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Time's Fancy
Time's Fancy
Time's Fancy
Ebook94 pages37 minutes

Time's Fancy

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• Winner of the 1995 Banta Book Prize for a Wisconsin AuthorRonald Wallace is best known for his wit and good humor, his synthesis of technical skill and strong emotion, his sensory immediacy, his accessibility, and charm. Now in Time's Fancy, his fifth collection, Wallace explores the tragic aspects of life more fully, fashioning a declarative poetry that is darker and deeper, more meditative and complex.
LanguageEnglish
Release dateOct 15, 2014
ISBN9780822980889
Time's Fancy

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    Book preview

    Time's Fancy - Brigid O'Farrell

    1

    As I walked out one evening,

    Walking down Bristol Street,

    The crowds upon the pavement

    Were fields of harvest wheat.

    The Life Next at Hand

    Behind a camouflage of sticks and debris

    we once mistook for a sparrow’s routine intrusions

    a house wren is building

    her nest in the Shopper Stopper box.

    Every day when the mailman,

    driving, left-handed, his beater,

    leans as far into her life as he can,

    she gives him what-for in a song.

    I have reached in more than once myself

    to pull some tiresome sparrow out

    of a place meant for something better

    before I’ve found that small cup of promises—

    a puff of the tiniest grasses, a twist of snakeskin—

    behind the wordy camouflage of the commonplace.

    Cricket

    Ooooh, you’ve got gigantic cockroaches

    in here! the girls shout. They’re fifteen,

    out to the country for the first time and

    unnerved by insects, chickens, cows, and dirt.

    I hear a shoe clapped like a hammer

    to the floor, getting that misapprehension

    unmistakably nailed down.

    How fear and inexperience become us.

    How wealth and ease send our small wits

    packing, or keep us always out at recess

    from the school of hard knocks, armed

    to the teeth with self-deception.

    I could go on. I’ve had my own

    rattlers in the backyard, bats in the belfry,

    monsters in the closet, wolves behind the door.

    Nevertheless, when I scrape the broken cricket,

    all rust and silence, contorted residue of song,

    off the kitchen floor, I say a small

    elegiac for our history, for us all.

    The Failures of Pacifism

    When our milk goats and their kids cavorted

    into a dark nest of mud daubers camouflaged

    in the high grass of August, and danced

    their dance toward oblivion, their tough skins

    a sizzle of ripple and twitch, their

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