Ted Kooser. Photo credit: UNL Publications and Photography. We’ve published more than 800 weekly columns to date, and soon I’m retiring as editor and part-time professor.
This column will continue under my name until the end of the year, when my colleague Kwame Dawes will take over.
I’m immensely grateful to my talented and efficient longtime assistant editor, Pat Emile, to the Library of Congress and The Poetry Foundation, and to the English Department at the University of Nebraska.
And, of course, for the wonderful support we’ve had from all of you readers since the day Pat and I started out, uncertain, 15 years ago.
Rather than riding a horse into the sunset, let me clop away down the block on handmade stilts with this title poem from my new book, to be published Sept. 8 by Copper Canyon Press.
Here’s how life looks to me, at eighty-one:
Red Stilts
Seventy years ago I made a pair of stilts from six-foot two-by-twos, with blocks to stand on nailed a foot from the bottom.
If I was to learn to walk on stilts I wanted them red and I had to wait almost forever for the paint to dry, laid over the arms
of a saggy, ancient Adirondack chair no longer good for much but holding hoes and rakes and stakes rolled up in twine,
and at last I couldn’t wait a minute longer and took the stilts into my hands and stepped between them, stepped up and stepped out,
tilted far forward, clopping fast and away down the walk, a foot above my neighborhood, the summer in my hair, my new red stilts
stuck to my fingers, not knowing how far I’d be able to get, and now, in what seems just a few yards down the block, I’m there.
Ted Kooser. Photo credit: UNL Publications and Photography. We’ve published more than 800 weekly columns to date, and soon I’m retiring as editor and part-time professor.
This column will continue under my name until the end of the year, when my colleague Kwame Dawes will take over.
I’m immensely grateful to my talented and efficient longtime assistant editor, Pat Emile, to the Library of Congress and The Poetry Foundation, and to the English Department at the University of Nebraska.
And, of course, for the wonderful support we’ve had from all of you readers since the day Pat and I started out, uncertain, 15 years ago.
Rather than riding a horse into the sunset, let me clop away down the block on handmade stilts with this title poem from my new book, to be published Sept. 8 by Copper Canyon Press.
Here’s how life looks to me, at eighty-one:
Red Stilts
Seventy years ago I made a pair of stilts from six-foot two-by-twos, with blocks to stand on nailed a foot from the bottom.
If I was to learn to walk on stilts I wanted them red and I had to wait almost forever for the paint to dry, laid over the arms
of a saggy, ancient Adirondack chair no longer good for much but holding hoes and rakes and stakes rolled up in twine,
and at last I couldn’t wait a minute longer and took the stilts into my hands and stepped between them, stepped up and stepped out,
tilted far forward, clopping fast and away down the walk, a foot above my neighborhood, the summer in my hair, my new red stilts
stuck to my fingers, not knowing how far I’d be able to get, and now, in what seems just a few yards down the block, I’m there.