American Life in Poetry: Column 188

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

I really like this poem by Dick Allen, partially for the way he so easily draws us in, with his easygoing, conversational style, but also for noticing what he has noticed, the overlooked accompanist there on the stage, in the shadow of the singer.


The Accompanist

I've always worried about you--the man or woman
at the piano bench,
night after night receiving only such applause
as the singer allows: a warm hand please,
for my accompanist. At concerts,
as I watch your fingers on the keys,
and how swiftly, how excellently
you turn sheet music pages,
track the singer's notes, cover the singer's flaws,
I worry about whole lifetimes,
most lifetimes
lived in the shadows of reflected fame;
but then the singer's voice dies
and there are just your last piano notes,
not resentful at all,
carrying us to the end, into those heartfelt cheers
that spring up in little patches from a thrilled audience
like sudden wildflowers bobbing in a rain
of steady clapping. And I'm on my feet, also,
clapping and cheering for the singer, yes,
but, I think, partially likewise for you
half-turned toward us, balanced on your black bench,
modest, utterly well-rehearsed,
still playing the part you've made yours.


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 Dick Allen, whose most recent book of poetry is "Present Vanishing," Sarabande Books, 2008. Poem reprinted from "North Dakota Quarterly," Vol. 74, no. 3, Summer 2007, by permission of Dick Allen.  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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The Old Maple Tree

by Cathy Conger

 

Resplendent in flaming, fall foliage,

she stands poised

on our front lawn,

impeccably attired.

 

A callous wind plucks at her brittle sleeves,

rustles her crimson petticoats,

sets her to shivering until she

drops her fading frock

round her ankles in a heap.

 

And there the old gal stands,

like a naked mannequin,

waiting for the first snowfall,

next season’s gown.

-originally appeared in Free Verse

by Jan Chronister

Blue Bowl in Late October Sun

 

On the braided rug

the glass bowl casts a luminescent shadow,

capturing time in its circle.

 

Outside on trees

single leaves sway

in a metronome rhythm,

heartbeat of death.

They fall fast to the ground;

cold gold coins dumped

from a pirate’s chest.

 

Sunlit bowl

reminds me of New Year’s Lake Superior,

mystery of blue ice

rising and folding like mountains,

jagged broken edges

sharp as glass.

 

If I fill the bowl with water

will it sing like a flute

or howl like the beast below?

-originally appeared in Mush

By Russell Gardner

Summer Game

 

Remembering my mother's clothes on the line

Drying in summer sun, playing in the breeze,

And when the clothes weren't there

I'd pitch a rubber ball against the garage

Between the clothes-line posts

With rules about a strike or ball (or

If it hit the clothes-line post) where

My mythical opponent-playmate would

Send that ball off his bat into the oat-field

To the south of the lawn, over the large rosebush,

Maybe even so far that it'd hit into the grassed

Waterway that drained the northwest-lying field

Where Amish children now play when not working.

-originally appeared in Free Verse

 

American Life in Poetry: Column 186

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

Every child can be seen as a miracle, and here Minnesota poet James Lenfestey captures the beautiful mystery of a daughter.


Daughter

A daughter is not a passing cloud, but permanent,
holding earth and sky together with her shadow.
She sleeps upstairs like mystery in a story,
blowing leaves down the stairs, then cold air, then warm.
We who at sixty should know everything, know nothing.
We become dull and disoriented by uncertain weather.
We kneel, palms together, before this blossoming altar.


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 James P. Lenfestey from his most recent book of poetry, "A Cartload of Scrolls," Holy Cow! Press, 2007. Reprinted by permission of the author. 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. 

by Sandra Lindow

October Bread

 

Within the great blue bowl,

I walk, mixing October

with wind in my hair,

light sifting chrysanthemum flower,

chokecherry, chinaberry,

black birds like raisins

tossed in the dough,

this day of leaf and leaven.

 

Some say bread's the staff of life,

but I hold to sun and air.

These last few days before the dark,

I claim what soon will be lost,

kneading the sun, kneading the air,

I bake within my skin

summer's memory, frangible gold.

-originally published in Wisconsin Poets Calendar

American Life in Poetry: Column 185

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

When I was a boy, there were still a few veterans of the Spanish American War, and more of The Great War, or World War I, and now all those have died and those who served in World War II are passing from us, too. Robert Hedin, a Minnesota poet, has written a fine poem about these people.

The Old Liberators

Of all the people in the mornings at the mall,
it's the old liberators I like best,
those veterans of the Bulge, Anzio, or Monte Cassino
I see lost in Automotive or back in Home Repair,
bored among the paints and power tools.
Or the really old ones, the ones who are going fast,
who keep dozing off in the little orchards
of shade under the distant skylights.
All around, from one bright rack to another,
their wives stride big as generals,
their handbags bulging like ripe fruit.
They are almost all gone now,
and with them they are taking the flak
and fire storms, the names of the old bombing runs.
Each day a little more of their memory goes out,
darkens the way a house darkens,
its rooms quietly filling with evening,
until nothing but the wind lifts the lace curtains,
the wind bearing through the empty rooms
the rich far off scent of gardens
where just now, this morning,
light is falling on the wild philodendrons.


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) 1999 by Robert Hedin. Reprinted from "The Old Liberators: New and Selected Poems and Translations," Holy Cow! Press, 1999, by permission of Robert Hedin. 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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American Life in Poetry: Column 184

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

I hope it's not just a guy thing, a delight in the trappings of work. I love this poem by

John Maloney, of Massachusetts, which gives us a close look behind the

 windshields of all those pickup trucks we see heading home from work.


After Work

They're heading home with their lights on, dust and wood glue,
yellow dome lights on their metallic long beds: 250s, 2500s--
as much overtime as you want, deadline, dotted line, dazed
through the last few hours, dried primer on their knuckles,
sawdust calf-high on their jeans, scraped boots, the rough
plumbing and electric in, way ahead of the game except for
the check, such a clutter of cans and iced-tea bottles, napkins,
coffee cups, paper plates on the front seat floor with cords
and saws, tired above the eyes, back of the beyond, thirsty.
There's a parade of them through the two-lane highways,
proudest on their way home, the first turn out of the jobsite,
the first song with the belt off, pure breath of being alone
for now, for now the insight of a full and answerable man.
No one can take away the contentment of the first few miles
and they know they can't describe it, the black and purple sky.


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 John Maloney, whose most recent

book of poetry is "Proposal," Zoland Books, 1999. Poem reprinted from 

AGNI online, 2/2007, by permission of John Maloney. 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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