By Robert Wrigley
A robust new assortment from an award-winning poet Robert Wrigley has turn into one among his generation's such a lot comprehensive poets, popular for his irony, energy, and lucid variety and for his skill to fuse narrative and lyrical impulses. Like its namesake—Robert Burton's seventeenth-century exam of human ideas and emotions—Wrigley's new assortment capacity to ascertain our global throughout the lens of melancholia. From imagined battle memorials to insomniac chickens; from Descartes' misplaced daughter to a dreaming tree; from King Kong to hurry Limbaugh; and from Anna Karenina to a guy named Lucy Doolin (short for Lucifer), those are poems that elegize and rejoice that the majority appealing, exasperating, joyous, depressing, and completely imperfect of all creatures—the man or woman.
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Extra info for Anatomy of Melancholy
Vine street, says the bus driver, this is Vine street. he’s right, at last. what a marvelous thing. I get off at Vine Street. I need a drink or something to eat. I don’t care about the bus anymore. it is a rejected poem. I don’t need it anymore. there will be more busses. I decide upon something to eat with a drink as openers. I walk out of the dark and into the dark and sit down and wait. the painter he came up on the porch with a grinning subnormal type and they stood there drunk on wine. the painter had his coat wrapped around something, then pulled the coat away— it was a policeman’s helmet complete with badge.
The driver leaned on the horn and a cop car came by and that was it. they went in and got those 2 guys. any 2 guys that dumb, said another, they sure have it coming. look sweetie, said another to the waitress, we don’t want anything to drink, we don’t drink, but we could sure use 4 coffees, and haven’t I seen you someplace before, hee hee hee? give me another beer, I told the waitress. I drink, and I’ve never seen you anyplace before. the waitress came back with 4 cups of coffee and the beer, and I sat there reading my own novel as the 4 preachers sat there whirling their spoons around their cups, clink clink clink and I thought, this isn’t a bad novel this isn’t a bad novel at all, but the next one is going to be better, and I lifted my old beer and finished it, and then drank some of the new one, and clink clink clink went the spoons against the cups and one of the preachers coughed and everybody was unhappy but me.
The inquisitor in the bathtub rereading Céline’s Journey to the End of the Night the phone rings and I get out grab a towel. some guy from SMART SET, he wants to know what’s in my mailbox how my life has been going. I tell him there isn’t anything in the mailbox or the life. he thinks that I’m holding back. I hope that I am. my friend william my friend William is a fortunate man: he lacks the imagination to suffer he kept his first job his first wife can drive a car 50,000 miles without a brake job he dances like a swan and has the prettiest blankest eyes this side of El Paso his garden is a paradise the heels of his shoes are always level and his handshake is firm people love him when my friend William dies it will hardly be from madness or cancer he’ll walk right past the devil and into heaven you’ll see him at the party tonight grinning over his martini blissful and delightful as some guy fucks his wife in the bathroom.
Anatomy of Melancholy by Robert Wrigley