Richard Wilbur

Richard Purdy Wilbur is an American poet, a former United States Poet Laureate and two-time winner of the Pulitzer Prize.

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• Try to remember this: what you project
  Is what you will perceive; what you perceive
  With any passion, be it love or terror,
  May take on whims and powers of its own.
  Therefore a numb and grudging circumspection
  Will serve you best — unless you overdo it,
  Watching your step too narrowly, refusing
  To specify a world, shrinking your purview
  To a tight vision of your inching shoes,
  Which may, as soon as you come to think, be crossing
  An unseen gorge upon a rotten trestle.
  • "Walking to Sleep" (1969)

• What you hope for
  Is that at some point of the pointless journey,
  Indoors or out, and when you least expect it,
  Right in the middle of your stride, like that,
  So neatly that you never feel a thing,
  The kind assassin Sleep will draw a bead
  And blow your brains out.
  • "Walking to Sleep" (1969)

• What is the opposite of two? A lonely me, a lonely you.
  • "Opposites" (1973)

• In each art the difficulty of the form is a substitution for the difficulty of direct apprehension and expression of the object. The first difficulty may be more or less overcome, but the second is insuperable; thus every poem begins, or ought to, by a disorderly retreat to defensible positions. Or, rather, by a perception of the hopelessness of direct combat, and a resort to the warfare of spells, effigies, and prophecies. The relation between the artist and reality is an oblique one, and indeed there is no good art which is not consciously oblique. If you respect the reality of the world, you know that you can approach that reality only by indirect means.
  • As quoted by John Gery in Ways of Nothingness: Nuclear Annihilation and Contemporary American Poetry (1996)

• A thrush, because I'd been wrong,
  Burst rightly into song
  In a world not vague, not lonely,
  Not governed by me only.
  • "Having Misidentified a Wild-Flower"

• Your hands hold roses always in a way that says
  They are not only yours; the beautiful changes
  In such kind ways,
  Wishing ever to sunder
  Things and things' selves for a second finding, to lose
  For a moment all that it touches back to wonder.
  • "The Beautiful Changes"

National Book Award Acceptance Speech (1957)

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• When a poet is being a poet — that is, when he is writing or thinking about writing — he cannot be concerned with anything but the making of a poem. If the poem is to turn out well, the poet cannot have thought of whether it will be saleable, or of what its effect on the world should be; he cannot think of whether it will bring him honor, or advance a cause, or comfort someone in sorrow. All such considerations, whether silly or generous, would be merely intrusive; for, psychologically speaking, the end of writing is the poem itself.

• It is true that the poet does not directly address his neighbors; but he does address a great congress of persons who dwell at the back of his mind, a congress of all those who have taught him and whom he has admired; that constitute his ideal audience and his better self. To this congress the poet speaks not of peculiar and personal things, but of what in himself is most common, most anonymous, most fundamental, most true of all men. And he speaks not in private grunts and mutterings but in the public language of the dictionary, of literary tradition, and of the street. Writing poetry is talking to oneself; yet it is a mode of talking to oneself in which the self disappears; and the products something that, though it may not be for everybody, is about everybody.

• Writing poetry, then, is an unsocial way of manufacturing a thoroughly social product. Because he must shield his poetry in its creation, the poet, more than other writers, will write without recognition. And because his product is not in great demand, he is likely to look on honors and distinctions with the feigned indifference of the wallflower. Yet of course he is pleased when recognition comes; for what better proof is there that for some people poetry is still a useful and necessary thing — like a shoe.

The Beacon

• Founded on rock and facing the night-fouled sea
  A beacon blinks at its own brilliance,
  Over and over with cutlass gaze
  Solving the Gordian waters ...

• The beacon-blaze unsheathing turns
  The face of darkness pale
  And now with one grand chop gives clearance to
  Our human visions . . .

Love Calls Us To The Things Of This World

• The eyes open to a cry of pulleys,
  And spirited from sleep, the astounded soul
  Hangs for a moment bodiless and simple
  As false dawn.
  Outside the open window
  The morning air is all awash with angels.

• Now they are rising together in calm swells
  Of halcyon feeling, filling whatever they wear
  With the deep joy of their impersonal breathing...

• The soul shrinks
  From all that it is about to remember,
  From the punctual rape of every blessed day,
  And cries,
  "Oh, let there be nothing on earth but laundry,
  Nothing but rosy hands in the rising steam
  And clear dances done in the sight of heaven."

• The soul descends once more in bitter love
  To accept the waking body

A World Without Objects is a Sensible Emptiness

• The tall camels of the spirit
  Steer for their deserts, passing the last groves loud
  With the sawmill shrill of the locust, to the whole honey of the
  arid
  Sun. They are slow, proud,
  And move with a stilted stride
  To the land of sheer horizon...

• O connoisseurs of thirst,
  Beasts of my soul who long to learn to drink
  Of pure mirage, those prosperous islands are accurst
  That shimmer on the brink
  Of absence; auras, lustres,
  And all shinings need to be shaped and borne.

• Wisely watch for the sight
  Of the supernova burgeoning over the barn,
  Lampshine blurred in the steam of beasts, the spirit's right
  Oasis, light incarnate.

The Pardon

• My dog lay dead five days without a grave
  In the thick of summer, hid in a clump of pine
  And a jungle of grass and honey-suckle vine.
  I who had loved him while he kept alive
  Went only close enough to where he was
  To sniff the heavy honeysuckle-smell
  Twined with another odor heavier still
  And hear the flies' intolerable buzz.

• Well, I was ten and very much afraid.
  In my kind world the dead were out of range
  And I could not forgive the sad or strange
  In beast or man.

• Last night I saw the grass
  Slowly divide (it was the same scene
  But now it glowed a fierce and mortal green)
  And saw the dog emerging.

• I started in to cry and call his name,
  Asking forgiveness of his tongueless head.
  ... I dreamt the past was never past redeeming:
  But whether this was false or honest dreaming
  I beg death's pardon now. And mourn the dead.