'It will be February there...'

Selecting a Reader

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. 

This disarming opener begins Ted Kooser's collection Sure Signs: New and Selected Poems, which I have just acquired. Kooser, whom I hadn't heard of until recently, is a successful poet (as poets go) who has been much praised – by, among others, Dana Gioia – and also looked down upon by some as being altogether too much the plain-speaking down-home midwesterner (and too popular and accessible?). Having sampled his work, most of it in the form of very short poems, I can see what the harsher critics mean – some are a little flat, a little thin, a little too easy. However, many quite escape that characterisation. Take this haunting vision of The Afterlife – 

It will be February there, 
a foreign-language newspaper
rolling along the dock
in an icy wind, a few
old winos wiping their eyes
over a barrel of fire;
down the streets, mad women
shaking rats from their mops
on each stoop, and odd,
twisted children,
playing with matches and knives.
Then, behind us, trombones: 
the horns of the tugs
turning our great grey ship
back into the mist.

    – And what is going on here?  

The Skeleton in the Closet

These bones once held together
on the strength of rumour.
The jaws which bit down hard
on the truth were stuffed at last
with a velvet glove. Now
all the foolishness is dust
and mothballs and the eyes
of children darkening
the keyhole. There's nothing
to see in here but two boots
full of golden teeth
and a fancy riding cape
with shoulder pads.

    There's certainly nothing hokey about this one –

They Had Torn Off My Face at the Office

They had torn off my face at the office.
The night that I finally noticed
that it was not growing back, I decided
to slit my wrists. Nothing ran out;
I was empty. Both of my hands fell off
shortly thereafter. Now at my job
they allow me to type with the stumps.
It pleases them to have helped me,
and I gain in speed and confidence.

  And how's this for a birthday poem? Not exactly celebratory...

Birthday

Somebody deep in my bones
is lacing his shoes with a hook.
It's an hour before dawn
in that nursing home.
There is nothing to do but get dressed
and sit in the darkness.
Up the hall, in the brightly lit skull,
the young pastor is writing his poem.