Connie Wanek is an American poet.
She was born in Madison, Wisconsin, and grew up in Las Cruces, New Mexico. In 1989 she moved with her family to Duluth, Minnesota where she now lives.
Her work appeared in Poetry, The Atlantic Monthly, The Virginia Quarterly Review, Quarterly West, Poetry East, Prairie Schooner and Missouri Review.
She has published three books of poetry, and served as co-editor of the comprehensive historical anthology of Minnesota women poets, called To Sing Along the Way (New Rivers Press, 2006). Ted Kooser, Poet Laureate of the United States (2004–2006), named her a Witter Bynner Fellow of the Library of Congress for ... more »
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Connie Wanek Poems
Butter Butter, like love, seems common enough
In the democracy of daisies every blossom has one vote. The question on the ballot is Does he love me?
Each picture is heartbreakingly banal, a kitten and a ball of yarn, a dog and bone. The paper is cheap, easily torn.
I don't know if we're in the beginning or in the final stage. -- Tomas Tranströmer
The Coin Behind Your Ear
Before you knew you owned it it was gone, stolen, and you were a fool. How you never felt it is the wonder, heavy and thick,
There is menace in its relentless course, round and round, describing an ellipsoid, an airy prison in which a young girl
The wind cooled as it crossed the open pond and drove little waves toward us, brisk, purposeful waves that vanished at our feet, such energy
We used to play, long before we bought real houses. A roll of the dice could send a girl to jail. The money was pink, blue, gold as well as green, and we could own a whole railroad
She leaned over the sink her weight on her toes and applied lipstick in quick certain strokes
Mittens are drying on the radiator, boots nearby, one on its side. Like some monstrous segmented insect the radiator elongates under the window.
A flower needs to be this size to conceal the winter window, and this color, the red of a Fiat with the top down,
Comments about Connie Wanek
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
Butter, like love,
seems common enough
yet has so many imitators.
I held a brick of it, heavy and cool,
and glimpsed what seemed like skin
beneath a corner of its wrap;
the decolletage revealed
a most attractive fat!
And most refined.
Not milk, not cream,
not even creme de la creme.
It was a delicacy which assured me
that bliss follows agitation,
that even pasture daisies
through the alchemy of four stomachs
may grace a king's table.
We have a yellow bowl near the toaster
where summer's butter grows ...