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Trees haven't come here to die. They've done that in other forests, on other coasts, having lost their leaves and their bark and come ashore by themselves on a five-mile sand spit.…
David Russell Wagoner is an American poet who has written many poetry collections and ten novels. Two of his books have been nominated for National Book Awards. Early Life Born in Massillon, Ohio and raised in Whiting, Indiana from the age of seven, Wagoner attended Pennsylvania State University where he was a member of Naval ROTC and graduated in three years. He received an M.A. in English from the Indiana University in 1949 and has taught at the University of Washington since 1954 on the suggestion of friend and fellow poet Theodore Roethke. Career Wagoner was editor of Poetry Northwest from 1966 to 2002 and his play An Eye For An Eye For An Eye was produced in 1973. Wagoner was elected chancellor of the Academy of American Poets in 1978 and served in that capacity until 1999. One of his novels, The Escape Artist, was turned into a film by executive producer Francis Ford Coppola. He currently teaches in the low-residency MFA program of the Northwest Institute of Literary Arts on Whidbey Island. The natural environment of the Pacific Northwest is the subject of much of David Wagoner's poetry. He cites his move from the Midwest as a defining moment: "[W]hen I came over the Cascades and down into the coastal rainforest for the first time in the fall of 1954, it was a big event for me, it was a real crossing of a threshold, a real change of consciousness. Nothing was ever the same again.")
David Wagoner şiirleri
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We can't hear what they're saying, but that man is holding that woman in his arms. Your assignment is to deduce their thoughts from what they do. They've left no apparent space bet…
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All actors look for them-the defining moments When what a character does is what he is. The script may say, He goes to the door And exits or She goes out the door stage left.…
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Daily, the bums sat down to eat in our kitchen. They seemed to be whatever the day was like: If it was hot or cold, they were hot or cold; If it was wet, they came in dripping wet.…
The official warning, nailed to a hemlock, Doesn't say why. I stand with my back to it, Afraid I've come as far as I can By being stubborn, and look…
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I practiced my cornet in a cold garage Where I could blast it till the oil in drums Boomed back; tossed free throws till I couldn't move my thumbs; Sprinted through tires, tackling…
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Don't do it, the guidebook says, if you're lost. Then it goes on to talk about something else, taking the easy way out,…
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They don't want to be your hedge, Your barrier, your living wall, the no-go Go-between between your property And the prying of dogs and strangers. They don't
I've watched his eyelids sag, spring open Vaguely and gradually go sliding Shut again, fly up With a kind of drunken surprise, then wobble…
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They're tipping their battered derbies and striding forward In step for a change, chipper, self-assured, Their cardboard suitcases labeled Guest of Steerage. They've just arrived a…
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You take a final step and, look, suddenly You're there. You've arrived At the one place all your drudgery was aimed for: This common ground…
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Right after the bomb, even before the ceiling And walls and floor are rearranging You and themselves into a different world, You must hold still, must wait for them…
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Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here, And you must treat it as a powerful stranger, Must ask permission to know it and b…
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It's an old desire: a sketch of part of the earth There in your hands. You touch it, saying, There. So make your map: If you have no crossroads, no confluence of streams…
His heavy body would double itself forward At the waist, swell, and come heaving around To slam at his seatback, making the screws groan And squawk down half the row as it went til…
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