Richard Wilbur



Richard Purdy Wilbur (1 March 1921 - 14 October 2017) was an American poet and literary translator. He was appointed the second Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress in 1987, and twice received the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry, in 1957 and again in 1989.

Quotes


The dancer kneeling on nothing into the wings''', And Nijinsky hadn't the words to make the laws For learning to loiter in air; he merely said, "I merely leap and pause."
 * Hebetude. '''It is a graph of a theme that flings
 * "Grace" in The Poems of Richard Wilbur (1963)

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.
 * '''Try to remember this: what you project
 * "Walking to Sleep" (1969)

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.
 * What you hope for
 * "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)

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

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.
 * '''Your hands hold roses always in a way that says
 * "The Beautiful Changes"

National Book Award Acceptance Speech (1957)

 * Full text online




 * 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 (1952)

 * The Beacon, The New Yorker, 17 May 1952, p. 36

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

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

Love Calls Us To The Things Of This World
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.'''
 * The eyes open to a cry of pulleys,

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

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 shrinks

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

A World Without Objects is a Sensible Emptiness


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...'''
 * The tall camels of the spirit

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.
 * O connoisseurs of thirst,

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

The Pardon


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.
 * '''My dog lay dead five days without a grave

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

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

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.'''
 * I started in to cry and call his name,