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Articles by Robert Wrigley
Skiing in a winter wonderland
By Robert E. Wrigley As I hustled across the parking lot to go skiing in Winnipeg’s Assiniboine Forest one afternoon, my boots made the most pleasant crunching sounds (like munching on toast) on the packed snow. Instead of the old-fashioned cable bindings of my first skis in the early 1970s, I now sported a convenient one-click toe binding, and off I went, shifting from leg to leg with long, smooth glides. It was a beautiful afternoon with a temperature of -8°C.
Faces at Dawn - Terrain.org
Having travelled far, I came upon Mountains of histories, Dead lakes on which libraries are erected – Jared Angira, Hitch-Hike I He met the white woman on a wet night, along a dark alley which he had taken to bypass the crowded Awka Road. The moon in the sky was cut in half, like a tilted gray disc, the weak light from the sky oscillating between full-blown moonlight and soft darkness.
Wherefore O Birds and Small Fish Surround Me
A poem by Robert Wrigley. From the print edition Like Tweet Print Subscribe Donate Now As I bent to pick up a seed-bauble, my soul staggered down. A chickadee’s comfort blessed my head and heart. The soul will kneel awhile, thank you, the soul shall bask in chickadee balm. The sky being a cloud of blue fish says fly, an atmosphere of water, the fish of the sky says fish, blue at the depth of deep water. Hang on, staggered soul. It’s not like you’re dying.
Shelf Life: What's new at Jacksonville Public Library - 'Heat 2' an explosive return of series
Angela Bauer, Lifestyles editor Sep. 18, 2022 This is a carousel. Use Next and Previous buttons to navigate What's new at Jacksonville Public Library: Adult Fiction "Heat 2" by Michael Mann and Meg Gardiner: "Heat 2," Mann’s first novel, is an explosive return to the universe and characters of his classic crime film — with an all-new story unfolding in the years before and after the iconic movie.
Watching a Landslide
Irregular at first, a few rocks dislodge and staccato down the slope of scree across the lake, until the whole friable face sags in a squashed rhombus then blasts and buries the shoreline baluster boulders all the way to their boulder shoulders, baby— after which a trapezoidal cloud of dust rises and drifts limp as a severed blossom until silence returns, and a breeze, followed by the chop of newly hewn waves, which roll across the surface to lap exuberant and washed of all dust at our feet.
The Grace of the Bright
Available Light: A Series on the Photography of Place The warnings had been clear and many. There was a storm coming into Denver. The evening news forecast a difficult morning commute. I was going a great deal farther. I had to leave early. Signs over the highways warned of ice. Heading north on I-25, hours before dawn, I could not see the Front Range of the Rocky Mountains. I could not see Mt. Evans.
Our Corner of Paradise: Queer Pasts and Futures in a Greenwich Village Churchyard
I fled the sanctuary of the church for the sanctuary of the garden. All received information should make us inverts sad. But before I finish I intend to celebrate our corner of paradise, the part of the garden the Lord forgot to mention. – Derek Jarman, Modern Nature On Manhattan’s western shore, Christopher Street tapers into Pier 45 and ends in the Hudson River. For 10,000 years, Lenape peoples followed seal and whale here above miles of oyster beds.
Two Poems by Emily Ransdell
Driving Idaho Sometimes I envy the devout, days that begin and end with prayer, grown men in restaurants unembarrassed to bow their heads. But me, I’m hammered by doubt. By this fire-damaged sky, farmhouse hydrangeas parched to a passing blur. This road a ribbon of unspooled loneliness, rimmed with the tinder of endless grassland, the Sawtooth skyline glowing red. All along the highway, hand-lettered signs say Bless Our Firefighters. Waving children offering water and snacks.
One Poem by Al Maginnes
If you drive the country roads around here, you will find old barns holding fast against the gravity of gentrification, their wood worn gray as twilight, boards gone like the teeth in a friend’s mouth, those absences that become all you can see when he smiles. Time’s erosion leaves little to smile about as nails loosen their grip in wood’s fabric. Those structures were built with the help of neighbors or men hired for a few days’ labor. Once each of those nails gleamed bright as a new moon.
One Poem by Martha Silano
I can’t stop thinking about the wild horses of Chernobyl, keep going back to the sepia photographs, horses with glowing eyes, living in a town where 33 years ago the residents were ordered to evacuate, take only essentials, leave their televisions and clothes, their furniture and artwork, their cars. Were told it would just be a few days, that the police would guard their homes.
Eight Poems from Dryside Verses: Four Seasons on Goodlow Rim by John Daniel
The maple is shedding— I lug in firewood, crushing summer with each step. No visitors this month. Me alone for distraction. To hike sidehill this slope studded with rocks is an awkward honor. Ah, trapped spider, evolution didn’t plan on sinks. Sleek does drink and nuzzle at the pond. On my desk, a gray hair. Moonrise over Goodlow sends juniper shadows far downhill on frosted grass. The pond skinned with creased ice this morning—a spider begins an expedition.
The Ocean is Full of Questions: An Interview with Rob Carney
Poetry is different than those other genres. Poems don’t come with a band and light show to help propel them. Introduction I first read Rob Carney’s poetry for a course at Weber State University. An assignment to share the work of a poet we found interesting led me to the captivating title of Carney’s The Book of Sharks (Black Lawrence Press, 2018).
On Galway Kinnell
NOVEMBER 3, 2014 Poet Galway Kinnell passed away on October 28, 2014. We asked a number of poets and critics to reflect on his life and his work. — The Editors ¤ Galway Kinnell ONE OF THE FIRST encounters I ever had with contemporary poetry was with Galway Kinnell’s poem “The Night” in his 1994 collection, Imperfect Thirst. I was a freshman in college and I wrote poems furiously but still in a kind of secret, although I was beginning to have friends who were interested in poetry.
A Walk
(March 26, 2020, the day the U.S. takes the lead in coronavirus cases) Can they tell we are different, the deer? Can they smell it on us, our fear, trepidation in the way we walk, hear it in our ordinary human talk? Sometimes in winter’s cold bleak, we watch them from a window. The old, the strong, the young, the weak. Now, they look at us. What do they know? click to enlarge Robert Wrigley’s most recent book is Box (Penguin, 2017).
Might Have Been July, Might Have Been December by Robert Wrigley
More oblique the eagle’s angle than the osprey’s precipitous fall, but rose up both and under them dangled a trout, the point of it all. Festooned, a limb on each one’s favored tree either side of the river, with chains of bone and lace of skin the river’s wind made shiver. Sat under them both, one in December, one in July, in diametrical seasonal airs, and once arrived home, as I remember, with a thin white fish rib lodged in my hair.
Figure by Robert Wrigley
You want a piece of me to see, from the flesh of me, a flesh from within me no one’s ever seen, not me, nor the mother or the lovers of me. A piece that will have been me but then no longer me, instead a synecdoche of me, or possibly metonymy, a figure of speech of me, in contiguity or association with me, a part for the whole of me, a sliver that once was me, so you might perceive the end of me.
Learn Something New Every Day with Online Video Lessons
Isn't it a little late for this? Scientists believe they have discovered a new—and possibly the largest—organ in the human body. Say whaaaa? Last week, New York-based researchers published an article in the journal Scientific Reports describing the interstitium, a network of interconnected fluid-filled channels believed to exist in every tissue in the human body. This would account for one-fifth of the body's fluids by volume! So how have researchers missed the interstitium all these years?
Learn Something New Every Day with Online Video Lessons
Now here's some research you can actually consume! A new study published yesterday in JAMA Internal Medicine claims that drinking coffee can significantly extend your lifespan. Researchers recently concluded a longitudinal study involving half a million British adults aged 40 to 69. Participants not only filled out questionnaires about their daily coffee consumption and exercise habits, but also received physical exams and blood tests. Almost all were coffee drinkers.
Mowing by Robert Wrigley
and the weedy knots of flowers, circling heavy and sprawled out of its bounds. it is easy to feel absurd. one hundred years, could become Still I carry on, following week on week almost sprinting the last narrow swaths. And tonight, as I mow over seems hardly any different. But on one crooked march I walk them up from their deep sweet chamber just as my bare legs go by.
2016 Editors’ Prize finalist in nonfiction, “Nemerov’s Door” by Robert Wrigley
This week we are featuring Robert Wrigley’s 2016 Jeffrey E. Smith Prize finalist essay “Nemerov’s Door,” about a spontaneous trip that Wrigley took with his father as a young man to see the acclaimed poet Howard Nemerov. The essay brings attention to the connections between objects and people and words, and the ways in which certain events shape who we are as individuals.
Wordsmithing by Nature: Poets go deep into the outdoors
Watch for more poetry celebrating the outdoors by local poets this month in Thursday Outdoors. For thousands of years, poets have written about the outdoors. Sometimes, they praise scenery and wildness; sometimes, they compare humanity to nature. Poets from Hesiod and Homer to Basho and Chaucer have found inspiration in flowers and mountains, trees and rivers; in English language poetry, William Wordsworth’s writing about nature is important.
Robert Wrigley, His Previous Life as a Lichen
Podcast (claritycast): Play in new window | Download | Embed He did not go far, and the journey was long. It seemed his quest was to enact the shadow of a distant ridge, until it was the distant ridge that became somehow the shadow of him. This freed him to swaddle an entire stone, to be a cloak, to gown the gray granite of a cog in a mountain’s machinery, to be the skin of it, to feed it such moisture as he could sift from rain and snow and wind. He was happy.
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