American Life in Poetry: Column 191

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

Most of us love to find things, and to discover a quarter on the sidewalk can make a whole day seem brighter. In this poem, Robert Wrigley, who lives in Idaho, finds what's left of a Bible, and describes it so well that we can almost feel it in our hands.

Finding a Bible in an Abandoned Cabin

Under dust plush as a moth's wing,

the book's leather cover still darkly shown,

and everywhere else but this spot was sodden

beneath the roof's unraveling shingles.

There was that back-of-the-neck lick of chill

and then, from my index finger, the book

opened like a blasted bird. In its box

of familiar and miraculous inks,

a construction of filaments and dust,

thoroughfares of worms, and a silage

of silverfish husks: in the autumn light,

eight hundred pages of perfect wordless lace.

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 Robert Wrigley, whose most recent book of poetry is "Earthly Meditations: New and Selected Poems," Penguin, 2006. Poem reprinted from "The Hudson Review," Vol. LIX, no. 4, Winter, 2007, by permission of Robert Wrigley.  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 Don Melcher           

Wild Geese In December

Snow lies deep on the hardscape of winter

Out of the North comes a lonely, austere cry 

The sky opens, the woods close

And the air is full of harsh dissonance

A skein of wild geese beats its intrepid way

Strung loose in wavering V formation

The delta leader surges in headlong flight

Stragglers strain to stay the Spartan course

Across a low, bleak monochrome of sky

They scrape the ceiling of laden clouds

Strident in a breathless quest for haste

Unerring in the faith of ancient pathways

Summer’s song is on the wing

Winter’s somber ode begun

Horizons close, the heart opens

A memory of that poignant passage 

-originally appeared in Free Verse

by Kathryn Gahl

MOTIONS OF THE MOTHER ANIMAL’S TONGUE 

The children are at it

again

boxing one another’s

ears

mocking

vying for position

hoping for a knockout

so mother

can climb into the ring,

hold up the hand

of the champion

while licking

deep cuts

in the other

-Appeared in Illuminations, August 2005

by Don Colburn

THERE      

                              

Water, bone, bed, bedrock –

whatever is underneath, below what's below.

Sudden touchable quiet, shadow

of a shadow. Weather. Sadness turning

ordinary. Nameless illness coming on.

A knock at the door so gentle

it could be anything. Distance.

The just thing not said, or said too late

or said exactly and without mercy.

Wind rising. Whatever might rise.

First published in Ploughshares. Also in

Another Way to Begin (Finishing Line Press,

2006) and As If Gravity Were a Theory 

(Cider Press Review, 2006).

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. 

******************************

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