Ronald Wallace

Ronald Wallace Poems

Noon. Hunger the only thing
singing in my belly.
I walk through the blossoming cherry trees
on the library mall,
...

occur.
Some days I find myself
putting my foot in
the same stream twice;
...

Every Friday night we watched the fights.
Me, ten years old and stretched out on the couch;
my father, in his wheelchair, looking on
as Rocky Marciano, Sonny Liston, Floyd Patterson
...

Australia. Phillip Island. The Tasman Sea.
Dusk. The craggy coastline at low tide in fog.
Two thousand tourists milling in the stands
...

Sometimes I wish I drank coffee
or smoked Marlboros, or maybe cigars-
yes, a hand-rolled Havana cigar
...

Who was it said, comedy is when
you slip on a banana peel and fall down
and smack your head; tragedy is when
I get a hangnail? The universe doesn't
...

It was the summer of mold,
mildew and rot, the windowsills
rife with decay, the old
siding warped, or shot.
...

Gathered in the heavy heat of Indiana,
we've come from all over this great
country, one big happy family, back from
wherever we've spread ourselves too thin.
...

So now I remember why I like the snow:
after a winter of over one hundred inches
(a record, at least) that threatens to make us go
crazy (or to Florida) with the cranes and finches
...

Who would have thought I'd end up
with plantar warts, Morton's neuroma,
a torn lateral meniscus, gastro-intestinal
disorders, scoliosis, slipped discs, degenerative
...

Ronald Wallace Biography

Ronald Wallace is an American poet, and Felix Pollak Professor of Poetry & Halls-Bascom Professor of English at the University of Wisconsin–Madison. He was born in Cedar Rapids, Iowa He grew up in Saint Louis, Missouri. He graduated from the College of Wooster, and the University of Michigan. His work appeared in The New Yorker, The Atlantic, The Nation, Poetry, Paris Review.)

The Best Poem Of Ronald Wallace

'You Can'T Write A Poem About Mcdonald's'

Noon. Hunger the only thing
singing in my belly.
I walk through the blossoming cherry trees
on the library mall,
past the young couples coupling,
by the crazy fanatic
screaming doom and salvation
at a sensation-hungry crowd,
to the Lake Street McDonald's.
It is crowded, the lines long and sluggish.
I wait in the greasy air.
All around me people are eating—
the sizzle of conversation,
the salty odor of sweat,
the warm flesh pressing out of
hip huggers and halter tops.
When I finally reach the cash register,
the counter girl is crisp as a pickle,
her fingers thin as french fries,
her face brown as a bun.
Suddenly I understand cannibalism.
As I reach for her,
she breaks into pieces
wrapped neat and packaged for take-out.
I'm thinking, how amazing it is
to live in this country, how easy
it is to be filled.
We leave together, her warm aroma
close at my side.
I walk back through the cherry trees
blossoming up into pies,
the young couples frying in
the hot, oily sun,
the crowd eating up the fanatic,
singing, my ear, eye, and tongue
fat with the wonder
of this hungry world.

Ronald Wallace Comments

donna 07 March 2018

what is the poem about Bobby Adams called?

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