By Ted Kooser
Publish 12 months note: First released January 1st 2004
Winner of the 2005 Pulitzer Prize for Poetry
"Kooser files the dignities, conduct and small griefs of way of life, our starvation for connection, our fight to discover balance."—Poetry
"[Kooser] brushes poems over traditional gadgets, revealing metaphysical subject matters that manner an investigator dusts for fingerprints. His language is so managed and convincing that one can't support yet think major truths at the back of his lines." —The Philadelphia Inquirer
"Delights & Shadows increases the voice of the poet above every thing else. every one brief, brilliant poem at the web page reads as though it have been being spoken aloud. information about cemeteries, dictionaries, a doctor's ready room, and a jar of buttons bristle with sound and information. Kooser's skill to take advantage of short lyrics to compose a tune of discovery and regeneration makes his paintings radiant and consuming." —Bloomsbury Review
[bTed Kooser[/b] is a grasp of metaphor, a poet who deftly connects disparate components of the area and communicates with absolute precision. Critics name him a "haiku-like imagist" and his poems were in comparison to Chekov's brief tales. In Delights and Shadows, Kooser attracts concept from the ignored information of everyday life. Quotidian gadgets like a pegboard, creamed corn and a forgotten salesman's trophy aid exhibit the notable in what sooner than used to be a only usual world.
Ted Kooser is the writer of 8 collections of poems and a prose memoir. He lives on a small farm in rural Nebraska.
Pulitzer Prize for Poetry (2005)
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Extra resources for Delights & Shadows
We took our cups into her living room, where stripes from the drawn blinds draped over the World’s Fair satin pillows. She took the couch and I took a chair across from her. “I’ve had some trouble with health myself,” she said, taking off her glasses and wiping them, and I said she looked good, though, and she said, “I’ve started seeing people who aren’t here. I know they’re not real but I see them the same. They come in the house and sit around and never say a word. They keep their heads down or cover their faces with cloths.
Against this stillness, only a kettle’s whisper, and against the starry cold, one small blue ring of flame. 42 iii. bank fishing for bluegills Bank Fishing for Bluegills A breeze nudges the empty aluminum boat as it drifts at the end of its rope, its lightness wallowing within it like a fat man who has fished all day and fallen asleep and is dreaming of when he was a little boy and weighed no more than a plastic bucket. Years of floating alone, fishing far from the tourist cabins shining like rivets along the water’s edge, have bleached the blue from his overalls and denim shirt.
I called out, “Pearl, it’s Ted. It’s Vera’s boy,” and my voice broke, for it came to me, nearly sixty, I was still my mother’s boy, that boy for the rest of my life. Pearl, at ninety, was one year older than Mother and a widow for twenty years. She wore a pale blue cardigan buttoned over a housedress, and she shook my hand in the tentative way of old women who rarely have hands to shake. ” We went to the kitchen and I sat at the table while she heated a pan of water and made us cups of instant coffee.