Wendy Vardaman
Wendy Vardaman Poems
Fifty daffodils, one hundred
hyacinth—buried
last fall produce
only a handful of half-way resurrections:
...
I try to ignore the window
washer leaning against me; he strokes the sheet
that separates us, blocks my light,
my view of construction across the way,
...
Away a few days, we return to a deluge—
ankle deep in the basement—
window-leaked above, over-saturated beneath: the papers and maps
scattered all over the floor past salvage: we tear
...
He likes action,
violence, surprise, plot: not shards
of household glass assembled
with tweezers, blurred vision,
...
Some days are like that—everything
means something:
two parallel pits in fresh snow, filled with black
ice and surrounded by sediment, by rock
...
The Man in the Moon flaunts
his freedom in his mostly intact tux: the bell
moon, a weight that cannot hold him,
the tightrope, a chain that also
...
'Don't you ever,' I say, collecting
my 13-year-old from her Othello rehearsal, when
two hours late she doesn't turn
up, 'do that again.
...
She was not at home—at least
no one answered his heavy knocking—just
as well; the hot sun that afternoon
drew him to a shady patch on the green
...
Wendy Vardaman Biography
Wendy Vardaman lives in Madison, Wisconsin, with her folklorist husband, Tom DuBois, with whom she has three children. She holds a Ph.D. in English from University of Pennsylvania and a B.S. in Engineering from Cornell University, but spent years at home with her children "not working" and writing poems whenever possible.)
The Best Poem Of Wendy Vardaman
St. Catherine Of Siena's Day
Fifty daffodils, one hundred
hyacinth—buried
last fall produce
only a handful of half-way resurrections:
limp wings on weak
necks emerging from a cracked
tomb—the wrong
soil and a long
winter of low
temperatures without insulating snow.
Content yourself with this:
a few lines, less
than you conceived
by the time they arrived—
scribbled on the back of something else; almost forgotten
between their thought and the interruption
of children, practice,
questions of dinner and the day, cookies
for tomorrow, the last
batch
burned inedible—
and their retrieval;
or with dandelions—too many
to count—bright as any
daffodil but longer lasting, cheerful,
less temperamental,
and a neighbor's sign: Free
Daylilies, already
tall, fresh dug, ready to return
to bad soil like saints to heaven.
Wendy Vardaman Comments
Wendy Vardaman Popularity
Wendy Vardaman Popularity
Delivering Poems Around The World
Poems are the property of their respective owners. All information has been reproduced here for educational and informational purposes to benefit site visitors, and is provided at no charge...
5/7/2024 1:14:20 PM # 1.0.0.1119
