Anatomy of Melancholy by Robert Wrigley

By Robert Wrigley

A robust new assortment from an award-winning poet Robert Wrigley has develop into one among his generation's such a lot complete poets, popular for his irony, energy, and lucid type and for his skill to fuse narrative and lyrical impulses. Like its namesake—Robert Burton's seventeenth-century exam of human concepts and emotions—Wrigley's new assortment ability to envision our global during the lens of melancholia. From imagined conflict 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 have a good time that almost all attractive, exasperating, joyous, depressing, and completely imperfect of all creatures—the human being.

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Sample text

The memory cannot serve the fits and flights. 44 ] 030 pt i (31-48) 11/22/04 3:02 PM Page 45 * Inside the fabric bit by shame a homecoming banner. Bus stop outside the barn my x and secret knock in sleet the beginning of the next yourself. A lifted face the bleeding goat my God that sky might leave me handless. I do not want this here. I know sounds of cascading remains subtle shifts in bed. [ 45 030 pt i (31-48) 11/22/04 3:02 PM Page 46 * Forgotten designated chalk and stone to harbor weeds. The outline sprinting like identical snowflakes to see what song might appear in blades.

It’s a shame about the interior limestone willing the day away from itself. Bright the undertaker with his shovel, the rearranged dirt. This is dailyness. No, it’s a crane holding a fish lengthwise, a map. There’s magenta stuck to my head you’re not even looking. Crossed the mosquito bite once once once for permanence. Stilted drunk party slurring the cattails. But I don’t wanna go. I will put on my clown suit, thickening behooves you somehow, your ankles pricked with what the wind. I will dance, slit the backs of my wrists.

It’s a shame about the interior limestone willing the day away from itself. Bright the undertaker with his shovel, the rearranged dirt. This is dailyness. No, it’s a crane holding a fish lengthwise, a map. There’s magenta stuck to my head you’re not even looking. Crossed the mosquito bite once once once for permanence. Stilted drunk party slurring the cattails. But I don’t wanna go. I will put on my clown suit, thickening behooves you somehow, your ankles pricked with what the wind. I will dance, slit the backs of my wrists.

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