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The Goblet Crying for Wine

The Goblet Crying for Wine is Fran Quinn's first full length compliation of poems. Released in 1995 by the Blue Sofa Press this colllection of poems offers the reader the breadth and scope of the poets talent.

"These poems give a true sense of just how vast and influential the metaphor has upon our daily lives... Fran Quinn has pulled back the veil and given us a peek beyond the other side of ordinary"

~ Chris Burkhardt, BAMA Galleries

Hear what others have to say...

"Fran Quinn's potery is related to William Carlos Williams' in its inclusion of coffee cups and door-stoops next to intense feeling and elegant turns of phrase. In a time of coolness, he has written marvelous love poems. In a time of neo-cortex language poetry, his words are clear and weighty. His narrative poem about a dying man who keeps telling him to bury next to his first wife is a small comic masterpiece. This collection by Fran Quinn, his first full length book, is an occasion for celebration."

~ Robert Bly, poet, essayist and editor

cover art: Morris Graves "Asian Bloom" courtesy Seatle Art Museum, gift of Mr. and Mrs. Kenneth Fisher. photo credit: Paul Macapia

"The poem's balance of passion and intellect, along with a wildness and strangeness distinguishes it. As well, it unselfconciously bypasses the prevailing mode of narrative, domestic poetry and simply speaks. In that sense it feels wholly authentic and written on an irresistable impulse, as ELiot puts it. It's a wanton and precise lyric."

on awarding the Hopewell Award
~ Stephen Berg, poet and editor of American Poetry Review

" I am awed by how well made these poems are, on a variety of subjects: about 'the dark cave we used to call/home;' about friendship and desire; about the mysterious mixture of pride and shame in being human, in being male."

~ Micheal True, author of An Energy Field More Intense Than War, Professor of English at Assumption Colllege

The Mystic in Spring
for David Morris

When Spring arrives, we start
looking for him. The woodpecker
begins knocking at the half-rotted
sycamore. The tulips peer up at the sky.
Even the roots spread out their hands.
Where is he? He must be here.
So much has happened that we didn't do.

~ poem by Fran Quinn, The Goblet Crying for Wine © 1995

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