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Collected Poems 1943-2004

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Wilbur's collected poems would be in every American home if poetry was taught better. He is the most technically proficient poet in American literary history. In matters of rhythm, meter, rhyme, shape and form, he is a sculptor, a magician.

Check out these tercets from "First Snow in Alsace," remembering that Wilbur saw pretty much three years of straight combat in World War Two:

The snow came down last night like moths

Burned on the moon; it fell till dawn,

Covered the town with simple cloths.

Absolute snow lies rumpled on

What shellbursts scattered and deranged,

Entangled railings, crevassed lawn.

You think: beyond the town a mile

Or two, this snowfall fills the eyes

Of soldiers dead a little while.

I first read Richard Wilbur's poems more than 20 years ago, but I have to admit that for most of that time he has been for me like the fire brigade or catastrophic health insurance -- I was glad he was there, but for whatever reason he didn't seem terribly relevant in my life.

This book helped remind me how wrong I have been.

Upon reflection, I realize that at least part of the reason for my undervaluing Mr. Wilbur's work stems from my own shortcoming: I was probably too young to appreciate his delicate insight and wit when I formed my opinions about him. But the main reason is probably because he's such a forgettable personality. He is a white male. Like most men of his generation, he served in the army during World War II. He doesn't use strange punctuation marks or filthy language. I know almost nothing about his personal life, but, as far as I know, he has never considered suicide, he has never been in rehab, he has never gone mad, and he has never been arrested. All he has done is produce beautiful and important poems, virtually non-stop for more than 60 years. In an age in which we are flooded with public personalities that demand to be noticed, that is disappointingly easy to overlook.

Collected Poems, 1943-2004 is probably as close as we're going to get to Mr. Wilbur demanding to be noticed. And if you are the type who enjoys simple pleasures and metrical poise, then you really should notice him as he appears on these pages. Everything Mr. Wilbur wrote through 2004 is included here, including previously unpublished recent poems, song lyrics, children's poems, and the great poet's well-known published works. There is no need to own any other book of Mr. Wilbur's poetry if you buy this.

I'm not enough of a fool to try to use my own words to describe Mr. Wilbur's. Instead, I'll end with the final verse of Seed Leaves, one of my favorite poems in the book:

Forced to make choice of ends,
The stalk in time unbends,
Shakes off the seed-case, heaves
Aloft, and spreads two leaves
Which display no sure
And special signature.

Indeed.

Wilbur is one of the indispensables; impossible to imagine American poetry, or indeed the American trajectory, without these poems, so deftly shaped, giving such wry light. I am grateful for this book.

This collection of the poems of Richard Wilbur is in several ways a gem. Not only does it contain the bulk of the works of Wilbur, who is one of the very few major poets of our era, it is also that rarity in today's publishing industry; that is, a beautiful book, well printed on good quality paper in a most readable typeface, and elegantly bound. Wilbur's work is notable for his affinity with the poetry of Europe and elsewhere. His translations from the French, in particular, are all of a high standard. Wilbur is not afraid to write verse which has rhyme, rhythm, and elegance. This is a book to be treasured.

Collected Poems 1943-2004 is an anthology of poetry by Pulitzer Prize and National Book Award winner Richard Wilbur, who has previously served as poet laureate of the United States. The compendium features works in a variety of formats, meters, and rhyme schemes, with themes ranging from the mundane to the extraordinary. A superb cross-sampling of the best of Wilbur's work, Collected Poems 1943-2004 is a treasury recommended for both libraries and private poetry shelves, and is certain not to disappoint true poetry lovers. "On Having Mis-Identified a Wild Flower": A thrush, because I'd been wrong, / Burst rightly into song / In a world not vague, not lonely, / Not governed by me only.

Fashionable nonsense attracts a lot of attention and dies on the vine often before its creator does. Lyrical metered poetry is centuries old and will continue to be where the best English poetry can be found as long as English survives as a language. Wilbur was it's best practitioner in the second half of the 20th century. A century or two from now he will be widely read and his contemporaries who grabbed headlines and accolades while belittling formalism will be footnotes, if even that.

I am just getting to know the poetry of Richard Wilbur. This, "A Fable," is the poem that brought him to my attention:

Securely sunning in a forest glade, / A mild, well-meaning snake / Approved the adaptations he had made / For safety's sake. // He liked the skin he had -- / Its mottled camouflage, its look of mail, / And was content that he had thought to add / A rattling tail. // The tail was not for drumming up a fight; / No, nothing of the sort. / And he would only use his poisoned bite / As last resort. // A peasant now drew near, / Collecting wood; the snake, observing this, / Expressed concern by uttering a clear / But civil hiss. // The simple churl, his nerves at once unstrung, / Mistook the other's tone / And dashed his brains out with a deftly-flung / Pre-emptive stone // Moral: Security, alas, can give / A threatening impression; / Too much defense-initiative / Can prompt aggression.

On the weight of that poem alone, I ordered up this banquet. And I have not been disappointed. When it arrived, as when confronted with a literal smörgåsbord, I first took in the length and breadth of its offerings before committing myself to a plateful. Having digested that much, I can see that, had I had the foresight to pack it, I could survive just fine shipwrecked on a tropic isle -- ideally one tricked out with a pair of palm trees, a hammock and a source of potable water.

Whatever your equivalent of my island might be, trust me, poet lauriate Richard Wilbur will not disappoint.

Lots of good stuff in here. For instance, the poem Epistemology:

Kick at the rock, Sam Johnson: break your bones.
But cloudy, cloudy is the stuff of stones.

We milk the cow of the world, and, as we do,
We whisper in her ear, you are not true.

The poems for children are really a lot of fun too. Wilbur is the only poet I know of who developed the opposites poem. For example:

The opposite of hot, we know,
Is icy cold or ten below.
Some other answers to the question
Are leaky buckets, indigestion,
E-minus, or a granny knot,
Since all those things are not so hot.

This is one of the few books, at least in my opinion, that can make a person believe poetry is a wonderful thing. Read a few of Wilbur's Opposites and I think you might agree with me.

This is a wonderful collection of the poems of a man who might be considered "a poet's poet." Wilbur works brilliantly in such traditional forms as the sonnet and aubade, and the content is both timeless and graceful. His poems are deceptively simple, but going back to them again and again is a rewarding exercise.

Luckily for latecomers, either by birth or the random nature of things,
the Collected works of poets present a very handy one-stop, a catch
of their oeuvre, and that is what Mr. Wilbur and Harcourt books provide
in this, I think, wonderful volume.
So read and be entertained and prodded to thought.
And if you are a poet, and who's not;
know here a grand first-order example of that effort-extracting art.