Beach Grass In Winter, walking along Park Point Beach on Lake Superior, near Canal Park, Duluth, Minnesota, April 2007, photo © 2007 by QuoinMonkey. All rights reserved.
It’s a beautiful Fall Sunday in Minnesota. I’m feeling reflective, pensive. Like the perennials on the deck that I need to transplant, my body is beginning to prepare for the long, dark winter ahead.
Fall is my favorite time of year. The diminishing light leads me to take long walks along the trail by the house, then settle in to write. I anticipate large pots of soup simmering in crocked earthenware, and bits of flakey ice dotting the windshield. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
I’m heading out to the garden after this post to dig a few holes for planting. Ted Kooser is on the table beside me. The native Nebraskan would understand the restlessness and listless turn toward hibernation that implants itself in Midwestern souls this time of year.
I started out wanting to post two of his poems on art. But as I’m writing the introduction, I’m drawn to a monotone photograph taken while walking a cold, windy beach in Duluth last winter. So I’ve decided to include his poem, Memory. It harkens to the land and the associative connect-the-dot qualities of memory that lead writers to write the things they write.
Below is his poem from Delights & Shadows, winner of a Pulitzer Prize for Poetry. The book is set in New Caledonia, designed by William A. Dwiggins in 1939 after the Scottish faces of the 19th Century. It is printed on archival-quality Glatfelter Authors Text. The book design is by Valerie Brewster. The cover art, August Night At Russell’s Corners, by George C. Ault.
Memory
by Ted Kooser
Spinning up dust and cornshucks
as it crossed the chalky, exhausted fields,
it sucked up into its heart
hot work, cold work, lunch buckets,
good horses, bad horses, their names
and the names of mules that were
better or worse than the horses,
then rattled the dented tin sides
of the threshing machine, shook
the manure spreader, cranked
the tractor’s crank that broke
the uncle’s arm, then swept on
through the windbreak, taking
the treehouse and dirty magazines,
turning its fury on the barn
where cows kicked over buckets
and the gray cat sat for a squirt
of thick milk in its whiskers, crossed
the chicken pen, undid the hook,
plucked a warm brown egg
from the meanest hen, then turned
toward the house, where threshers
were having dinner, peeled back
the roof and the kitchen ceiling,
reached down and snatched up
uncles and cousins, grandma, grandpa,
parents and children one by one,
held them like dolls, looked
long and longingly into their faces,
then set them back in their chairs
with blue and white platters of chicken
and ham and mashed potatoes
still steaming before them, with
boats of gravy and bowls of peas
and three kinds of pie, and suddenly,
with a sound like a sigh, drew up
its crowded, roaring, dusty funnel,
and there at its tip was the nib of a pen.
-poem by Ted Kooser, from Delights & Shadows, Part II: The China Painters, Copper Canyon Press, 2004
-about Copper Canyon Press: The Chinese character for poetry is made up of two parts: “word” and “temple.” It also serves as pressmark for Copper Canyon Press. Founded in 1972, Copper Canyon Press remains dedicated to publishing poetry exclusively, from Nobel laureates, to new and emerging authors. The Press thrives with the generous patronage of readers, writers, booksellers, librarians, teachers, students, and funders – everyone who shares the conviction that poetry invigorates the language and sharpens our appreciation of the world.
-posted on red Ravine, Sunday, September 9th, 2007
-related to post, What Happened to Orr Books?, Ted Kooser’s American Life In Poetry Project
I’m always, it seems, missing the catch in poetry, but I must confess- your description and language describing the turn toward autumn, and even describing the poetry itself resonated a lot with me.
A bit more than the poem itself did.
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Thanks, amuirin. This poem is not indicative of most of Kooser’s poetry. But it had the kind of salt of the earth feeling I gravitate toward in Fall. It also had a lot of details that are a lot the way my mind works when I do writing practice – thought to thought to thought. Detail to detail through memories. Maybe I’ll do another post later with the two poems I was originally going to add to this post.
I went outside after I wrote the post and transplanted a few things in the garden. It was quite hot and sort of blew my bubble about Fall! But now it’s cooling off again tonight. And getting darker more quickly. Liz says it’s late Summer, not Fall. I’ll try not to rush!
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I was wondering about the Fall reference, thought maybe in Minnesota things get cold a lot earlier than out here. We’re in that transitional place in NM where the light is just starting to turn. Today the temperature hit about 81 — wow, ideal.
The poem is beautiful and, for me, evokes memory. Of my grandparents’ farm where I spent summers. The animals, the “back to basics” way of living. The first essay I ever wrote was from 3rd grade, I think, maybe 4th, and had to do with Grandma and how she made her own butter.
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Wow, making your own butter. Did you learn from her how to do that? I wonder how long that used to take. It would be interesting to read your 4th grade essay. Do you still have it tucked away somewhere? What a cool memory for a writer.
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I think I do. It’s part of that book where Bucky Mulvaney also wrote, “My hores eat clookes.” I’ll have to see some day if I have it and if so I’ll scan the essays. (“Essay” is probably too fancy a word for what we wrote.)
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Thanks for the calming thoughts on the turning of the season. 🙂
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jason, thanks for stopping by. I checked out your blog, The Clarity of Night, and it’s a great place for writers to visit. I bet the leaves will soon turn in your part of the country, too. It’s beautiful in PA this time of year.
This morning I noticed the park near our house was covered with a layer of frost. Even though I’ve been writing about it and expecting it, I was still startled. But I do love the calm, clarity of Fall.
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I’ve been surprised by how cold it’s getting already. But then I picture in my head how far north you are. Of course it’s getting cold. It’s pretty cool in the mornings here. Cool enough for a little hoodie (thinking now of Dee leaving for school this morning).
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[…] In addition to the poem Skater, I will focus on Memory, a copy of which can be found here. […]
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[…] (gratitude to those who came before us). We all signed it; the next day she mailed it off to Ted. A generous man, he wrote back within the month (look for an upcoming […]
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[…] 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 […]
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[…] Libby. 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 […]
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I met Ted Kooser today.
I got to the Icelandic Lutheran Church two hours early for Bill Holm’s funeral. So did Ted. I shook his hand, asked about his trip up from Nebraska, and ended up sitting within earshot of him (many people were coming up to talk to the two-time Poet Laureate). He is, amongst other things, the picture of dignity and class. Refined. Reflective.
I’ve been on the road for hundreds of miles and boatloads of hours and I’m exhausted. If I weren’t, I’d probably go on and on about Ted. I want to be like him.
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QM
We made our own butter when we had a cow on Washington Rd. when I was a young girl. Mother loved the buttermilk and it made delicious biscuits to eat with the butter!!
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MOM, do you remember the cow’s name? And did it wear a bell? That’s how I picture cows during that period. 8) The fresh buttermilk sounds really yummy.
I really like that part of Ted’s poem, where he talks about milking the cow, then heading to the chicken pen. I just reread his poem out loud to myself. It’s so chock full of details — I like to read it out loud and slow:
turning its fury on the barn
where cows kicked over buckets
and the gray cat sat for a squirt
of thick milk in its whiskers, crossed
the chicken pen, undid the hook,
plucked a warm brown egg
from the meanest hen
MOM, I scanned a photograph of you and your brother Jack last summer and it’s of the two of you as pretty young kids playing in what looks like the chicken pen. Do you remember that photo? I’ll have to show you.
I see that ybonesy talks about her grandparent’s farm where she spent summers and the essay she wrote in 4th grade about her grandmother and how she made her own butter.
ybonesy, did you ever find that 4th grade essay?
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Teri, I’m absolutely thrilled that you had a chance to meet Ted Kooser. Though the circumstances of Bill Holm’s funeral must have been very sad, it would have been an honor to shake Ted’s hand. Maybe you even had a chance to tell him in person how much our Poetry & Meditation Group appreciated his postcard (LINK) from so long ago.
You described Ted exactly the way I picture him — refined and reflective, a man who has seen much in his life. I’d love to hear any other insights from the funeral once you have a chance to rest and reflect. I imagine there were tons of other Midwestern writers there. It sounds like the perfect place to meet in relative anonymity. I believe the church is about 3 hours north and west of the Twin Cities, isn’t it? I’ve never been there. What’s it like?
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Wow, Teri, sounds like an amazing experience. I know I say this a lot to people, but you should write about it—the whole thing, including the services.
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After initially meeting Ted, I tried to think of how to re-engage with him to tell him how much our Poetry and Meditation Group loves him, and how undone we were by his postcard.
When we went to the American Legion for sandwiches (after the funeral), I was even circling him with a camera. I partially chickened out, and partly was picking up on his vibes that he would have been very uncomfortable for any of the focus to be turned away from Bill and unto him.
I’m still very tired today, but will look forward to sharing more when my mind is clear and my body unbends from the long drive.
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Hope it’s not too late, Teri … don’t wash your hand until I have a chance to shake it, okay? I’d love to have a little of Ted Kooser rub off on me … and combined with the stuff you’re made of, Teri, that could be powerful writing juju for me!
I think that it is lovely and perfect that you were able to meet Kooser and shake his hand. Look at all you’ve done to bring more people to poetry with your group and your enthusiasm. In a karmic sense, one could say this is payback for a poetry life well-lived.
I look forward to hearing more, too, once you’ve rested-up.
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Teri, that makes total sense about what were maybe some well-known writers wanting to remain in the background at such an occasion. It shows humility and grace. And respect for the memory of Bill Holm.
Like breathepeace, we will look forward to hearing more after rest and relaxation and composting all that happened that day. It was a writer’s pilgrimage. And it sounds like the rewards were many. I love the way breathepeace puts it: “In a karmic sense, one could say this is payback for a poetry life well-lived.”
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breathepeace,
I’m afraid I have washed my hand. But perhaps when you next look into my eyes, you’ll see Ted’s reflection. When I looked at all the poets and writers in the room, it *did* feel like a reward. I felt rewarded in that I knew who I was looking at. Many of them are elderly; I’m humbled that I got to see them. And the setting was perfect–a church over 100 years old.
QM,
Yes, it felt like a pilgrimage. I didn’t go exactly with that intention. I went simply because I *had* to go. But as I drove, I felt clearly pulled toward an important meeting that I needed to be a part of.
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Well said: “heading out to the garden …Ted Kooser is on the table beside me. The native Nebraskan would understand the restlessness and listless turn toward hibernation that implants itself in Midwestern souls this time of year.”
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I am sure Ted would understand. I feel that restlessness, too. Sunny and drippy snow melt. Followed by the storm on its heels. Thanks for stopping by carolkean.
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