One month ago I wrote here that I was excited about a new collection of poems by Joyce Sutphen scheduled for release in early January. It is a collection called First Words, and the copy I ordered arrived about ten days ago. I had a couple of other things to read first, so didn’t get around to it until two days ago. I have now read all the poems in the new book, and am not at all surprised by how much I continue to like this writer’s work. She writes of a childhood and the years of growing up in a place very different from my own experiences, her memories and poems filled with images unknown to my childhood and youth.
In an earlier post on December 21st of last year I explained that Joyce Sutphen is a poet from the state of Minnesota, that she continues to live there today. She teaches at Gustavus Adolphus College in St Peter, Minnesota, and has won several awards for her poetry, publishing four earlier collections prior to this latest one. She grew up on a small farm, and the memories of that time have inspired much of her writing.
I want to share three short poems from this latest collection. I won’t attempt to add comments, or explanations of how her poems affect me personally, but will say only that it is my hope you will feel the power of her writing and her images as much as I have.
My Dog Pal
Once, in the yellow glow of the hay barn,
my father and I met a stray, and that dog
stayed and lived with us a while.
I named him “Pal” because he was friendly
and reminded me of a storybook dog.
Even now I can see him sitting
at my feet, his head tipped slightly to one
side, his shoulders squared back against
the passing of another boring day.
Thin and houndy, he was made for wilder
things than fetching sticks and shaking hands with
six-year olds. I think he was a hobo dog,
and one day he was gone, without
a backwards glance; his house, his dish, his supper
bone—nothing there to tie him down.
In the Photo Booth
I leaned forward to put my quarters
into the slot. The directions said Hold Still.
Look Straight Ahead. Smile. (I did not.) Soon
a strip of faces fell out of the wall—
all mine, one after another, and none of them
what I wanted. That was back when my eyes
were green; that was back when my hair was still
dark. I needed one of those photos—it
didn’t matter which—for a rail pass that
would last all spring. And the rest of the strip?
I threw it away. Too bad! I could use
that face—that earnest young face—today.
The Kingdom of Summer
In my mother’s cellar there were
realms of golden apple, rooms
of purple beet, hallways of green bean
leading to windows of
strawberry and grape.
In her cellar there were
cider seas and
pumpkin shores,
mountains of tomatoes—
pickle trees
When I walked down the steps
and pulled on the light,
I saw where she kept the
Kingdom of Summer.
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