\u003cdiv\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Wright shrinks back from nothing.\"\u0026#8212;\u003ci\u003eThe Village Voice\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/P\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Wright belongs to a school of exactly one.\"\u0026#8212;\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/P\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Wright has found a way to wed fragments of an iconic America to a luminously strange idiom, eerie as a tin whistle.\"\u0026#8212;\u003ci\u003eThe New Yorker\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/P\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"C.D. Wright is one of America's oddest, best, and most appealing poets.\"\u0026#8212;\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/P\u003e\u003cp\u003eA companion to her astonishing collection of prose \u003ci\u003eCooling Time\u003c/i\u003e, C.D. Wright argues for poetry as a way of being \u003ci\u003eand\u003c/i\u003e seeing, and calls it \"the one arena where I am not inclined to crank up the fog machine.\" Wright's passion for the genre is pure inspiration, and in her hands the answer to the question of poetry \u003ci\u003eis \u003c/i\u003epoetry.\u003c/P\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eFrom \"In a Word\":\u003c/b\u003e\u003c/P\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eI love the nouns of a time in a place, where a sack once was a poke and native skag was junk glass not junk and junk was just junk not smack and smack entailed eating with your mouth open, and an Egyptian one-eye was an egg, sunny side up, and a nation sack was a flannel amulet, worn only by women, to be touched only by women, especially around Memphis. Red sacks for love and green for money\u0026#8230;\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/P\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eC.D. Wright\u003c/b\u003e's most recent volume, \u003ci\u003eOne With Others\u003c/i\u003e, was a National Book Award finalist. Among her many honors are the Griffin Poetry Prize and a MacArthur Fellowship. She teaches at Brown University and lives outside of Providence, Rhode Island.\u003c/div\u003e
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