|
Richard
Wilbur, Mayflies
Expanded
UK edition
96 pp, ISBN
1-904130-11-9, £8.95 (paperback),
Publication,
July 19th 2004
Post-free
for on-line credit/debit card orders
I
wish to buy this book
|
A
note about Mayflies
In
1989 Richard Wilbur published his New and Collected Poems,
a landmark volume which won that year's Pulitzer Prize. Eleven
years later, he published the first edition of Mayflies, which
gathered together all of the poetry he had written in years following
his New and Collected, and added a number of translations,
from Mallarmé, Cassian, Petrov, Baudelaire, Molière
and Dante. The Waywiser Press's edition of Mayflies is
a significantly expanded volume, which adds eleven new poems to
the twenty-five which appeared in the American edition: "The
Reader", "Sir David Brewster's Toy", "Man
Running", "Asides", "Tanka", "In
Trackless Woods", "Twelve Riddles from Symphosius",
"An Eightieth-Birthday Ballade for Anthony Hecht", "To
a Comedian", "Blackberries for Amelia", and "Green".
|
| |
|
A note on Richard Wilbur
Richard
Wilbur was born in New York City in 1921. His books of poetry
include New and Collected Poems (1988), which won the Pulitzer
Prize; The Mind-Reader: New Poems (1976); Walking to Sleep: New
Poems and Translations (1969); Advice to a Prophet and Other Poems
(1961); Things of This World (1956), for which he received the
Pulitzer Prize and the National Book Award; Ceremony and Other
Poems (1950); and The Beautiful Changes and Other Poems (1947).
He has also published numerous translations of French plays, two
books for children, and a collection of prose pieces, and has
edited such books as Poems of Shakespeare (1966) and The Complete
Poems of Poe (1959). His The Catbird's Song: Prose Pieces is due
this spring from Harcourt Brace. Among his honors are the Wallace
Stevens Award, the Aiken Taylor Award for Modern American Poetry,
the Frost Medal, the Gold Medal for Poetry from the American Academy
of Arts and Letters, the Bollingen Prize, the T. S. Eliot Award,
a Ford Foundation Award, two Guggenheim Fellowships, the Edna
St. Vincent Millay Memorial Award, the Harriet Monroe Poetry Award,
the National Arts Club medal of honor for literature, two PEN
translation awards, the Prix de Rome Fellowship, and the Shelley
Memorial Award. He was elected a chevalier of the Ordre des Palmes
Académiques and is a former Poet Laureate of the United
States. A Chancellor Emeritus of The Academy of American Poets,
he lives in Cummington, Massachusetts.
|
|
|
Praise
for Mayflies
"May
the voice of this sure-thinking, clear-sighted poet of uncertainties,
with his balanced vision of ineluctable shadow and undiscouraged
shining (to borrow Auden's phrase about Freud), remain with us
well into the new century. Wilbur's work embraces the rich exchange
of pleasure and reward that accompanies the writing and receiving
of great poetry. In his own words, 'There's nothing so wonderful
as having constructed something perfectly arbitrary, without any
help from anybody else, out of pure delight and self-delight,
and then to find out that it turns out to be useful to a few others.
You have it both ways, if you're lucky: you do exactly as you
want to do, you're as lonely and as happy as a child playing with
his toy trains, and then it turns out that people are grateful
to you ...' Wilbur has been lucky for a very long time; he remains
a predominantly lonely, happy poet, for which we, his readers,
are increasingly grateful." Leslie Monsour
"We can only hope that Wilbur is granted another decade,
and another book as fine as Mayflies. Alan Sullivan."
|
|
|
Reviews
of Mayflies
Times
Literary Supplement
...
Mayflies would be worth reading simply for Wilbur's fluent
translation of Canto XXV of Dante's Inferno, [but] the
book contains, too, a few poems that rank among his best
the austere intensity of 'Crow's Nests', the rhyming tercets of
'Zea', the beautiful consolation of 'For C.' This last poem, a
praise and joyful witness of longstanding love, ends with words
that could stand as a fit description of Wilbur's ouevre: 'A Passion
joined to courtesy and art / Which has the quality of something
made, / Like a good fiddle, like the rose's scent, / Like a rose
window or the firmament." Ian Tromp
Poetry
London
Wilbur
has been writing ... superb, brilliant, kindly, highly intelligent,
deeply literary verse for nearly 60 years ... [H]is new collection,
Mayflies, is again wonderfully interesting and well-written. The
poems are quieter and less showy than in his prime, but the best
of them (e.g. For C, This Pleasing Anxious Being)
still advance urbanely on the reader and then leave one shocked
by the sudden emotional power which can be carried by such a civilised
vehicle.
D.M. Black
San
Francisco Chronicle
[Wilburs]
New and Collected Poems won a Pulitzer Prize (his second)
in 1988, leaving some to assume ... that it would be the capstone
of a long career. Now we have this luminous coda as well ... Mayflies
is a book to keep, re-read, ponder and memorize.
Cynthia Haven
The
Hudson Review
Let
me end this review by ehorting the reader to acquire a copy of
Richard Wilbur's latest volume, Mayflies. As a critic,
I have a hard time framing a response to the book because my reaction
is wholly uncritical: I find almost every poem in the book beautiful
and wise ... [T]his book is a necessary addition to every poetry
lover's library." Emily Grosholz
Kirkus
Reviews
The
graceful combination of virtuoso formal verse and fully matured
wisdom produces a tightly woven group of poems and translations
that reinforce Wilburs standing as one of the great poetic
craftsmen of the 20th century.
The
Antioch Review
"Expectedly,
the translations (of Mallarmé, Cassian, Petrov, Baudelaire,
Molière, and Dante) included in Mayflies are brilliantly
crafted. Superb English poems in their own right, those done from
the French exhibit a sprightly inventiveness, while conveying
nearly all the original meanings." John Taylor
New
York Review of Books
Readers
familiar with the long sweep of Wilburs career will hear
in Mayflies many echoes, thematic and formal, of what has gone
before. But they will also find that the new variations extend
and enrich the old Wilbur music ... Its been a long while
since I came across a new book of contemporary American poetry
which, in its consistency, clarity, and fullness of tone, felt
so heartening. Brad Leithauser
|
|
|
From
Mayflies
For
C.
After
the clash of elevator gates
And the long sinking, she emerges where,
A slight thing in the mornings crosstown glare,
She looks up toward the window where he waits,
Then in a fleeting taxi joins the rest
Of the huge traffic bound forever west.
On
such grand scale do lovers say good-bye
Even this other pair whose high romance
Had only the duration of a dance,
And who, now taking leave with stricken eye,
See each in each a whole new life forgone.
For them, above the darkling clubhouse lawn,
Bright
Perseids flash and crumble; while for these
Who part now on the dock, weighed down by grief
And baggage, yet with something like relief,
It takes three thousand miles of knitting seas
To cancel out their crossing, and unmake
The amorous rough and tumble of their wake.
We
are denied, my love, their fine tristesse
And bittersweet regrets, and cannot share
The frequent vistas of their large despair,
Where love and all are swept to nothingness;
Still, theres a certain scope in that long love
Which constant spirits are the keepers of,
And
which, though taken to be tame and staid,
Is a wild sostenuto of the heart,
A passion joined to courtesy and art
Which has the quality of something made,
Like a good fiddle, like the roses scent,
Like a rose window or the firmament.
Man
Running
Whatever
he has done
Against our law and peace of mind,
Our minds eye looks with pity of a kind
At the scared, stumbling fellow on the run
Who hears a siren scream
As through the thickets we conceive
He ploughs with fending arms, and to deceive
The snuffling dogs now flounders up a stream
Until he doubles back,
Climbing at length a rocky rise
To where he crumples and, exhausted, lies
In the scorched brush beside a railroad track.
*
If then he hops a freight
And clatteringly rides as far
As the next county in a cattle-car,
We feel our sense of him disintegrate
In rumors, warnings, claims
That here or there he has appeared --
Tall, short, fierce, furtive, with or without a beard.
Still, in fidelity to childhood games
And outlaws of romance,
We darkly cheer him, whether or not
He robbed that store, or bank, or fired that shot,
And wish him, guiltily, a sporting chance.
*
Ditching the stolen truck,
He disappears into a vast
Deep-wooded wilderness, and is at last
Beyond the reach of law, and out of luck,
And we are one with him,
Sharing with him that eldest dread
Which, when it gathers in a sleeping head,
Is a place mottled, ominous, and dim
Remembered from the day
When we descended from the trees
Into the shadow of our enemies,
Not lords of nature yet, but naked prey.
©
|
|
| |
|
|