The son of poet James Wright, Franz Wright was born in Vienna on March 18, 1953. During his youth, his family moved to the Northwest United States, the Midwest, and northern California. Wright’s collections of poetry include F. (2013), Kindertotenwald (2011), Wheeling Motel (2009), Earlier Poems (2007), God’s Silence (2006), Walking to Martha’s Vineyard (2003), which received a Pulitzer Prize, The Beforelife (2001), Ill Lit: New and Selected Poems (1998), Rorschach Test (1995), The Night World and the Word Night (1993), and Midnight Postscript (1993). He has also translated poems by René Char, Erica Pedretti, and Rainer Maria Rilke. Wright has received the PEN/Voelcker Award for Poetry, as well as grants and fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation and the National Endowment for the Arts. He died in 2015 at his home in Waltham, Massachusetts.
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Entry in an Unknown HandPoemsFrom"Audience"
The street deserted. Nobody,
only you and one last
dirt colored robin,
fastened to its branch
against the wind. It seems
you have arrived
late, the city unfamiliar,
the address lost.
And you made such a serious effort –
pondered the obstacles deeply,
tried to be your own critic.
Yet no one came to listen.
Maybe they came, and then left.
After you traveled so far,
just to be there.
It was a failure, that is what they will say.
Entry in an Unknown Hand:Poems -
Entry in an Unknown HandPoemsFrom"Vermont Cemetery"
Drowsy with the rain
and late October sun, remember,
we stopped to read the names.
A mile across the valley
a little cloud of sheep
disappeared over a hill,
a little crowd of sleep--…
time to take a pill
and wake up,
and drive through the night.
Once I spoke your name,
but you slept on and on.
Entry in an Unknown Hand:Poems -
Entry in an Unknown HandPoemsFrom"Birthday"
I make my way down the back stairs
in the dark. I know
it sounds crude to admit it,
but I like to piss in the back yard.
You can be alone for a minute
and look up at the stars,
and when you return
everyone is there.
You get drunker, and listen to records.
Everyone agrees.
The dead singers have the best voices.
At four o’clock in the morning
the dead singers have the best voices.
And I can hear them now,
as I climb the stairs
in the dark I know.
Entry in an Unknown Hand:Poems
Selected Works
