American Life in Poetry: Column 083

BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE, 2004-2006

Poems of simple pleasure, poems of quiet celebration, well, they aren't anything like those poems we were asked to wrestle with in high school, our teachers insisting that we get a headlock on THE MEANING. This one by Dale Ritterbusch of Wisconsin is more my cup of tea.

Green Tea

There is this tea
I have sometimes,
Pan Long Ying Hao,
so tightly curled
it looks like tiny roots
gnarled, a greenish-gray.
When it steeps, it opens
the way you woke this morning,
stretching, your hands behind
your head, back arched,
toes pointing, a smile steeped
in ceremony, a celebration,
the reaching of your arms.

Reprinted from "Far From the Temple of Heaven," Black Moss Press, April 2006, by permission of the author. Copyright (c) 2005 by Dale Ritterbusch. 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. ******************************

by Ron Czerwien

While you sleep

the moon soaps your windows,
your mirror swallows twice
the normal dosage of light,
another unsolved theft
at the Museum of Snowman Fossils;
someone is thumbing
the pages of your diary, touching
a match to the fuse of your spine,
the stars lower their hooks.

-previously published in After Hours

by Josephine Zell

RIDING THE BUS IN CAMPANIA

Red tile roofs and brown stone castles
Solid against a blue gauze sky
Rise above tranquil yellow wheatfields
And rich black earth that stops the eye.

Stencilled under brooding mountains
Is a city gleaming in the sun;
Towers, campanili, undistinguished
Homes where life ends as it was begun.

Emerald umbrella pines
In two straight lines shade a painter's road,
But we're swept along by oleanders
For miles of flowers, white and rose.

-Originally appeared in Neovictorian/Cochlea,  
Vol. IX No.2, Spring-Summer 2006; (I) from
FOUR POEMS FROM AN ITALIAN JOURNEY

American Life in Poetry: Column 081

BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE, 2004-2006

Readers of this column during the past year have by now learned how enthusiastic I am about poems describing everyday life. I've tried to show how the ordinary can be made extraordinary through close and transforming observation. Here Tess Gallagher goes to the mailbox to post a letter. We've all done that, haven't we? But notice how closely she pays attention to this simple experience, and how she fits this one moment into the meaning of her life.


Under Stars

The sleep of this night deepens
because I have walked coatless from the house
carrying the white envelope.
All night it will say one name
in its little tin house by the roadside.

I have raised the metal flag
so its shadow under the roadlamp
leaves an imprint on the rain-heavy bushes.
Now I will walk back
thinking of the few lights still on
in the town a mile away.

In the yellowed light of a kitchen
the millworker has finished his coffee,
his wife has laid out the white slices of bread
on the counter. Now while the bed they have left
is still warm, I will think of you, you
who are so far away
you have caused me to look up at the stars.

Tonight they have not moved
from childhood, those games played after dark.
Again I walk into the wet grass
toward the starry voices. Again, I
am the found one, intimate, returned
by all I touch on the way.

"Under Stars" copyright (c) 1987 by Tess Gallagher. Reprinted from "Amplitude: New & Selected Poems" with the permission of Graywolf Press, Saint Paul, Minnesota. Gallagher's most recent book of poetry is "Dear Ghosts: Poems," Graywolf Press, 2006. 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.