Darkness Sticks to Everything: Collected and New Poems by Tom Hennen
By Tom Hennen
"It's demanding to think that this American master—and I don't use these phrases lightly—has been hidden correct below our noses for many years. yet regardless of his loss of popularity, Mr. Hennen, like several useful word-farmer, has easily long past approximately his calling with humility and gratitude in a tradition whose basic crop has develop into status. He simply watches, waits after which moves, offering heart-buckling lines." —Dana Jennings, the hot York Times
"As with Ted Kooser, Tom Hennen is a genius of the typical contact. . . . they're amazingly modest males who early authorised poetry as a calling in old phrases and not allow up regardless of being overlooked early on. They go back to the readers a thousandfold for his or her attentions." — Jim Harrison, from the introduction
"One of the main captivating issues approximately Tom Hennen's poems is his unusual skill to deliver great quantities of area, usually uninhabited house, into his brain and so into the complete poem."—Robert Bly
Tom Hennen supplies voice to the prairie and to rural groups, celebrating—with disappointment, compliment, and astute observations—the land, climate, and population. briefly lyrics and prose poems, he unearths the specified strangeness of standard issues. This quantity is Hennen's long-overdue advent to a countrywide viewers.
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Extra resources for Darkness Sticks to Everything: Collected and New Poems
Together we disappear Over the horizon. After a Long Trip The river is going to the Gulf of Mexico. The moon on top the water Doesn’t move. It’s not interested in a Trip to New Orleans. Its light is already tired from traveling 250,000 miles To shine on some trees. Umbra I’ve come from New Mexico. One thousand years ago I was an Indian poet With two wives. Now I’m white and short And try all day to feel the earth Through my work boots. Part of My Job Is to Water Trees during the Drought The spruce tree is dying.
I lose my hearing During job interviews. I walk around in a daze And pretend to know something. The only talent I have Is to be able to smell each new season Before it comes In the hair of women. from Looking into the Weather (1983) Before a Rain in Spring The willow Has a black trunk Sticking up into the lifeless branches. Thin as clouds The branches Swirl above the tree They float off the ground Like The thousand frail thoughts Of someone about to awake. Tree Planting in Rain Tiny spruce line up in a row Behind me.
Rain falls On the parking meters Glass and steel are shining But people Are dark All the way through. In the Shallows of the River After one o’clock in the afternoon Ice still An eighth of an inch thick. Night never disappears. A glimpse of fur Under the dark brush on the bank. The aspens unmoving. The goldenrod too Is stripped down to its bare stalk. In the cold Even my thoughts Have lost their foliage And appear alone Dry and narrow In the flat air.