation
\nworse like putting liquid make-up over
\na passion mark.<\/p>\n

I never raised your rent. Or anyone else\u2019s by God.
\nNever said I loved you. The future gave me chills.
\nI used the medium to say: Arise arise and
\ncome together.
\nFree your children. Come on everybody. Let\u2019s start
\nwith Baltimore.<\/p>\n

Believe me I am not being modest when I
\nadmit my life doesn\u2019t bear repeating. I
\nagreed to be the poet of one life,
\none death alone. I have seen myself
\nin the black car. I have seen the retreat
\nof the black car.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The poet C. D. Wright died unexpectedly this week at the age of sixty-seven, in Providence, Rhode Island.\u00a0\u201cIt is a function of poetry to locate those zones inside us that would be free,\u201d Wright once said, \u201cand declare them so\u201d; poetry was \u201cthe one arena where I am not inclined to crank up the fog […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":38,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[27],"tags":[16304,1450,20537,20784,11989,20783,7221,165,2047,20785],"class_list":["post-93491","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-in-memoriam","tag-archive","tag-c-d-wright","tag-in-memoriam","tag-issue-109","tag-obituaries","tag-our-dust","tag-poems","tag-poetry","tag-poets","tag-winter-1988"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nC. D. 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