New to Me Wednesday: Peggy Shumaker

In my continuing effort to share a poet each week that is "new to me," I bring you this week's new-to-me poet, Peggy Shumaker.

The poem "Night Dive" came to my attention for the first time recently via Ted Kooser's page, American Life in Poetry. Shumaker lives in Alaska, and that certainly is evident in many of her poems. Like this one for example:

"Night Dive"

Plankton rise toward the full moon

spread thin on Wakaya’s surface.

Manta rays’ great curls of jaw

scoop backward somersaults of ocean

in through painted caves of their mouths, out

through sliced gills. Red sea fans

pulse. The leopard shark

lounges on a smooth ramp of sand,

skin jeweled with small hangers-on.

Pyramid fish point the way to the surface.

Read the rest here.

I think there is a richness to her language and her word choice that is beyond anything I've read recently. Each image is vivid in my mind. Each setting is exquisitely described. As in "The Story of Light..."

Think of the woman who first touched fire

to a hollow stone filled with seal oil,

how she fiddled with fuel and flame

until blue shadows before and after her

filled her house, crowded

the underground, then

fled like sky-captains

chasing the aurora’s whale tale

green beyond the earth’s curve.

I think you see what I mean. Read the rest of the poem here.

If these two were right up your alley, you're all but certain to enjoy the litany-esque qualities of "What to Count On" (not to mention the ironic fact that it's about things you can't count on AND it has a terrific ending), or "Oatmeal" or the equally amazing "The Oldest Music."

New to Me Wednesday: Carl Dennis

I'll begin with a huge thank you to Liz In Ink for bringing Carl Dennis to my attention. This past Poetry Friday, hosted here at The Small Nouns in case you missed it, she posted "Worms:"

Aren't you glad at least that the earthworms
Under the grass are ignorant, as they eat the earth,
Of the good they confer on us, that their silence
Isn't a silent reproof for our bad manners,
Our never casting earthward a crumb of thanks
For their keeping the soil from packing so tight
That no root, however determined, could pierce it?

Imagine if they suspected how much we owe them,
How the weight of our debt would crush us
Even if they enjoyed keeping the grass alive,
The garden flowers and vegetables, the clover,
And wanted nothing that we could give them,
Not even the merest nod of acknowledgment.
A debt to angels would be easy in comparison,
Bright, weightless creatures of cloud, who serve
An even brighter and lighter master. 


Read the rest here.

It seems like a Pulitzer Prize winning poet should be someone I've heard of. Not in this case. Mr. Dennis won in 2002. But lucky for me, I liked "Worms" so much (that sounds weird) that I did a little searching and found some others that I really like, too. Like "Drugstore," for example...

Don't be ashamed that your parents
Didn't happen to meet at an art exhibit
Or at a protest against a foreign policy
Based on fear of negotiation,
But in an aisle of a discount drugstore,
Near the antihistamine section,
Seeking relief from the common cold.
You ought to be proud that even there,
Amid coughs and sneezes,
They were able to peer beneath
The veil of pointless happenstance.
Here is someone, each thought,
Able to laugh at the indignities
That flesh is heir to. Here
Is a person one might care about.
Not love at first sight, but the will
To be ready to endorse the feeling
Should it arise. Had they waited
For settings more promising,
You wouldn't be here,
Wishing things were different.


Read the rest here. Or maybe you'll enjoy "Candles" as much as me...

If on your grandmother's birthday you burn a candle   

To honor her memory, you might think of burning an extra   

To honor the memory of someone who never met her,   

A man who may have come to the town she lived in   

Looking for work and never found it.   

Picture him taking a stroll one morning,   

After a month of grief with the want ads,   

To refresh himself in the park before moving on.   

Suppose he notices on the gravel path the shards   

Of a green glass bottle that your grandmother,   

Then still a girl, will be destined to step on   

When she wanders barefoot away from her school picnic   

If he doesn't stoop down and scoop the mess up   

With the want-ad section and carry it to a trash can. 

The rest can be found here.

As for some other poems by Carl Dennis that I think you might want to check out, try "In Paris" or "At Becky's Piano Recital" or "Thanksgiving Letter From Harry," which appears with an author's note at How a Poem Happens.

Happy Reading!

A Poet to Know: Linda Pastan

Every so often as a reader, I come across a new poet that I know I should know already. They're just too good for me not to have read before. But, alas, it happens. Often.

One such poet is Linda Pastan. Her poem "The Bookstall" was one of the first I read in the anthology Poetry After Lunch edited by Joyce A. Carroll. I love it for its similes (a poetry move that I definitely need to write about in the future)...

Just looking at them
I grow, greedy, as if they were
freshly baked loaves
waiting on their shelves
to be broken open--that one
and that--and I make my choice
in a mood of exalted luck,
browsing among them
like a cow in the sweetest pasture.

(I couldn't find this poem reprinted anywhere with permission except in the Amazon "Look Inside" feature for this book. So you'll have find the rest there if you'd like to read it.)

Also featuring some great comparisons is the poem "A New Poet," which in addition to being brilliant is also perfectly suited to this particular post:

Finding a new poet
is like finding a new wildflower
out in the woods. You don't see

its name in the flower books and
nobody you tell believes
in its odd color or the way

its leaves grow in splayed rows
down the whole length of the page. In fact
the very page smells of spilled

red wine and the mustiness of the sea
on a foggy day - the odor of truth
and of lying.

Read the rest here.

In addition to wonderful similes and metaphors, I find Pastan's poems to have vivid imagery. She paints a picture with each one. Her word choice appeals to me, too. Each poem seems to be exquisitely and painstakingly crafted. You can tell that she has poured her soul into each and every one.

Why Are Your Poems So Dark?

BY LINDA PASTAN

Isn't the moon dark too,   

most of the time?   

And doesn't the white page   

seem unfinished   

without the dark stain   

of alphabets?   

When God demanded light,   

he didn't banish darkness.   

Instead he invented   

ebony and crows   

and that small mole   

on your left cheekbone.   

Read the conclusion of "Why Are Your Poems So Dark?" here.

If you want to explore more of Pastan's poems, I recommend her page at the Poetry Foundation, which features many of her best works. Garrison Keilor obviously likes her, too, because she's been featured countless times at the Writer's Almanac. You will also definitely enjoy this post on How a Poem Happens about another excellent poem of hers "Rereading Frost."

Linda Pastan is definitely a poet to know and follow. If she's new to you, I hope you enjoy her as much as I do (and remember this post when she becomes Poet Laureate someday). If you're a previous fan, you have great taste.

Please check out this week's Poetry Friday roundup, hosted at Read Write Believe. And be sure to check back next Friday when Poetry Friday will be hosted here at The Small Nouns!

New to Me Wednesday: David Lee

I'm going to challenge myself to write about a new poet every week. I'll start with David Lee, whose "Psalm of Home Redux" was just delivered to my gmail inbox. (Thanks Poets.org!)

Mr. Lee writes a lot about the nature and many of his poems are set in the West. What's not to like? On top of that, his poems have a voice that just seems to speak to me. And I'm not sure if I can describe it any better than that. Much of what I've read so far could qualify as "narrative" poetry (sometimes complete with characters and dialogue), and I like the stories they tell. Oh, and Lee isn't afraid to use profanity in his poems and "Poems with Cussin'" is on my list of things I think are awesome but I'm afraid to admit. Right up there with the new Lean Cuisine spring rolls, Mini Coopers, Dr. Dre's 1992 album "The Chronic," and watching curling on TV.

Or maybe it's just good timing. I've been thinking a lot about moving lately. Asking myself complicated questions like do I really want to live in this run down town anymore and what if in 30 years I regret never having lived anywhere else. His poems speak to this part of me and seem to call me West. Okay, maybe I overshot with "call me," but they definitely paint a very vivid picture in my mind of a gorgeously desolate landscape.

Or maybe because he has this pretty awesome line in his Poetry Foundation bio:

Lee has been a boxer, pig farmer, seminary student, cotton mill worker, and the only white baseball player for a Negro League team.

As for a poem, take a look at a selection of the aforementioned "Psalm"...
Psalm of Home Redux
by David Lee

        after rereading Cormac McCarthy and taking
             a 5 mile run through the River Ranch

                    Laughter is also a form of prayer
                                             —Kierkegaard

Okay then, right here,
Lord, in Bandera,
tether me to my shadow
like a fat spavined mule
stuck sideways in Texas tank mud
bawling for eternity

At midnight's closing whine
of the 11th Street Bar's steel guitar,
when the stars slip their traces
and race the moon like wild horses
to their death in the darkness,
let my hoarse song twine with the night wind

Read the rest of it here. The sounds and the little bit of wordplay is a home run, I think.

Hopefully you'll find time to explore David Lee's poetry. "Parowan Canyon" is another home run or try "The Farm" or the prose poem "Loading a Boar." There's not a ton more of it online, but he's written several books that you might be able to get your hands on.

Big Sky Poetry

It seems to me that one of life's best tiny gifts is the discovery of a new poet. I suppose there are different ways new poets arrive in our midst, but, for me, most of the time it's happenstance. This week it was via NPR's All Things Considered. They profiled the poet laureate of Montana, Henry Real Bird. Mr. Real Bird apparently is a rancher and has been referred to as a "cowboy poet."

The NPR feature and interview of Mr. Real Bird centered around his summer project--riding on horseback across Montana, handing out books of his poems to people he passes along the way! This seems like nothing short of brilliant, in my mind. Here's a link to the NPR story.

I found this story fascinating for a number of reasons. First, I'm a bit obsessed with "The West." I'd love to live in Wyoming or Montana someday. Second, Henry Real Bird came across as a true word-smith. In a short time on the air, he showed an innate ability to not only connect with the land and people of Montana, but also an ability to capture this connection in words. Here's a quote I pulled from the transcript of his interview with Michelle Norris. She asked him to share a few lines of his poetry. I'm not sure how the lines are supposed to be arranged, so I'm just taking it straight from the transcript:

Sunrise quarrels, recapitulation of sunrise quarrels, thoughts of man, civilization recedes, waves on shore of sand, attached to a reality now touches in life's span, (unintelligible) beginning of end strands, scratched thoughts drawn on rock of cave preserve our humble beginning, recorded in computer reserve. We question, wonder, learn, origin and beyond, shifting winds up the canyon walls, no barrier. We yawn from the constant vigil of progress that marches toward both ends of the spectrum cloning to nuclear arches. We give life and take life like them.

That strikes a chord with me somehow. I can't put a finger on exactly why. It just does.

The only frustrating part of this new discovery is that the work of Henry Real Bird is really difficult to find. My searches have turned up very little thus far. At this point, I'm pretty much obsessed with finding it somewhere. If you have any thoughts or clues, please let me know. The one spot I did find a few poems was on a Montana Arts Council page, but there's got to be more out there somewhere. I'll keep you updated. Until then, here's a bit from "Hoola Hand," by Henry Real Bird. Visit the aforementioned page to read the rest:

Today as I let go, a hoola hand into the dawn
Among silhouetted horse heads, held by a rope corral
But then, that day was many winters ago
To good horses you are drawn
I have asked that you ride the best
Of beautiful words to create images
Of life’s reflections filled with feelings of reality
Winters many may you ride the best.