All posts by Nichole

‘At the Edge of Town’

American Life in Poetry: Column 056

By Ted Kooser
U.S. poet laureate

When I complained about some of the tedious jobs I had as a boy, my mother would tell me, Ted, all work is honorable. In this poem, Don Welch gives us a man who’s been fixing barbed wire fences all his life.

At the Edge of Town
Hard to know which is more gnarled,
the posts he hammers staples into
or the blue hummocks which run
across his hands like molehills.

Work has reduced his wrists
to bones, cut out of him
the easy flesh and brought him
down to this, the crowbar’s teeth

caught just behind a barb.
Again this morning
the crowbar’s neck will make
its blue slip into wood,

there will be that moment
when too much strength
will cause the wire to break.
But even at 70, he says,

he has to have it right,
and more than right.
This morning, in the pewter light,
he has the scars to prove it.

From “Gutter Flowers,” Logan House, 2005. Copyright (c) 2005 by Don Welch and reprinted by permission of Logan House and the author. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln.

"Good Omens"

I’m surprised I didn’t read “Good Omens” in high school, when I was in my goofy, sci-fi phase. As goofy sci-fi(ish) stuff goes, this one’s pretty good. I thought it dragged on a bit, though.

"When We Were Wee" Redux

I got an email from my mom this morning in response to “When We Were Wee.” She seems to think that I don’t remember spending any time with her growing up, as everything in that post was related to summer vacations at my dad’s. So in the interest of equality, here is my mostly unedited When We Were Wee, NC-Style, response to her complaint:

You know that I cherish our chicken strips and mashed potatoes moments. Along with trying to build a dam/fish trap in the creek and wandering around in the pastures looking for Indian artifacts and riding bikes around JL’s circle with Justin and seafood nachos and those magical little hot fudge cakes we used to make (did I tell you I made some of those last winter? scrumptious!) and the no-bake chocolate cookies (which I’ve been meaning to ask: What’re in those things?) and walking up to Rickman’s for ice cream. And playing in the carpet rolls at Tastinger’s. And being mystified over Granny’s garden. And eating sausage and biscuits and gravy until I nearly popped. And when you guys were fixing up the old house and I had the bedroom in the back, it was a warm, early spring day, and I opened the windows and laid down on the bed, and between the creek and the birds and the breeze, that was the best nap I’ve ever had.