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Ronald Wallace’s Followers (7)
Ronald Wallace
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Long For This World: New And Selected Poems (Pitt Poetry Series)
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published
2003
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5 editions
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Tunes for bears to dance to (Pitt poetry series)
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published
1983
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3 editions
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For a Limited Time Only (Pitt Poetry Series)
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published
2008
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2 editions
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Uses Of Adversity (Pitt Poetry Series)
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published
1998
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3 editions
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People and Dog in the Sun
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published
1987
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3 editions
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Quick Bright Things: Stories (First Series: Short Fiction)
by
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published
2000
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Time's Fancy (Pitt Poetry Series)
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published
1994
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3 editions
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The Makings of Happiness (Pitt Poetry Series)
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published
1991
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2 editions
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Vital Signs
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published
1989
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4 editions
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For Dear Life (Pitt Poetry Series)
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published
2015
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“Last color bleeds from the trees,
the slow drip of rain, collapsing.
The feverish maples decline.
We pause to pick mushrooms,
stick into our sacks these
squat, warty, beige and tan hammers,
these spongy plungers and rams,
these alien, faceless denizens of damp.
They are not in our book.
As we walk through this flaccid rain,
this vague sense of loss and wrong,
we don’t talk. But we wonder
about maples and mushrooms, about us:
Anything you can’t name is dangerous.”
―
the slow drip of rain, collapsing.
The feverish maples decline.
We pause to pick mushrooms,
stick into our sacks these
squat, warty, beige and tan hammers,
these spongy plungers and rams,
these alien, faceless denizens of damp.
They are not in our book.
As we walk through this flaccid rain,
this vague sense of loss and wrong,
we don’t talk. But we wonder
about maples and mushrooms, about us:
Anything you can’t name is dangerous.”
―
“Each night I read you stories—
Sinbad, Aladdin, Periebanou, Periezade—
in that strange exotic language
you cannot possibly understand:
countenance, repast, bequeathed, nuptial,
what can these words be telling you?
What can they signify?
That I love you? It’s time to sleep?
Keep safe throughout this night?
And yet you will not let me simplify,
get angry if I explain,
and hang on every word as if
our lives depended on it.
Perhaps they do.
One day the stories will fail us,
there will be nothing left to tell,
another hand will rub your back,
another genie will rise.
But for now, sleep tight, sleep tight,
and dream of the singing tree,
the speaking bird, the golden water,
the stone that was your father,
restored by morning light.”
―
Sinbad, Aladdin, Periebanou, Periezade—
in that strange exotic language
you cannot possibly understand:
countenance, repast, bequeathed, nuptial,
what can these words be telling you?
What can they signify?
That I love you? It’s time to sleep?
Keep safe throughout this night?
And yet you will not let me simplify,
get angry if I explain,
and hang on every word as if
our lives depended on it.
Perhaps they do.
One day the stories will fail us,
there will be nothing left to tell,
another hand will rub your back,
another genie will rise.
But for now, sleep tight, sleep tight,
and dream of the singing tree,
the speaking bird, the golden water,
the stone that was your father,
restored by morning light.”
―
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