American Life in Poetry: Column 051

BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE

Walt Whitman's poems took in the world 
through a wide-angle lens, including nearly 
everything, but most later poets have 
focused much more narrowly. Here the poet 
and novelist Jim Harrison nods to Whitman 
with a sweeping, inclusive poem about 
the course of life.

Marching

At dawn I heard among bird calls
the billions of marching feet in the churn
and squeak of gravel, even tiny feet
still wet from the mother's amniotic fluid,
and very old halting feet, the feet
of the very light and very heavy, all marching
but not together, criss-crossing at every angle
with sincere attempts not to touch, not to bump
into each other, walking in the doors of houses
and out the back door forty years later, finally
knowing that time collapses on a single
plateau where they were all their lives,
knowing that time stops when the heart stops
as they walk off the earth into the night air.

"Marching," from Jim Harrison's "Saving Daylight" 
(2006) is reprinted by permission of Copper 
Canyon Press. This weekly column is supported 
by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, 
and the Department of English at the University 
of Nebraska-Lincoln. This column does not accept 
unsolicited poetry.

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