American Life in Poetry: Column 181

BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE, 2004-2006
Stuart Kestenbaum, the author of this week's poem, lost his brother Howard in the destruction of the twin towers of the World Trade Center. We thought it appropriate to commemorate the events of September 11, 2001, by sharing this poem. The poet is the director of the Haystack Mountain School of Crafts on Deer Isle, Maine.


Prayer for the Dead

The light snow started late last night and continued
all night long while I slept and could hear it occasionally
enter my sleep, where I dreamed my brother
was alive again and possessing the beauty of youth, aware
that he would be leaving again shortly and that is the lesson
of the snow falling and of the seeds of death that are in everything
that is born: we are here for a moment
of a story that is longer than all of us and few of us
remember, the wind is blowing out of someplace
we don't know, and each moment contains rhythms
within rhythms, and if you discover some old piece
of your own writing, or an old photograph,
you may not remember that it was you and even if it was once you,
it's not you now, not this moment that the synapses fire
and your hands move to cover your face in a gesture
of grief and remembrance.


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 Stuart Kestenbaum. Reprinted from "Prayers & Run-on Sentences," Deerbook Editions, 2007, by permission of Stuart Kestenbaum. 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 180  
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE, 2004-2006

What's in a name? All of us have thought at one time or another  about our names, perhaps asking why they were given to us,  or finding meanings within them. Here Emmett Tenorio Melendez,  an eleven-year-old poet from San Antonio, Texas, proudly  presents us with his name and its meaning.

My name came from. . .

My name came from my great-great-great-grandfather.
He was an Indian from the Choctaw tribe.
His name was Dark Ant.
When he went to get a job out in a city
he changed it to Emmett.
And his whole name was Emmett Perez Tenorio.
And my name means: Ant; Strong; Carry twice
its size.


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 Emmett Tenorio Melendez. Reprinted from "Salting The Ocean:
100 Poems By Young Poets," Greenwillow Books, 2000, by
permission of the editor. 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 178

BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE, 2004-2006  
We mammals are ferociously protective of our young, and we all know
not to wander in between a sow bear and her cubs. Here Minnesota poet 
Gary Dop, without a moment's hesitation, throws himself into the
water to save a frightened child.

Father, Child, Water

I lift your body to the boat 
before you drown or choke or slip too far

beneath. I didn't think--just jumped, just did
what I did like the physics

that flung you in. My hands clutch under 
year-old arms, between your life

jacket and your bobbing frame, pushing you,
like a fountain cherub, up and out.

I'm fooled by the warmth pulsing from
the gash on my thigh, sliced wide and clean

by an errant screw on the stern.
No pain. My legs kick out blood below.

My arms strain
against our deaths to hold you up

as I lift you, crying, reaching, to the boat.

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) 2008 by Gary Dop.
Reprinted from "New Letters", Vol. 74, No. 3, Spring 2008, by
permission of Gary Dop. 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 177

BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE, 2004-2006
Kristen Tracy is a poet from San Francisco who here
captures a moment at a zoo. It's the falling rain, don't
you think, that makes the experience of observing the
animals seem so perfectly truthful and vivid? 


Rain at the Zoo

A giraffe presented its head to me, tilting it
sideways, reaching out its long gray tongue.
I gave it my wheat cracker while small drops
of rain pounded us both. Lightning cracked open
the sky. Zebras zipped across the field.
It was springtime in Michigan. I watched
the giraffe shuffle itself backwards, toward
the herd, its bone- and rust-colored fur beading
with water. The entire mix of animals stood
away from the trees. A lone emu shook
its round body hard and squawked. It ran
along the fence line, jerking open its wings.
Perhaps it was trying to shake away the burden
of water or indulging an urge to fly. I can't know.
I have no idea what about their lives these animals
love or abhor. They are captured or born here for us,
and we come. It's true. This is my favorite field.


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)  Kristen Tracy, whose most recent
teen novel is "Crimes of the Sarahs," Simon & Schuster,
2008. Poem reprinted from AGNI online, 9/2007, by permission
of Kristen Tracy. 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 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.
******************************