Meet
Ted Kooser, the U. S. Poet Laureate
By Norm
Winick
Poet
Laureate of the United States Ted Kooser spoke to a packed hall at the
Burlington Golf Club Saturday evening. The Pulitzer Prize-winning Kooser, a
visiting professor at the University of Nebraska, lives in the country near
Garland, Nebr., not too far from Lincoln. He is the first Poet Laureate from
the great plains.
He
read a selection of his poems, many of which celebrate everyday people and
events with metaphors and humor. They are generally very short because, he
says, ÒI like to keep my poems to one thought or story and I donÕt like writing
long works – and I especially donÕt like reading long ones.Ó
Kooser
received his loudest applause when he explained that the Poet Laureate is named
by the Library of Congress and has nothing to do with the administration in
Washington or with politics. The job comes with a $35,000 annual stipend funded
by private foundations and contributions. He is expected to promote poetry
across the nation. He does so with a weekly newspaper column and readings in
diverse locations.
While
his love has always been poetry, Kooser worked in the insurance industry for 35
years, doubting he could ever make a living writing poetry. He woke up early
every day and wrote for several hours before work. He still writes early every
morning for a few hours. 2005 was a very productive year for him, winning the
Pulitzer Prize for his collection ÒDelights &
ShadowsÓ and being named Poet Laureate. Both came as total surprises.
ÒI
was just sitting at home one day when a call came from Washington, from a man
at the Library Congress. He asked, Ôare you Ted Kooser?Õ I said, Ôyes.Õ He
asked, Ôthe poet?Õ I said, ÒI like to think so.Õ He asked, Ôwould you be
interested in serving as Poet Laureate?Õ I was floored. He offered to call back
the next day for an answer. I went to the garage to take a drive and think
about this. While backing out of the garage, I hit the door frame and knocked
the driverÕs side rear view mirror off the car. Being poet laureate already had
become an expensive proposition.Ó
ÒI was checking my email up in the attic
of my house one day and there was an urgent message from the public relations
department at the University of Nebraska. It read, Ôwe need a statement from
you in response to winning the Pulitzer Prize.Õ That was the first I had heard
of it. I didnÕt know if it was a joke or not and I went outside to sit in a
pile of leaves to ponder and up walks a photographer from the Omaha
World-Herald. I guess it was real.Ó
ÒThe
Pulitzers are announced by Columbia University and they are very steeped in
tradition. They notify the winners by Western Union Telegraph. There hasnÕt
been a telegraph office in Garland, Nebr. since World War II. I never did
receive their notification.Ó
In
a conversation after his reading, Kooser related his respect for Carl Sandburg.
ÒWe both are not part of the East coast poetry establishment and write about
everyday things we see or experience.Ó ÒSandburg, indirectly, had a big
influence on my deciding to stick with poetry. I was riding the train once, many
years ago, from Nebraska to Chicago. As we approached Galesburg, the conductor
announced, Ônext stop, Galesburg, birthplace of poet Carl Sandburg.Õ I realized
right then that there might be something to this poetry business.Ó
The Urine
Specimen
In the clinic,
a sun-bleached shell of stone
on the shore
of the city, you enter
the last small
chamber, a little closet
chastened with
pearl, cool,
and over the
chilly well of the toilet
you trickle
your precious sum in a cup.
ItÕs as simple
as that. But the heat
of this gold
your bodyÕs melted and poured out
into a form
begins to enthrall you,
warming your
hand with your fleshÕs fevers
in a terrible
way. ItÕs like holding
an organ
— spleen or fatty pancreas,
white, and
glistening,
a lobe from
your foamy brain still steaming
with worry.
You know that just outside
a nurse is
waiting to cool it into a gel
and slice it
onto a microscope slide
for the
doctor, who in it will read your future,
wringing his
hands. You lift the chalice and toast
the long life
of your friend there in the mirror,
who wanly
smiles, but does not drink to you.
Ted Kooser