Reviews

Caribou: Poems by Charles Wright

tomhill's review against another edition

4.0

"Nothing's as far away as love is,
not even the new stars,
Though something is moving them
We hope in our direction, albeit their skin's not on fire."

Maybe it's not the greatest collection of poems ever assembled, but it has so much of what characterizes Wright's best work and makes him a really good poet, in my opinion: nature imagery, reflections on existence and self, questions about God and immortality.

"Whose night sky is this
With no one under it?
Whose darkness has closed our eyes?"

nickreallylovestoread's review against another edition

challenging emotional reflective slow-paced

4.0

Meditative poetry reflecting futility of moments with crisp imagery and bucolic scenery. Found myself taking bite-sized chunks out of this collection, as moments in this were dense. A few poems reflected the barriers/limitations of language in a novel way. Would recommend reading this outside nearby a murmuring river. 

dylanperry's review against another edition

3.0

Reading Caribou by Charles Wright taught me a valuable lesson: I’m not too bright. This is especially the case with poetry. To say I’m a casual is a disservice to actual casuals. I have never been good at dissecting and breaking down poems; Honestly, I’m here because I love concise language and drool over beautiful similes and metaphor. I liken it to when I try to read a mystery novel—I do not get enjoyment out of being more active in the story, meaning I don’t wanna sit here and try and figure shit out. If you do, more power to ya. It’s just not my thing. I suppose that makes me a passive consumer, which I’m totally okay with.

In short: I felt out of my depth, but that depth is about the size of a kiddy pool, so take it as you will.

3/5

slimikin's review against another edition

4.0

To me, these poems read like salt water. Some are nightswimming in the briny, dark, endless Atlantic, fathoms unknown beneath my treading feet. Others the taste of tears on my lips, breeze a delicate finger against the glaze of water on my cheeks. And a handful are the salty-sweet strangeness of salt water taffy. All lovely, all words worth savoring a spell.

spacejamz's review against another edition

4.0

I tend to hate generalizing about regions, but this feels exactly like the poetry an older man living in a University town east of Virginia's Blue Ridge Mountains. The thing people least understand about Appalachia is that it is a sorrowful place. (See it in the misguided attempts at bluegrass by less troubled Californians like Nickel Creek or any number of Vermont hippies.) Charles Wright is full of sorrow, spends long days watching the mountains, thinks hard about God, takes delight in vernacular. What makes him just left of (or east, as it happens) Appalachian is the influence of Chinese thought & poetry. These poems feel caught squarely between four poles: liturgical Christianity, Zen Buddhism, Transcendentalism, and despair. Favorites:

Crystal Declension
Heaven's Eel
"I'm Going to Take a Trip in That Old Gospel Ship"
Ancient of Days
"I've Been Sitting Here Thinking Back Over My Life..."
Dude
Lullaby
Translations From a Forgotten Tongue

elianachow's review against another edition

5.0

Oof. Megan selected this book for me off a shelf in a little London bookstore and thank God she did. I read it aloud to myself in my hotel room and later on the plane ride home, so my neighbors probably thought I was crazy (especially when I started grinning like a fool because the section “Apocrypha” was just so amazing).

chovereads's review against another edition

5.0

wow - need to check out again to revisit all the imagery that stunned me.

heypretty52's review against another edition

3.0

Poetry does not hold me today.

juliechristinejohnson's review

5.0

This is an old man's poetry
written by someone who's spent his life
Looking for one truth.

Ancient of Days

Caribou is an uncertain prayer to the life beyond this life. Charles Wright is in his late seventies, and many of these poems caress the years and hopes behind the poet in wistful elegy. Wright hopes that whatever awaits him, it will be gentle, and he asks to be forgiven for being uncertain what truth he believes in.

October, Mon Amour

Our history is the history of the City of God.
What's-to-come is anybody's guess.
Whatever has given you comfort,
Whatever has rested you,
Whatever untwisted your heart
is what you will leave behind.

He also passes on the wisdom of his years, a quiet admonishment not to expect more, not to do more, than what is within reach, to be at peace with the now of your life:

Cake Walk

To do what you have to do—unrecognized—and for no one.
The language in that is small,
sewn just under your skin.

and

Grace II

It's true, aspirations of youth burn down to char strips with the years.
Tonight, only memories are my company and my grace.
How nice if they could outlive us.
But they can't. Or won't.

Elements of Christian faith, its dutiful redemption, mystical transubstantiation, and the wonder of heaven mingle with cyclical process of Buddhism. But the natural world is most precious to Charles Wright:

L'Amor Che Move Il Sol E L'Altre Stelle

I love walking into the setting sun
where nothing is visible but light,
And that nor really visible, just a sweet blinding.
Then coming back to the world
Unharmed, but altered slightly,
as though it were not the same setup anymore.

So much beautiful language here: cloud gobbets and creeks that sniddle along and armadas of clouds Spanished along the horizon, the stepchild hour that belongs to neither the light nor the dark--passages that make me glad this is one of my rare book purchases, for I have scribbled notes in the margin, starred favorite poems, underlined words and verses to refer to again and again.

Caribou is a meditation on the human condition, the end of which is inevitable. And ultimately, it is silent.

Time and the Centipedes of Night

The condition of everything tends toward the condition of
silence.
When the wind stops, there's silence.
When the waters go down on their knees and touch their heads
To the bottom, there's silence, when the stars appear
face down, O Lord, then what a hush.