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AMERICAN LIFE
IN POETRY
Ted Kooser, current U. S. Poet Laureate, in
response to an interviewer for National Public Radio, stated that
his "project" as laureate was to establish a weekly column featuring
contemporary American poems supported by The Poetry Foundation, The
Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University
of Nebraska. This column appears in on-line publications (such
as Thirty-Seven Cents) as well as hard-copy newspapers. Poets
are asked to contact their local newspapers to inform them that such
a column is available free to them and to relieve the editor by
explaining that all of the poems that will appear week by week are
accessible, not obscure poems.
American Life in Poetry: Column 131
BY TED
KOOSER, U.S. POET
LAUREATE
2004-2006
Sometimes beginning writers tell me they get discouraged because
it seems that everything has already been written about. But
every experience, however commonplace, is unique to he or she
who seizes it. There have undoubtedly been many poems about how
dandelions pass from yellow to wind-borne gossamer, but this one
by the Maryland poet, Jean Nordhaus, offers an experience that
was unique to her and is a gift to us.
A DANDELION FOR MY MOTHER
Jean Nordhaus
How I loved those spiky suns,
rooted stubborn as childhood
in the grass, tough as the farmer's
big-headed children--the mats
of yellow hair, the bowl-cut fringe.
How sturdy they were and how
slowly they turned themselves
into galaxies, domes of ghost stars
barely visible by day, pale
cerebrums clinging to life
on tough green stems. Like you.
Like you, in the end. If you were here,
I'd pluck this trembling globe to show
how beautiful a thing can be
a breath will tear away.
American Life in
Poetry: Column 133
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET
LAUREATE
2004-2006
It may be that we are most alone when attending funerals, at
least that's how it seems to me. By alone I mean that even
among throngs of mourners we pull back within ourselves and
peer out at life as if through a window. David Baker, an Ohio
poet, offers us a picture of a funeral that could be
anybody's.
AFTERWARDS
David Baker
A short ride in the van, then the eight of us
there in the heat--white shirtsleeves sticking,
the women's gloves off--fanning our faces.
The workers had set up a big blue tent
to help us at graveside tolerate the sun,
which was brutal all afternoon as if
stationed above us, though it moved limb
to limb through two huge, covering elms.
The long processional of neighbors, friends,
the town's elderly, her beauty-shop patrons,
her club's notables. . . The world is full of
prayers arrived at from afterwards, he said.
Look up through the trees--the hands, the leaves
curled as in self-control or quietly hurting,
or now open, flat-palmed, many-fine-veined,
and whether from heat or sadness, waving.
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American Life in Poetry: Column 132
BY TED
KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE
2004-2006
Children at play give personalities to lifeless objects, and we
don't need to give up that pleasure as we grow older. Poets are
good at discerning life within what otherwise might seem
lifeless. Here the poet Peter Pereira, a family physician in
the Seattle area, contemplates a smiling statue, and in that
moment of contemplation the smile is given by the statue to the
man.
THE GARDEN BUDDHA
Peter Pereira
Gift of a friend, the stone Buddha sits zazen,
prayer beads clutched in his chubby fingers.
Through snow, icy rain, the riot of spring flowers,
he gazes forward to the city in the distance--always
the same bountiful smile upon his portly face.
Why don't I share his one-minded happiness?
The pear blossom, the crimson-petaled magnolia,
filling me instead with a mixture of nostalgia
and yearning. He's laughing at me, isn't he?
The seasons wheeling despite my photographs
and notes, my desire to make them pause.
Is that the lesson? That stasis, this holding on,
is not life? Now I'm smiling, too--the late cherry,
its soft pink blossoms already beginning to scatter;
the trillium, its three-petaled white flowers
exquisitely tinged with purple as they fall.
American Life in Poetry: Column 134
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET
LAUREATE
2004-2006
When ancient people gathered around the fire at nightfall, I
like to think that they told stories, about where each of them
had been that day, and what that person had seen in the forest.
Those were among our first stories, and we still venture into
the world and return to tell others what happened. It's part of
community. Here Kathleen Flenniken of Washington tells us about
a woman she saw at an airport.
OLD WOMAN WITH PROTEA FLOWERES, KAHALUI AIRPORT
Kathleen Flenniken
She wears the run-down slippers of a local
and in her arms, five rare protea
wrapped in newsprint, big as digger pine cones.
Our hands can't help it and she lets us touch.
Her brother grows them for her, upcountry.
She's spending the day on Oahu
with her flowers and her dogs. Protea
for four dogs' graves, two for her favorite.
She'll sit with him into the afternoon
and watch the ocean from Koolau.
An old woman's paradise, she tells us,
and pets the flowers' soft, pink ears.
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POEMS BY MEMBERS
SALUTATIONS
Pat Durmon
Driving at daybreak
we pulled up and onto the pavement
of Push Mountain Road.
We headed northeast toward
Matney Knob to begin the long ride.
As we approached Zimmerman
Peak,
we saw a man, up high, standing
on a ledge, staring at the eastern sky
drinking the rising dawn. He stood
straight-backed with coffee cup in hand.
My husband slowed the car
to wave his full hand and greet
the nobleman of this rock-ribbed
mountaintop. Mr. Zimmerman,
twenty years older than he, answered
by lifting his mug high in salute
as we passed.
Ahead, the road hugged the
Knob.
A crimson sky streaked with peach
burst upward, like a flower unfolding,
then we abruptly curved back north.
My husband saw a man
welcoming the day and life. I thought
I saw one gentle man toast
and bless another.
CARPENTRY: ANOTHER
FORGOTTEN ART
Harding Stedler
Hammers lie
where we left them
a week ago today.
And boxes of nails
remain unopened,
resting on stacks of 2 X 4's.
Everything we need
to build walls
we have, except for a carpenter.
Carpenters seem to be
in short supply this season.
In the seven days we've waited,
not one has passed our way.
Walls do not build
themselves,
nor do nails
hammer themselves through drywall
into studs.
Likewise, thumbs are not split
without someone to wield a hammer.
And until there are walls,
there is no need for murals.
CHANGE PASSED BY ITSELF
Jeanetta Chrystie
Change passed by itself
Comings
Goings
And somehow knew its opposite
was Death
We are ever being born
Growing
Changing
And the thrill of choosing
is Life
Unbidden, we discover life
Choosing
Changing
Changes
Choosing
Until
the final change.
OVERHEAD SHADOW
A tanka
Pat Laster
overhead shadow--
crows unusually vocal
this mid-November
do they know it's getting
cold?
does he know my ardor's
cooled?
HAIKU
Steven
Penticuff
Sneakers, still thirsty,
ska-wishing for a puddle
the size of Vermont
HAIKU
Valerie Esker
finally the sun
sinks below the horizon
but strange light remains
SCANDINAVIAN MEDITATION
Tom Padgett
Gray day, sad music,
November in my soul--
a hint of snow, a hurting theme,
and throbbing thoughts of squandered time.
Leafless trees sully
carpets dried of life,
strings and woodwinds struggle toward accord,
the self in grief mulls on prescribed enjoinments.
Belated sun turns clouds of
steel to dove,
a flute consents to trill a note of peace,
a dream shakes loose and starts with hope.
In bare trees a late breeze
tries a game,
through gloom a cello forges room for clarinets,
a small resolve affirms a faith in spring.
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JUST PASSING THROUGH MUNICH
Tania Gray
The terminal was
clean and bright,
bilingual signs were clear all right,
officials there were crisp and cold--
they ran efficiency’s stronghold
so well we thought we’d get frostbite.
We had two hours to our next flight.
We shared a sandwich, drank some Sprite,
we hoped we’d not again behold
the terminal.
Some guards in pairs of even height
walked circuits brisk and robot-like
past shops where duty-free was sold:
some Euro leather, scent, and gold.
We sure were glad to disunite
the terminal.
THE
SUPREME BEING
Jean Even
In your
tent, O Lord, I sing to You,
For blessings given in life unto me.
Glory, O holiness, in
Zion on high,
Life is
for the living who believe in You.
Place
that vast hope within me, O Lord,
As I sing with exalted joy for You.
You are the supreme being who delivers;
I’ll live forever in Your kingdom, O Lord.
MY COMPUTER
Jennifer Smith
(With apologies to Robert Louis Stevenson and Dr. Seuss)
I have a
little computer
It sits on my desk with me.
But what can be the use of it
Is more than I can see . . . sometimes.
It has a
blinking thingamajig
(I’m told it’s called a cursor)
Somedays methinks that I’m the curse
When I want to call it something worser.
Somedays
it’s awful slow
To get where I want to go.
Other days it’s so nice to me
A good helper, a real Girl Friday.
I like it
when it auto saves
And corrects my spelling woes
Or does the number crunching
And keeps me on my toes.
I like to
keep in touch with folks
Through e-mail on the ‘net.
Oh the places the web can take you
A wonderful world, and yet…
I think I
have it figured out
The ’puter is like the girl
The one who on her forehead had
The cutest little curl.
When my
computer is good
It’s very good, you see.
However when it’s bad
It’s H-O-double R-I-D
CONTINUUM
Laurence W. Thomas
I know this morning
because I’ve known
such mornings before
each much alike
and only remarkable
because one has flowers
another snow or rain
or bad news.
Yesterday, a fox
playing in my yard
does not mean a fox
will return today
but here I am again
and look!
the yard is still there.
RAIN, COME ON
DOWN
Diane
Auser Stefan
I welcomed you falling
lightly, briefly
early this morning on the
chapel roof
and then again as we drove
home.
Thankfully, your second
coming lasted
and kept coming as we
crawled back in to bed
and pulled the covers over
our heads and slept.
Rain, will you wash the oak
pollen down and away?
The yellow blanket of it
covers every leaf, stone, and road
and makes my eyes water and
my nose run miserably.
Yesterday on our walk, I’d
rub my eyes
and Daisy would sneeze—
weren’t we the pollinated
pair?
Rain, please wash us clean.
VISIT WORKSHOP FOR AN
ASSIGNMENT.
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