Sunday, July 18, 2010

Your Sunday Poem

I wrote a fan letter to Ted Kooser that said, in part, "thank you for the gift of your beautiful poems.  They have brought much pleasure and astonishment to my life. "  And Mr. Kooser was kind enough to send a postcard reply that said, in part, thanks for "helping to spread the news of poetry." You're welcome, Mr. Kooser.  Glad to oblige in my small way.  Aren't fan letters fun? You should write one today to your favorite poet.  Quick, do it while he/she's still living!  Or, if that's too daunting, just go out and buy a few of their books so your favorite poet can continue to buy ink and paper. Or check some of their books out of the library and give yourself a feast of words. One poem a night.  Before bed. To be savored like a Godiva chocolate left on the bed pillow by the hotel maid.

This poem is from Kooser's "Winter Morning Walks: one hundred postcards to Jim Harrison."

February 8
Clear and pleasant 

The reason the rooster is crowing
so desperately this morning,
his voice like a gate left open in the wind,
is because the rising sun
is displaying its colorful plumage,
spreading its wings for a thousand miles
along the horizon
and the eyes of every hen are lit with fire.

1 comment:

Alon Perlman said...

One poem a night before bed
You return to the hotel
Exhausted, disoriented.
the bed catches your knees as you fall back
the switch was on the wrong wall
you blink
once to see the light in the hall
You blink again
To see the red alarm eyes
furiously blinking back
your arm like a heavy log
you set the alarm for an early awakening.
Some still number appears
“good enough”, sigh
A thought lumbers in
"undress before peeling back the covers”
Then no thought, curtains fall.
You are conscious of light.
Monochrome blocky shapes announce morning
as you move, a crinkle
a sensation reminiscent of pain
you reach back
something strange, a patch
on the back of your head, alien, sticky
warm with your blood.
your hand comes back into squinty view
coagulated index and thumb, a dark substance between.
Stuck to the back of your head
Like a poem read before bed
unfinished poem, undigested
It has begun its insidious work.

Those hotels should really set a policy to have those squares put on a napkin on the bedside table. Whoever thought of putting those things on a pillow , very unhygienic.