A Rainy Morning, by Ted Kooser

National Poetry Month comes to a close today, so here's a poem from former Poet Laureate (2004-2006) and longtime Nebraska resident Ted Kooser. Click through to browse the many titles of his poetry we have in stock. 

A Rainy Morning

A young woman in a wheelchair,
wearing a black nylon poncho spattered with rain,
is pushing herself through the morning.
You have seen how pianists
sometimes bend forward to strike the keys,
then lift their hands, draw back to rest,
then lean again to strike just as the chord fades.
Such is the way this woman
strikes at the wheels, then lifts her long white fingers,
letting them float, then bends again to strike
just as the chair slows, as if into a silence.
So expertly she plays the chords
of this difficult music she has mastered,
her wet face beautiful in its concentration,
while the wind turns the pages of rain.

from Delights & Shadows © Copper Canyon Press, 2004

Idiot Psalms, Scott Cairns

Yes, it's National Poetry Month, so you might see a little more verse than usual here. Let's kick things off with a favorite poet (and friend) of ours, Scott Cairns.

Idiot Psalms: Poems
by Scott Cairns; 96 pp. paper $17.00

Fourteen “Idiot Psalms” ground this collection of poems by one of our favorite poets. This meaty work is the newest within a reputable oeuvre, including other works of poetry, essays, and memoir. 

Acclaimed poet B.H. Fairchild says of Cairns: “Among American poets of religious belief at the present time, none is more skillful, authentic, or convincing than Scott Cairns. Far from the old stereotype of such poets as naive and otherworldly, Cairns in every poem reveals his attachment to ‘the ten thousand things’ and to their participation in the mysteries of ultimate Being. He is steadily making himself and his work indispensable to the richness and breadth of contemporary poetry, an ascent confirmed both beautifully and movingly in Idiot Psalms.” Cairns’ poems convey in full a trembling awe in the face of what he calls the sacramental fullness of words, their capacity to bring us to the edge of the divine Abyss, which is yet endless Love. From the book:

O God Belovéd if obliquely so, dimly apprehended in the midst of this, the fraught obscuring fog of my insufficiently capacious ken, Ostensible Lover of our kind—while apparently aloof—allow that I might glimpse once more Your shadow in the land, avail for me, a second time, the sense of dire Presence in the pulsing hollow near the heart. Once more, O Lord, from Your Enormity incline your Face to shine upon Your servant, shy of immolation, if You will.