American Life in Poetry: Column 174 BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE, 2004-2006
I'd guess you've all seen a toddler hold something over the edge of a high-chair and then let it drop, just for the fun of it. Here's a lovely picture of a small child learning the laws of physics. The poet, Joelle Biele, lives in Maryland.

To Katharine: At Fourteen Months

All morning, you've studied the laws
of spoons, the rules of books, the dynamics
of the occasional plate, observed the principles
governing objects in motion and objects
at rest. To see if it will fall, and if it does,
how far, if it will rage like a lost penny
or ring like a Chinese gong--because
it doesn't have to--you lean from your chair
and hold your cup over the floor.
It curves in your hand, it weighs in your palm,
it arches like a wave, it is a dipper
full of stars, and you're the wind timing
the pull of the moon, you're the water
measuring the distance from which we fall.


American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Poem copyright (c) 2007 by Joelle Biele, whose most recent book of poetry is "White Summer," Southern Illinois University Press, 2002. Poem reprinted from "West Branch," Fall/Winter, 2007, by permission of Joelle Biele. Introduction copyright (c) 2008 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction's author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts. ******************************

American Life in Poetry: Column 172
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE, 2004-2006

I don't often talk about poetic forms in this  column, thinking that most
of my readers aren't  interested in how the clock works and would rather 
be given the time. But the following poem by  Veronica Patterson
of Colorado has a subtitle  referring to a form, the senryu, and I thought 
it might be helpful to mention that the senryu  is a Japanese form similar
to haiku but dealing  with people rather than nature. There; enough said. 
Now you can forget the form and enjoy the poem,  which is a beautiful
sketch of a marriage.

Marry Me  
      a senryu sequence

when I come late to bed
I move your leg flung over my side-- 
that warm gate
nights you're not here 
I inch toward the middle
of this boat, balancing
when I turn over in sleep
you turn, I turn, you turn,
I turn, you  
some nights you tug the edge 
of my pillow under your cheek, 
look in my dream
pulling the white sheet
over your bare shoulder 
I marry you again

American Life in Poetry is made possible by  
The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), 
publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported 
by the Department of English at the University of 
Nebraska-Lincoln. Poem copyright (c) 2000 by 
Veronica Patterson, whose most recent book of poetry 
is "This Is the Strange Part," Pudding House  
Publications, 2002. Poem reprinted from "Swan, 
What Shores?" New York University Press, 2000,  
by permission of Veronica Patterson and New York 
University Press. Introduction copyright (c) 2008 
by The Poetry Foundation.  The introduction's author,  
Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate 
Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress 
from 2004-2006.  We do not accept unsolicited 
manuscripts.   ******************************

American Life in Poetry: Column 171

BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE, 2004-2006
Sometimes I think that people are at their happiest when they're engaged in activities close to the work of the earliest humans: telling stories around a fire, taking care of children, hunting, making clothes. Here an Iowan, Ann Struthers, speaks of one of those original tasks, digging in the dirt.

Planting the Sand Cherry

Today I planted the sand cherry with red leaves–
and hope that I can go on digging in this yard,
pruning the grape vine, twisting the silver lace
on its trellis, the one that bloomed
just before the frost flowered over all the garden.
Next spring I will plant more zinnias, marigolds,
straw flowers, pearly everlasting, and bleeding heart.
I plant that for you, old love, old friend,
and lilacs for remembering. The lily-of-the-valley
with cream-colored bells, bent over slightly, bowing
to the inevitable, flowers for a few days, a week.
Now its broad blade leaves are streaked with brown
and the stem dried to a pale hair.
In place of the silent bells, red berries
like rose hips blaze close to the ground.
It is important for me to be down on my knees,
my fingers sifting the black earth,
making those things grow which will grow.
Sometimes I save a weed if its leaves
are spread fern-like, hand-like,
or if it grows with a certain impertinence.
I let the goldenrod stay and the wild asters.
I save the violets in spring. People who kill violets
will do anything.

American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Poem copyright (c) 2004 by Ann Struthers, whose most recent book of poetry is "What You Try To Tame," The Coe Review Press, 2004. Poem reprinted from "Stoneboat & Other Poems," by Ann Struthers, Iowa Poets Series, The Pterodactyl Press, 1988, by permission of the writer. Introduction copyright (c) 2008 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction's author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts.
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