Kooser Time

Selecting A Reader ~Ted Kooser

First, I would have her be beautiful,
and walking carefully up on my poetry
at the loneliest moment of an afternoon,
her hair still damp at the neck
from washing it. She should be wearing
a raincoat, an old one, dirty
from not having money enough for the cleaners.
She will take out her glasses, and there
in the bookstore, she will thumb
over my poems, then put the book back
up on its shelf. She will say to herself,
"For that kind of money, I can get
my raincoat cleaned." And she will.

A Birthday Poem ~Ted Kooser

Just past dawn, the sun stands
with its heavy red head
in a black stanchion of trees,
waiting for someone to come
with his bucket
for the foamy white light,
and then a long day in the pasture.
I too spend my days grazing,
feasting on every green moment
till darkness calls,
and with the others
I walk away into the night,
swinging the little tin bell
of my name.


Our current US Poet Laureate, folks. Note the simple beauties here; Kooser's poems tend to be tight and compact, and as focused as a snapshot. Every poem is a litte shot of joy. On my online workshop we had a bit of a debate between Billy Collins (a preceeding Laureate) and Kooser--here's my take on that:

Billy Collins is arguably the most popular poet since Frost--his books climb onto best seller lists, and his Poetry 180 project took off. His poems are very clever, a little snarky, and somewhat self-involved. It's these qualities that make him beloved as well as questioned--it would take a certain amount of hubris to write a poem about undressing Emily Dickinson, after all.

Taking off Emily Dickinson's Clothes~Billy Collins

First, her tippet made of tulle,
easily lifted off her shoulders and laid
on the back of a wooden chair.

And her bonnet,
the bow undone with a light forward pull.

Then the long white dress, a more
complicated matter with mother-of-pearl
buttons down the back,
so tiny and numerous that it takes forever
before my hands can part the fabric,
like a swimmer's dividing water,
and slip inside.

You will want to know
that she was standing
by an open window in an upstairs bedroom,
motionless, a little wide-eyed,
looking out at the orchard below,
the white dress puddled at her feet
on the wide-board, hardwood floor.

The complexity of women's undergarments
in nineteenth-century America
is not to be waved off,
and I proceeded like a polar explorer
through clips, clasps, and moorings,
catches, straps, and whalebone stays,
sailing toward the iceberg of her nakedness.

Later, I wrote in a notebook
it was like riding a swan into the night,
but, of course, I cannot tell you everything -
the way she closed her eyes to the orchard,
how her hair tumbled free of its pins,
how there were sudden dashes
whenever we spoke.

What I can tell you is
it was terribly quiet in Amherst
that Sabbath afternoon,
nothing but a carriage passing the house,
a fly buzzing in a windowpane.

So I could plainly hear her inhale
when I undid the very top
hook-and-eye fastener of her corset

and I could hear her sigh when finally it was unloosed,
the way some readers sigh when they realize
that Hope has feathers,
that reason is a plank,
that life is a loaded gun
that looks right at you with a yellow eye.

...and yet, he's inspired, and evolves his poems into surprises by the end (so often, he's been accused of being formulaic). I like Billy Collins, and I can see why he's popular--he's the product of his times, really--we live in skeptical times, when everyone is battling it out to see who can be clever, or funny, or do the best job of being snarkily cynical. When I read through student literary magazines, I see the same voice, the same tone--and , I'm also starting to see a movement away from this sort of thing. Efforts to be clever are slowly being taken over by efforts to be more sincere, I'd argue, which is why Ted Kooser is worth noting--he is much more sincere, in tone and approach. His poems never provoke me to roll my eyes, or snicker derisively.

Using poet laureates as symbolic of cultural paradigm shifts might be a little sweeping, but I like the idea, dangnabbit. Plus, I'm done with cleverness, really. Cleverness, especially when overused, seems to me to feed into the idea that to get people's attention, they must be entertained, and entertained in the way that flashy 30-second commercials, Maxim Magazine, and Reality TV entertains. Screw that.

Your assignment: Go over some of your recent writings. Are there any common themes/tones? Do you find yourself being clever, even if unintended? Look at your tone/voice, and maybe get someone else to give you some broad impressions as well. Do they say your work seems, dark, pretty, simple, happy, silly, what? What do you think your word choices and metaphors evoke? Then, ask yourself why. And ask yourself again. This sort of questioning allowed me to start to see how/why I portray women as I do in my writings, and it caused some revelations. That's what you're aiming for--the unexpected revelation about what it is that you've created.