
by NONA BLYTH CLOUD
This week, my husband and I are celebrating our 34th wedding anniversary, so I’m just going to give you a brief introduction to one of my all- time favorite poets, then let you explore on your own. Please pay close attention, because his work is so simple you could miss his deeper meaning, yet it’s always honest and direct.
Ted Kooser (1939 – ) was born in Ames, Iowa on April 25, 1939. He received his BA from Iowa State and his MA in English from the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. A very long list of his awards and honors is down at the end of this profile, but it took awhile for critics and academics to catch on to his poetry, so most of the awards have come later in his life.
Kooser was the thirteenth Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry chosen by the Librarian of Congress. He used his time as laureate to further the cause of poetry with American readers. Partnering with the Poetry Foundation, he began the “American Life in Poetry” program, which offers a free weekly poem to newspapers across the United States, aiming to raise the visibility of poetry.
There’s a cosmic clock ticking in Ted Kooser’s poems, not loudly, just always there. He’s so aware of what once was but now is gone, of what is now, and of each change of season.
Kooser is solidly connected to his place in the world, the American Midwest. He uses the words of its pragmatic, hard-working people, with an unembellished eloquence like Sandberg and Frost, but full of the whisper of prairie grasses in a rhythm all his own, that ticking cosmic clock. But no matter where you’re from, you’ll find people you know living in Kooser’s poems, and some very familiar places.
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So This Is Nebraska
The gravel road rides with a slow gallop
over the fields, the telephone lines
streaming behind, its billow of dust
full of the sparks of redwing blackbirds.
On either side, those dear old ladies,
the loosening barns, their little windows
dulled by cataracts of hay and cobwebs
hide broken tractors under their skirts.
So this is Nebraska. A Sunday
afternoon; July. Driving along
with your hand out squeezing the air,
a meadowlark waiting on every post.
Behind a shelterbelt of cedars,
top-deep in hollyhocks, pollen and bees,
a pickup kicks its fenders off
and settles back to read the clouds.
You feel like that; you feel like letting
your tires go flat, like letting the mice
build a nest in your muffler, like being
no more than a truck in the weeds,
clucking with chickens or sticky with honey
or holding a skinny old man in your lap
while he watches the road, waiting
for someone to wave to. You feel like
waving. You feel like stopping the car
and dancing around on the road. You wave
instead and leave your hand out gliding
larklike over the wheat, over the houses.
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