The Sunday Poem: Marie Howe Sits in a Tree

American Life in Poetry: Column 066

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

Some of the most telling poetry being written in our country today has to do with the smallest and briefest of pleasures. Here Marie Howe of New York captures a magical moment: sitting in the shelter of a leafy tree with the rain falling all around.

The Copper Beech

Immense, entirely itself,
it wore that yard like a dress,

with limbs low enough for me to enter it
and climb the crooked ladder to where

I could lean against the trunk and practice being alone.
One day, I heard the sound before I saw it, rain fell
darkening the sidewalk.

Sitting close to the center, not very high in the branches,
I heard it hitting the high leaves, and I was happy,

watching it happen without it happening to me.

Reprinted from "What the Living Do," W. W. Norton & Co., 1997. Copyright © 1997 by Marie Howe. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.


I like her poems. Check this one out!

WHAT THE LIVING DO

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won’t work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up

waiting for the plumber I still haven’t called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It’s winter again: the sky’s a deep headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through

the open living room windows because the heat;s on too high in here, and I can’t turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping the bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,

I’ve been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.

What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss -- we want more and more and then more of it.

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say the window of the corner video store, and I’m gripped by a cherishing so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m speechless.

I am living. I remember you.

—What The Living Do (W.W. Norton)

Johnny_Mango's Sunday Wallpaper: Buchart Gardens...Victoria, B.C.

SEATTLE, WA--MaryAnn and I stayed for 3 days in Victoria. I had never especially wanted to go there. I have changed my mind. What a wonderful part of our world! We took a shuttle bus to the Buchart Gardens...total cost (including bus and admission) was $35 each. Worth it.

The Sunday Poem: Keith Althaus, "Homecoming"

American Life in Poetry: Column 065

BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE

Visiting a familiar and once dear place after a long absence can knock the words right out of us, and in this poem, Keith Althaus of Massachusetts observes this happening to someone else. I like the way he suggests, at the end, that it may take days before that silence heals over.

Homecoming

We drove through the gates
into a maze of little roads,
with speed bumps now,
that circled a pavilion,
field house, and ran past
the playing fields and wound
their way up to the cluster
of wood and stone buildings
of the school you went to once.
The green was returning to
the trees and lawn, the lake
was still half-lidded with ice
and blind in the middle.
There was nobody around
except a few cars in front
of the administration. It must
have been spring break.
We left without ever getting out
of the car. You were quiet
that night, the next day,
the way after heavy rain
that the earth cannot absorb,
the water lies in pools
in unexpected places for days
until it disappears.

Reprinted from "Ladder of Hours: Poems 1969-2005," Ausable Press, Keene, N.Y., 2005, by permission of the author. Copyright © 2005 by Keith Althaus. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska, Lincoln. This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.

San Juan Island: We See Orcas From Our Campsite

Marysville, WA--We're back on the mainland. Here are some shots of some of what happened during the last week. If you have any questions, just ask.

The sun seldom shone, but it only rained once in the 10 days we were on our bikes. San Juan Island has some steep hills and a little more traffic than Lopez. The scenery was beautiful...including seeing a pod of orcas one evening. No pictures...they were pretty far out in the water. One kayaker camped nearby, however, was right out there among them.

Every campground out here has a designated shared campsite for hikers, bikers, and kayakers. The cost is something like 5 bucks per person. What this means is that, even if the campground is full, no "hiker-biker" finds himself SOL. Such was the case for us at San Juan County Park. All the sites were reserved, but we used the hiker/biker campsite.

We rode to the campground using the northern route across the island by way of Roche Harbor. Roche Harbor is so picturesque you could call it Disneyland for Millionaires because of all the yachts. We rode back to Friday Harbor using the southern route past the lighthouse at Lime Kiln. Here we bought ferry tickets to Sidney, B.C. The ferry didn't get into Sidney until after suppertime so we spent the night there.

The ferry system is used to bikes. They have tie-downs for them and lots of bikes make the trips. The real neat thing is that for inter-island travel (not to Sidney) the ferry is FREE to pedestrians and bikers...so once you get to an island you could spend all summer going back and forth FREE as long as you don't have a vehicle.

Johnny_Mango's Sunday Wallpaper: Salmon Berries on Lopez Island

SIDNEY, B.C., CANADA--Surrounding our campground at Odlin State Park on Lopez Island were thousands and thousands of ripening salmon berries. As beautiful as they looked, however, they were extremely sour tasting. Beauty, I guess, does not apportion itself among all five senses equally.

The Sunday Poem: Lola Haskins...Don't miss this short piece!

American Life in Poetry: Column 064

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

Storytelling binds the past and present together, and is as essential to community life as are food and shelter. Many of our poets are masters at reshaping family stories as poetry. Here Lola Haskins retells a haunting tale, cast in the voice of an elder. Like the best stories, there are no inessential details. Every word counts toward the effect.

Grandmother Speaks of the Old Country

That year there were many deaths in the village.
Germs flew like angels from one house to the next
and every family gave up its own. Mothers
died at their mending. Children fell at school.
Of three hundred twenty, there were eleven left.
Then, quietly, the sun set on a day when no one
died. And the angels whispered among themselves.
And that evening, as he sat on the stone steps,
your grandfather felt a small wind on his neck
when all the trees were still. And he would tell us
always, how he had felt that night, on the skin
of his own neck, the angels, passing.

Reprinted from "Desire Lines: New and Selected Poems," BOA Editions, 2004, by permission of the author and the publisher. Copyright © 2004 by Lola Haskins. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.

Loved Lopez...But Left for Friday Harbor on Thursday

FRIDAY HARBOR, SAN JUAN ISLAND, WA.--It was an exciting time as we boarded the ferry at Anacortes bound for Lopez Island last Tuesday. MaryAnn had never carried panniers before...except for two times around the parking lot just before we got on the ferry. And I had never been on a boat without getting sick. But the short 30 minute voyage went okay.

We went to Lopez Island first because it was the flattest and had the reputation of being the most laid back. We loved it. We camped at Odlin State Park which was only a mile and a half from the ferry landing. By the way, no matter where you go on any island the ferry landing is always the lowest point. Everything is uphill...and in this case we had a steep mile before we hit the campground. Odlin is beautiful. We stayed two nights, touring different parts of Lopez each day.

The first day we just went down the road to Lopez Village because MaryAnn's bike wouldn't shift into the smallest chainring. No wonder that hill seemed so steep! Lopez Bicycle Works fixed it. It was a stupid thing. MaryAnn's second bottle cage wouldn't let the derailler move over enough to get into the small chainring.
The Handlebar Facts (Day One):

• Distance: 12.3 mi.
• Ride Time: 1:32
• Avg Speed: 8.34
• Max Speed: 29.5
• Trip: 12.3

The second day on the island we went in a big loop to Spencer Spit, down to Shark Reef, up to Lopez Village again and back to Odlin. It was a beautiful ride on roads that were basically free of traffic. The only road with any significant traffic was Center Road. Most of the traffic is shortly before or after the ferry docks.

We met two Canadian couples at the campground. Both couples were biking, but one of the couples, Marlene and Dave(?), was doing fully-loaded touring like we were. They lived right across the water in Victoria, B.C.
The Handlebar Facts: (Day Two)

• Distance: 23.5
• Ride Time: 2:53
• Avg Speed: 8:33
• Max Speed: 30.8
• Trip: 35.8

We ran into Marlene and Dave again as we boarded the ferry for Friday Harbor on San Juan Island. I'm not going to list any data for today because it was only 1.5 miles to the ferry and less than half a mile from the landing to our hotel in Friday Harbor. We got rooms in Friday's Historic Inn. We got the smallest room they had...but it did have a balcony and wi-fi. The price was $99.

But the big story of the day has to be MaryAnn's anticipation of tomorrow's loaded ride to the County Park on the other side of the island. You see, although I have called it "loaded" touring, we have actually covered less than 2 miles while loaded. Such are the ironies of our happy lives. Well, tomorrow will tell.

But MaryAnn is certainly looking good over here. What is hotter than a biker chick? Nada.

Betting It All On Two Bikes and a Ferry

ANACORTES, WASHINGTON--Two weeks ago I had never heard of Anacortes, and two years ago I had never heard of the San Juan Islands. Yet here we are, after more than 3 days of driving, waiting in Anacortes for tomorrow's ferry ride to the those small islands north of Seattle, the San Juans.

Our plan is this: we are leaving our vehicle in the Anacortes parking lot and taking only our bikes. We plan to bike our way through Lopez, San Juan, Orca, and Shaw islands. We figure to spend about a week doing this...camping out, drinking coffee, staying in b&b's, staring at the ocean and sunsets. Our rides each day will only be about 10 to 20 miles. MaryAnn is carrying all her own stuff in a pair of panniers and a sack bungied to the top of them. I'm pulling my trusty little Yakima trailer.

Meanwhile, we spend the night in Anacortes. Our bags are packed...but I'm sure we will have to repack them in the morning. We'll get to the ferry early because I'm going to have to assemble the trailer and prepare the bikes before we go. We have eaten everything in the cooler, including a giant portion of improvised chicken florentine with vermicelli.

Did I mention that it is cool here? The bank thermometer says 64 degrees at about 9:00. We took a walk down to the marina. It is only a block away from our motel. I have always dreamed of ships ever since I was a little boy. I would search the dictionary for types of sailing vessels. The dictionary would always have a picture of each type: schooners, sloops, catboats, yawls, ketches, brigs. I loved them. My tendency towards motion sickness tempers my enthusiasm at this point in my life.

On the way here we went through the Tolt valley...in honor of The Artist Ken Saville, who talks of this place often. He comes up here almost every summer to do art workshops with school kids. I called him on the phone as we did it. He urged me to get a hamburger from the stand in Fall City. We did. And it was pretty darn good.

Johnny_Mango's Sunday Wallpaper: The Nob Hill Growers Market

NOB HILL--Thursday afternoons are a community shopfest at Morningside Park right in back of the new Aliso lofts. Half picnic half market, small but "growing," this is going to last all summer. We picked up some mushrooms and a bunch of golden beets.

The Sunday Poem: David Tucker, Poet of the Newsroom

American Life in Poetry: Column 063

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

Remember those Degas paintings of the ballet dancers? Here is a similar figure study, in muted color, but in this instance made of words, not pigment. As this poem by David Tucker closes, I can feel myself holding my breath as if to help the dancer hold her position.

The Dancer

Class is over, the teacher
and the pianist gone,
but one dancer
in a pale blue
leotard stays
to practice alone without music,
turning grand jetes
through the haze of late afternoon.
Her eyes are focused
on the balancing point
no one else sees
as she spins in this quiet
made of mirrors and light—
a blue rose on a nail—
then stops and lifts
her arms in an oval pause
and leans out
a little more, a little more,
there, in slow motion
upon the air.

Reprinted from the 2005 Bakeless Prize winner "Late for Work", by David Tucker, Houghton Mifflin, 2006, by permission of the author. "The Dancer" first appeared in "Visions International", No. 65, 2001. Copyright © 2001 by David Tucker. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska, Lincoln. This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.

Love-In at the Hilton

BOISE, IDAHO--Downloading the pictures from my little Nikon, I ran across these snapshots taken at Tuesday's election night party at the Hilton in ABQ. These parties are always called "victory parties" no matter the outcome. The word IRONY pops into my head whenever I see the mortal enemies of an election hug each other during or right after the vote count. Such was the case last Tuesday.

In the biggest throw-down, Messrs. King, Martinez, and Zamora called each other's sanity into question amid accusations of being soft on child abusers, DWI, and rapists. On Tuesday night we find them ready to make nice even before all the votes were counted. Enough had been counted, however, that they were all aware that Gary King (on the left) was the winner.

Ray Powell and Jim Baca smiled at each other...but I can't recall an actual embrace. Maybe it was because the race was so close that nobody knew until the next day who the real winner was. I think that these two races, AG and Land Commissioner, point out how rich in candidates the Dems are in New Mexico. The Republicans, on the other hand, are having a hard time even getting people to run for the state races.

There is one exception: the House district for ABQ and central New Mexico has a Republican encumbent, Heather Wilson. Her challenger will be Patricia Madrid, who had no opposition in Tuesday's primary. Democratic party leaders say she has the best chance of beating Wilson of anybody they have ever run. Well...maybe.

Meanwhile, Governor Bill Richardson hung around the Hilton long enough after his speech to have his picture taken with my gf, the Beautiful MaryAnn. I'm sorry the picture isn't too good...I was feeling some time pressure. At any rate, the Gov was in Las Vegas this weekend addressing political bloggers at their convention.

I am not at the convention. MaryAnn and I are on vacation. We are driving up to Washington and British Columbia. So far we have made it to Boise. More later.

Chess Master Punches Out Rival for Dancing With His Queen

TURIN, ITALY--This just in from The Times of London. British Grandmaster Danny Gormally punched and shoved the world's number 3 player Levon Aronian at the Chess Olympiad in Turin Monday. They ended up rolling on the floor. At the heart of the dust-up was Arianne Caoili, 19, Women's International Master playing for Australia.

Apparently Gormally had struck up a serious email exchange with the Philippine-born Caoili and got incensed when he found her dancing with the leading light of Armenian chess. The next day, in retaliation, Gormally was attacked while drinking coffee at a cafe by a band of Armenian chess hooligans.

Things went south for England in the tournament...they were eliminated while Armenia, emboldened by the taking of Gormally's queen, came in first.

Gormally, 30, found Caoili dancing "energetically" with Aronian at a party held in a local nightclub called “Hiroshima Mon Amour.” He apologised for braining Aronian the next day to the Armenian team leader...who also happens to be Armenia's defense minister. After losing, Gormally went home to London where he lives in a house with his parents.

Ariane Coaili is ranked no. 3 in Australia. She is also one of the featured personalities of a website called "World Chess Beauty Contest." Although she is sometimes referred to as the Anna Kournikova of the chess world, her rank at the WCBC is No. 7. God, I love chess.

She released the following statement in the Italian chess blog, Scacchierando.

“ I only danced with my friend Aronian, that I know since I was child. I was dancing salsa and nobody of us danced provocatively. I think that Gormally became violent due to assumption of medicine and alcohol. This is cause of sadness, because I know both from many years.”

Johnny_Mango's Sunday Wallpaper: Pop Shaffer's Cabin in Mountainair

MOUNTAINAIR--You probably have heard of The Shaffer Hotel and Restaurant...but have you ever seen his cabin and workshop? It's just south of town near where Hwy 55 "wants to turn left."For best results, enlarge picture before using as wallpaper.

The Sunday Poem: Leslie Monsour Wonders if Your Own "High Standards" Keep YOU From Writing

American Life in Poetry: Column 061
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE

Everywhere I travel I meet people who want to write poetry but worry that what they write won't be "any good." No one can judge the worth of a poem before it's been written, and setting high standards for yourself can keep you from writing. And if you don't write you'll miss out on the pleasure of making something from words, of seeing your thoughts on a page. Here Leslie Monsour offers a concise snapshot of a self-censoring poet.


The Education of a Poet

Her pencil poised, she's ready to create,
Then listens to her mind's perverse debate
On whether what she does serves any use;
And that is all she needs for an excuse
To spend all afternoon and half the night
Enjoying poems other people write.

Leslie Monsour's newest book of poetry is "The Alarming Beauty of the Sky" (2005) published by Red Hen Press. Poem copyright © 2000 by Leslie Monsour and reprinted from "The Formalist," Vol. 11, by permission of the author. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska, Lincoln. This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.

Tom and Ellen Just In From Pennsylvania

NOB HILL--My brother Tom and his wife Ellen are visiting from Pennsylvania. Now everybody knows that out-of-town visitors are going to end up at Garduno's sooner or later. In our case it was sooner. The whole in-town family was there: daughter Simone and grandson Robby, son Ivan and his GF Melanie, and MaryAnn's only son who lives here, Ethan (who had to leave early and missed the group picture). Along with MaryAnn and me, that made 9 of us.

I think it was the first time I felt totally at peace in ages. I haven't really seen Tom in almost 6 years. And he hadn't seen my kids in about 20. Nobody could really remember what the others looked like.

But everybody was so excited to renew the relationships. Here's to the future. Here's to all of us.

Time Slips Away...But Are You Smiling?

NOB HILL--I have to reflect a little on how time slips away. Does every day make you smile? Here in the Flyiing Star on a Friday morning in late May, two groups of people slip out of yesterday and into tomorrow...so different...and so much alike.

Outside on Route 66, bike riders head east. "Boston!" they shout. Their jerseys say they belong to a CrossRoads tour. This L.A. to Boston route takes 50 days and cost them about $200/day (single occupancy), fully supported. They cruise by on their way to Santa Fe tonight by way of the Turquoise Trail.

Nearby at a table in the corner, three generations share a moment with yarn on their fingers. They were making designs with diamonds and rectangles. I don't know the names of any of these things except "cat's cradle" and I can't even do that one.

But the point is that this day, Friday morning, is not a day to throw away...and here are some of our compadres filling a moment with dreams and future memories. Hope your day passes as fruitfully.

Bikepacking in the Jemez: 50 Miles of Duct Tape and Coffee (Posted on the Duke City Fix)

NOB HILL--If you are interested in mountain bike touring (or just exploring the Jemez), you might want to check out my DCF post for this week. Rob Bob Evans, his son Colin, and I toured 50 miles of mountain backroads over a period of 4 days camping out along the way.

Jail And The Numbers: Can America Survive As A Democracy?

NOB HILL--A most disturbing article was put up last night on Yahoo News. It's about the number of people in jails. I am going to post a few of the statistics. Just ask yourself: What do these numbers mean for a democratic country?

• The report by the Justice Department agency found that 62 percent of people in jails have not been convicted, meaning many of them are awaiting trial.
• In the 25-29 age group, an estimated 11.9 percent of black men were in prison or jails, compared with 3.9 percent of Hispanic males and 1.7 percent of white males.
• The states with the highest rates were Louisiana and Georgia, with more than 1 percent of their populations in prison or jail. Rounding out the top five were Texas, Mississippi and Oklahoma.

With almost 12% of young black men in jail, one has to ask, "Can democracy work?" The rich get richer...and the poor go to prison as just another rite of passage.

"It was the best of times...it was the worst of times."

Johnny_Mango's Sunday Wallpaper: 2 Skulls Found In The Jemez

JEMEZ MOUNTAINS--Photographed just as I found them, these skulls say a lot about our trying to make sense of time. The decaying leaves and bleached skulls rest in a thicket of young oaks. I wonder if the person who arranged them ever visits his or her creation.

The Sunday Poem: Pennsylvanian Julia Kasdorf , What I Learned From My Mother

American Life in Poetry: Column 060

BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE

Most of us have taken at least a moment or two to reflect upon what we have learned from our mothers. Through a catalog of meaningful actions that range from spiritual to domestic, Pennsylvanian Julia Kasdorf evokes the imprint of her mother's life on her own. As the poem closes, the speaker invites us to learn these actions of compassion.


What I Learned From My Mother

I learned from my mother how to love
the living, to have plenty of vases on hand
in case you have to rush to the hospital
with peonies cut from the lawn, black ants
still stuck to the buds. I learned to save jars
large enough to hold fruit salad for a whole
grieving household, to cube home-canned pears
and peaches, to slice through maroon grape skins
and flick out the sexual seeds with a knife point.
I learned to attend viewing even if I didn't know
the deceased, to press the moist hands
of the living, to look in their eyes and offer
sympathy, as though I understood loss even then.
I learned that whatever we say means nothing,
what anyone will remember is that we came.
I learned to believe I had the power to ease
awful pains materially like an angel.
Like a doctor, I learned to create
from another's suffering my own usefulness, and once
you know how to do this, you can never refuse.
To every house you enter, you must offer
healing: a chocolate cake you baked yourself,
the blessing of your voice, your chaste touch.

Reprinted from "Sleeping Preacher," University of Pittsburgh Press, 1992, by permission of the publisher. First printed in "West Branch," Vol. 30, 1992. Copyright © 1992 by Julia Kasdorf. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.

Johnny_Mango's Sunday Wallpaper: Smokey @ the Crossroads

JEMEZ MOUNTAINS--Tomorrow (Monday) Rob Bob Evans and I start a 3 or 4 day bikepacking adventure in the Jemez. Being prudent, we went up there last week and cached a couple gallons of water in a few spots along our 50 mile route. This forest road intersection was one of them. We made a note of it so we could find it again. We also flagged the spot with blue tape. I hope the water jugs are still there.

The Sunday Poem: Amy Fleury...At Twenty-Eight

American Life in Poetry: Column 059
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE

Contrary to the glamorized accounts we often read about the lives of single women, Amy Fleury, a native of Kansas, presents us with a realistic, affirmative picture. Her poem playfully presents her life as serendipitous, yet she doesn't shy away from acknowledging loneliness.

At Twenty-Eight

It seems I get by on more luck than sense,
not the kind brought on by knuckle to wood,
breath on dice, or pennies found in the mud.
I shimmy and slip by on pure fool chance.
At turns charmed and cursed, a girl knows romance
as coffee, red wine, and books; solitude
she counts as daylight virtue and muted
evenings, the inventory of absence.
But this is no sorry spinster story,
just the way days string together a life.
Sometimes I eat soup right out of the pan.
Sometimes I don't care if I will marry.
I dance in my kitchen on Friday nights,
singing like only a lucky girl can.

"At Twenty-Eight" by Amy Fleury is reprinted from "Beautiful Trouble," Southern Illinois University Press, 2004, by permission of the author. The poem was originally published in Southern Poetry Review, Volume 41:2, Fall/Winter 2002. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.

Patrick Lyons: Is He Crooked? Could He Be That Dumb?

NOB HILL--I know I'm cheap. But doesn't $29,700 seem a little high for a 7 year old truck? Patrick Lyons, a Republican running for re-election for State Land Commissioner, says that's what he paid this year for his 1999 Ford F-250 SuperCab for use in his campaign.

The problem is that according to Edmunds.com the value of this vehicle is $11, 097 retail. The Blue Book price is a little higher: $12,250. But as Blue Book says, dealer's retail is not a final price, only the dealer's asking price.

There are only three explanations that I can think of:

1. He is the dumbest negotiator and appraiser of used trucks on the face of the earth.
2. He bought the truck from a friend or family member and they got to pocket close to $20,000.
3. He paid himself the price the truck sold for when he originally bought it new back in 1999. In other words he charged his campaign for a truck he already owned. In fact, if that is the case, he bought it 3 years before he ran for office.

Is this legal? Converting campaign contributions to private assets is bad enough, but is there deception here as well? We need an explanation.

Johnny_Mango's Sunday Wallpaper: Gold Street Table

DOWNTOWN--This blogger life sometimes has me just looking for the good times. Like last week, alone and adrift, I dropped my can outside the Gold Street Cafe. Yes, the chipotle potato salad and Burque Turkey were excellent. And yes again, I had more than one glass of iced tea.

The Sunday Poem: Massachusetts Poet Pat Schneider

American Life in Poetry: Column 058

BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE

A worm in an apple, a maggot in a bone, a person in the world. What might seem an odd assortment of creatures is beautifully interrelated by the Massachusetts poet Pat Schneider. Her poem suggests that each living thing is richly awake to its own particular, limited world.


There Is Another Way

There is another way to enter an apple:
a worm's way.
The small, round door
closes behind her. The world
and all its necessities
ripen around her like a room.

In the sweet marrow of a bone,
the maggot does not remember
the wingspread
of the mother, the green
shine of her body, nor even
the last breath of the dying deer.

I, too, have forgotten
how I came here, breathing
this sweet wind, drinking rain,
encased by the limits
of what I can imagine
and by a husk of stars.

Reprinted from "Another River: New and Selected Poems," Amherst Writers & Artists Press, 2005, by permission of the author. First printed in "Kalliope", Vol. XII, No. 1, 1989. Copyright © 2004 by Pat Schneider. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.

Do You Know This Man? Clues From the Bottom

NOB HILL--The mind is a restless thing. Somehow my brain started talking to me while I was at a ribbon-cutting ceremony this afternoon. "Let's analyze this," it said. So I did.Take a look:

1. Levi's...not Wranglers. This guy is an urban cowboy. Real cowboys go the other way.
2. No vent in the coat. This suggests our guy has more than one sport coat, because if he only had one it would be more traditional. This old boy's closet has room for experimentation.
3. Red tag. A little fuller in the thighs than the original. Hmmmmm...must be developed.
4. Wallet mark. This is interesting in two ways. First of all, he is right-handed. Otherwise his wallet would be in his left pocket. One more thing (or lack of it)...no circle from a tobacco tin. This buckaroo runs in a civilized posse.

Any guess as to the identity of this ranch hand?

M.J. Wilde, Best Newspaper Columnist of 2005, Gone

NOB HILL--Here's a copy of an email and reply between Tribune Editor Phil Casaus and me.

To:	Jon Knudsen
Subject:	Re: mj wilde
Date:	May 4, 2006 9:46 AM

Jon

MJ is no longer with the newspaper. She's doing other things.

pc

----- Original Message -----

From: Jon Knudsen

To: pcasaus@abqtrib.com

Sent: Thursday, May 04, 2006 9:09 AM

Subject: mj wilde

Hi Phil-

I noticed that MJ Wilde won "Best Newspaper Writing in 2005" for columns. And I just noticed that she is no longer on the Trib website.

Is she still with the paper? Where is she? What were the circumstances of her departure? Is there someone who could fill me in?

Thanks,

Jon Knudsen

Duke City Fix

Albloggerque

I don't know how many of you read MJ Wilde's column(s) in the Trib, but if you didn't get a chance before, it is almost too late. Here are the columns that won her the award:

Anti-gay county inherits the windstorm

Life's scary. Ask my bosom buddies.

Bathing suit (my! oh!) can't skim flaws

I'd like to teach sodas to live in perfect harmony

The baseball - it's something to spit about

The American Society of Newspaper Editors announced the awards over a year ago and all award winners were compiled in the book, Best Newspaper Writing 2005.

I'm such a dummy, I didn't know any of this happened. But what really bugs me is this: whatever happened to M.J. Wilde? I'll email somebody else to see if more information is available. Meanwhile, read a column or two. You won't regret it.

The Amtrak Station: Worse Than I Thought (Today on the Duke City Fix)

DOWNTOWN--I was actually surprised by the condition of our railroad station. What a mess! I put up plenty of pictures to prove it. Make sure you click on them to see for yourself. That's today...on the Duke City Fix.

36 Hours With Jim Baca (Today on the Duke City Fix)

NOB HILL--I took a 36 hour swing through southern New Mexico with candidate for Land Commissioner Jim Baca to get a feel for the campaign and the issues. The post is a little long, but ends up with me talking to the Governor.

The picture is of Jim in a trunktop strategy session with campaign aide Mario Montoya (on the left).