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Archive for the ‘Ted Kooser’ Category

In Hawaii for another Valentine’s Day—always a good spot for celebrating love, inspiring love and meditating on love. When I’m here my heart nearly bursts open with love for all creation.

 

Yeah, yeah, pretty easy when I’m this far away from routine, news, and winter weather. Regardless, sending love to you, dear readers, and to all my Valentines across the Pacific (and to one across the Atlantic).

 

On with the poem blitzing then:

 

I taped “Some Kiss We Want” by 13th century Persian poet Rumi to a piece of grass at a favorite overlook of mine. Every time I drive by I say, “It never gets old,” and so with a kiss, and so with our human yearning for love.

 

No one marries the spiritual with the physical like Rumi. Just look how he connects the mouth to that union in the last stanza. The mouth brings in breath and spirit, speaks words of love and is rather handy in the act of love itself:

Breath into me. Close

the language-door and open the love-window.

 

 

For a more prosaic but no less love-happy treatment of love, I left British poet Wendy Cope’s “The Orange” in a stack of grocery store (wait for it) oranges.

 

What a wonderful description she gives of being newly in love, how it makes you newly in love with every old thing you never paid attention to before:

And that orange, it made me so happy,

As ordinary things often do

Just lately.

 

I asked my friends, a long-married couple, to be in a picture with an excerpt from Edgar Allen Poe’s “To One in Paradise” while we waited at the airport to move from one Hawaiian isle to another. They wisely questioned the appropriateness of an Edgar Allen Poe poem for a non-Halloween holiday, but were good sports in posing with it.

poem is on window between the smoochers

 

The poem is (unsurprisingly) about a dead lover. But let’s just pretend that the loved one in the poem’s heavenly paradise is a loved one here on the earthly paradise of Hawaii. Then we can enjoy the romance of the beautiful lines and not feel like we’re dragging a decomposing corpse from the crypt to the bedroom.

 

The poem is hard to read in my picture, so I’ll type out the words:

And all my days are trances,

      And all my nightly dreams

Are where thy grey eye glances

     And where thy footstep gleams—

In what ethereal dances,

     By what eternal streams.

 

Speaking of morbid attachments, I do love a good cemetery and was happy to find an unmarked one off a dirt road where I could leave “Love Song” by poet Nancy Wood (1936-2013).

poem is on fence-post in foreground

 

For anyone who’s lost their life’s love, this is for you:

. . . Our holy place is holy still;

     our love is not diminished by absence or by pain.

 

There’s a  high surf warning today on the north shore of Kauai, so it’s a good time to leave “Sonnet LXXV” by Edmund Spenser (1552-1599) on the beach, to fulfill its promise of being washed away.

 

Not to be a sourpuss in the candy jar, but it’s funny that for all the flowery promises to make his lover’s name immortal and her virtues rare eternal, Spenser never does mention her name or describe what those virtues are. Seems to me what he really wanted written in the heavens was his poem. Success!

 

For those who haven’t yet found the lover to write their names in the sand much less follow through on a Bumble date, Maya Angelou offers encouragement in this excerpt from “In My Missouri.” I taped it to a telephone pole outside one of the only late-night spots in Hanalei, the famous Tahiti Nuit. (Famous for The Descendants fans, I mean.)

 

The poem begins with the bad men she’s encountered, the mean, cold and hard men. Then she writes, and I love this, I love this for all those who are still looking and need hope—

So I thought I’d never meet a sweet man

A kind man

A true man

One who in darkness you can feel secure man

A sure man

A man.

 

For my own man, my own sure man, I crumpled up Ted Kooser’s “Pocket Poem” and stuck it in his shorts.

 

My husband is notorious for crumpling his scorecard in our euchre group (much to the annoyance of the scorekeeper) so Kooser’s poem is just right. And also these lines, which I feel even now, thirty-two years on (forty if you include the teenage dating years)—

. . . I want to be so close

that when you find it, it is warm from me.

 

Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone! Across the isles and across the aisles, let’s love!

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Here’s the thing about my small folder of poems about death. Having more than one poem about death is like  getting a bag of zucchini from your neighbor—you don’t know what to do with an overload. (I’m just realizing this very second that owning, not to mention labeling,  a small folder of poems about death is not entirely sane.)

 

Lucky for me, today is the Mexican holiday Dia de Muertos, a day to honor the deadand the Catholic holiday of All Souls Day, a day to pray for the dead, and my Poem Elf day to de-clutter my files and clutter up my favorite cemetery.

 

I left Thom Gunn’s (1929-2004) “The Reassurance” by the grave of someone named Emily Greer.

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There is probably no one left who remembers Miss Emily. I hope this is an accurate assessment of her character:

How like you to be kind

Seeking to reassure

It would be a fine epitaph for anyone.

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At a grander grave I left another poem that speaks of the workings of grief, “Mourners” by Ted Kooser (1939–)

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Death brings a heightened tenderness to survivors that Kooser captures beautifully:

peering into each other’s faces,

slow to let go of each other’s hands

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Most of the graves in this cemetery are too old to be visited by any living person, but I did find one with two recently dead mums decorating it. Near it I left Natasha Trethewey’s “After Your Death.”

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How beautifully she captures the sad work of clearing out a parent’s home after death

another space emptied by loss 

Tomorrow the bowl I have yet to fill.

 

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No Day of the Dead poem-elf post would be complete with my old favorite, Jane Kenyon (1947-1995), who died young and wrote often about death. I left her “Notes from the Other Side” on the tomb of a member of the Sly family, long gone.

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Kenyon’s vision of heaven is wry —

no bad books, no plastic,

no insurance premiums 

–but surely intended to comfort those she would leave behind–

Our calm hearts strike only the hour,

and God, as promised, proves

to be mercy clothed in light.

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I needed to talk to my sister,” by Grace Paley (1922-2007), another one of my favorites, graced this stone angel:

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Paley has a wondrous way of burying pain under humor, thank goodness, because this scenario is too painful for me to contemplate.

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One more picture because I like the look of yearning on the angel holding the poem:

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A tombstone engraved “Love” needed a poem, so there I left “On the Death of Friends in Childhood” by Donald Justice (1925-2004).

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I can’t read this without thinking of the survivors of Sandy Hook, years and years from their loss:

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Now that I’ve emptied my folder, I’ve flooded my day with thoughts of those I’ve lost and of those who have lost so many more than I.

 

 

 

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poem is between Collins and Kooser

Selecting a Reader

Ted Kooser

First, I would have her be beautiful,
and walking carefully up on my poetry
at the loneliest moment of an afternoon,
her hair still damp at the neck
from washing it. She should be wearing
a raincoat, an old one, dirty
from not having money enough for the cleaners.
She will take out her glasses, and there
in the bookstore, she will thumb
over my poems, then put the book back
up on its shelf. She will say to herself,
“For that kind of money, I can get
my raincoat cleaned.” And she will.

 

Show tunes about the perfect lover are staples in musical theater and are usually followed by the entrance of the flesh and blood version who bears little relation to the ideal. Tevye’s daughters ask the matchmaker for rich men and get poor ones; Marian the librarian’s  white knight is a plain and modest man but her chosen mate is the phony showman Harold Hill; Annie dreams of quiet middle-class parents who sit at home playing piano and paying bills, but she ends up with Daddy Warbucks, a tuxedo-clad bear of a man whose creepy name suggests the source of his immense wealth.

 

So it is with Ted Kooser’s “Selecting a Reader.”  Imagine a Broadway show about a plain-speaking poet seeking an audience. (Stranger shows have found success.  Mormon missionaries seeking converts in Uganda doesn’t sound as promising as it’s proved to be.)  The poet sings of his dream reader, and then out from another set heavy with dry ice mist, she steps, beautiful and slender, an Audrey Hepburn sort of gal.  Maybe she and the bookseller sing a duet about her poetic needs and what type of poems she’s searching for.  She picks up Kooser’s book, and while she reads, dances a Jules Feiffer-ish ballet. And as the Kooser character watches, sighing with resignation and gearing up for his own soliloquy to follow, she puts the book back.  She sings a little ditty about impulse control and building a savings account and disappears in the haze of his dream. His fantasy reader has chosen not to read him at all.

 

How the show would end, I don’t know.  Maybe with the poet’s death from starvation and neglect and a chorus-line salute to the closing of Borders bookstore.

 

Even though the poet’s dream reader rejects him, the show is a comedy nonetheless, because the fantasy builds and ends with humor.  Meh, says the Ideal Reader, Don’t need poems. And her rejection of poetry is a key part of his imagining, her second most important quality after her beauty, which is primary.  Why should it matter what his Ideal Reader looks like?  Because in Kooser’s randy hands, selecting a reader is very like selecting a mate.  His relationship with her is at once erotic. She’s lonely, her hair is damp from her shower (he’s already imagined her naked), and she approaches his poem carefully, as with a new lover.  She thumbs over his poems, not through them. The unexpected preposition emphasizes the physicality of her presence, the stroke of her touch. Kooser contrasts the beauty and cleanliness of her body with the dirty raincoat that houses it.  And to complete the picture of a poet’s soft porn star, she wears glasses. (Sarah Palin is hardly the first woman to discover that many men lust after women in glasses.)

 

It’s no surprise a red-blooded American poet like Kooser would choose a sexy reader as his ideal audience, but why does he choose a reader who won’t buy his books?  Maybe because poets get tired of being read only by other poets and dreamers and lonely teenagers and the select few adults who count high school English as a peak experience. Kooser wants to be read by practical people, people living in the everyday world where dry cleaning bills have to be weighed against the cost of an indulgent purchase of poetry.

 

In an interview with Guernica Magazine, Kooser discusses the different audiences for poetry, and it’s clear which one he writes for:

Every poet gets to choose what kind of community he or she serves with the poems, and it’s true that there is a community for very difficult, challenging poetry. It’s a community that’s established itself over the last 80 years, that was originally, in effect, really started by Eliot and Pound. They believed that poetry ought to contain learning, that it ought to rise upon all the learning that went before. But there’s always been the other strain; there’s always been what I would call the William Carlos Williams strain, in which poems of simplicity and clarity are valued by a different community. I was talking to Galway Kinnell one day, and he said that there was an audience for poetry up until about 1920 and then, from that point on, the poets and the critics drifted.

 

Kooser is something of an ambassador for getting poetry in the hands of “regular” readers.  He writes a free column for newspapers (American Life in Poetry), and started a publishing company, Wildflower Press (no longer operating) to circulate contemporary poets.  He strikes me as a lovely man whose ambition is not to enrich his life with literary success but for literature to enrich other people:  “I write for other people,” Kooser says, “with the hope that I can help them to see the wonderful things within their everyday experiences. In short, I want to show people how interesting the ordinary world can be if you pay attention.”

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Ted Kooser comes from and lives in the ordinary, un-rarified world of the Great Plains.  He was born in 1939 in Iowa and has lived most of his life in Nebraska.  He began his career as a high school teacher but worked most of his career as a vice president at a life insurance company.  Here’s a wonderful fact about Kooser:  he flunked out of a graduate writing program (I’m not sure how you do that) which didn’t prevent him from becoming the Poet Laureate from 2004-06.  His work is deemed “accessible,” and therefore has received less critical attention than it deserves.

 

But even “accessible” poets have difficulty gaining an audience, and that’s why Kooser seems so amused to select his reader.  He’s in on the joke of a poet being picky about who reads his poems when so few people read poetry at all.  But “Selecting a Reader” is more than a little joke.  I read the poem as a dignified refusal to whine about lack of readership, a negation of the notion that beggars can’t be choosers,.

 

I placed his poem next to his book in the very small poetry section of an independent bookstore.  With so few poets represented on the shelf  (Chaucer, Homer, and the all-stars Billy Collins, Mary Oliver, W.S. Merwin, and Rumi), it was a lovely surprise to find a volume of Kooser’s.  I bought it of course, imagining for a moment that I was Audrey Hepburn, just in from the rain at the end of Breakfast at Tiffanys, touching his poems and feeling selected.

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