The Sunday after Thanksgiving was one of utter self-indulgence. Papers graded, lesson planning done for the week, home responsibilities fulfilled, I spent the morning with coffee and the New York Times, the afternoon at the cinema with a long-time idol, and the evening with poetry – first reading, then writing.
—
Ted Kooser, the “farm poet,” has released his first book of poems in several years, and Sunday was the perfect day to dig into it. Kooser was one of our more unlikely Poets Laureate of the United States when he was selected for the post in 2004. A retired life-insurance salesman, he has accumulated several books full of short, quiet poems about people in the small towns of the Midwest. Many of his poems consist of one long sentence and focus on one brief image or moment, seeming wispy as a haiku. They are full of compassion and a profound appreciation of the spirit – of all living things.
—
Here is the title poem Kooser’s new book, Splitting an Order:
—
I like to watch an old man cutting a sandwich in half,
maybe an ordinary cold roast beef on whole wheat bread,
no pickles or onion, keeping his shaky hands steady
by placing his forearms firm on the edge of the table
and using both hands, the left to hold the sandwich in place,
and the right to cut it surely, corner to corner,
observing his progress through glasses that moments before
he wiped with his napkin, and then to see him lift half
onto the extra plate that he asked the server to bring,
and then to wait, offering the plate to his wife
while she slowly unrolls her napkin and places her spoon,
her knife, and her fork in their proper places,
then smooths the starched white napkin over her knees
and meet his eyes and holds out both old hands to him.
—
I let Mr. Kooser inspire me as I crafted this poem about my experience at the local movie theater.
—
Seeing Birdman at Thanksgiving
—
I was not annoyed by the old couple
who arrived late and chose seats
directly in front of me, even as they
spent several minutes getting situated –
he setting down the bag of popcorn,
then taking her cane and escorting her
to her seat, removing her coat and then
his own, placing the coats in a seat
adjoining theirs, and finally taking up
the popcorn again and sitting down
as the final preview began. No one
shushed them as she asked him, loudly,
if this was the film they’d come to see,
nor his reply – no, it was not, but it
would be coming on soon. The film
unfolded then – and it was about
how far we will go to make meaning
in our lives, what it takes to make
our mark, the value of fame, of art,
of hard work, of love. What love is.
In the theater, fifty pairs of eyes
watched from mainly gray heads,
the old couple before me sharing
their popcorn and a Coke. When
the credits began and he rose to
gather their coats, and when she said,
loudly, she wasn’t sure whether she
should laugh or cry, and he did not
respond but helped her to stand
and then to struggle into her coat –
it was then that I felt I knew them
intimately, knew of their years together,
could see them as he drove their car
into the small garage, then stepped
into the white-tiled kitchen where she
would heat up the kettle for tea.
—
—
Leave a comment