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I've gotten to the age at which I am starting to strain to hear things, but I am glad to have gotten to that age, all the same.
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To have a helpful companion as you travel through life is a marvelous gift.
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People singing, not professionally but just singing for joy, it's a wonderful celebration of life.
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Ah, yes, the mid-life crisis.
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Memories have a way of attaching themselves to objects, to details, to physical tasks, and here, George Bilgere, an Ohio poet, happens upon mixed feelings about his mother while slicing a head of cabbage.
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Memories form around details the way a pearl forms around a grain of sand, and in this commemoration of an anniversary, Cecilia Woloch reaches back to grasp a few details that promise to bring a cherished memory forward, and succeeds in doing so.
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To read in the news that a platoon of soldiers has been killed is a terrible thing, but to learn the name of just one of them makes the news even more vivid and sad.
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David Wagoner, who lives in Washington state, is one of our country's most distinguished poets and the author of many wonderful books.
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Don Welch lives in Nebraska and is one of those many talented American poets who have never received as much attention as they deserve.
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Here's a fine poem by Chris Forhan of Indiana, about surviving the loss of a parent, and which celebrates the lives that survive it, that go on.
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I'd guess that most of us carry in our memories landscapes that, far behind us, hold significant meanings for us.
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This column has had the privilege of publishing a number of poems by young people, but this is the first we've published by a young person who is also a political refugee.
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I suspect that one thing some people have against reading poems is that they are so often so serious, so devoid of joy, as if we poets spend all our time brooding about mutability and death and never having any fun.
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One of the most effective means for conveying strong emotion is to invest some real object with one's feelings, and then to let the object carry those feelings to the reader.
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Here is a poem, much like a prayer, in which the Michigan poet Conrad Hilberry asks for no more than a little flare of light, an affirmation, at the end of a long, cold Christmas day.
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Father and child doing a little math homework together; it's an everyday occurrence, but here, Russell Libby, a poet who writes from Three Sisters Farm in central Maine, presents it in a way that makes it feel deep and magical.
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The first two lines of this poem pose a question many of us may have thought about: how does snow make silence even more silent?
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Class, status, privilege; despite all our talk about equality, they're with us wherever we go.
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Most of us love to find things, and to discover a quarter on the sidewalk can make a whole day seem brighter.
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Occupational hazards, well, you have to find yourself in the occupation to know about those.
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In celebration of Veteran's Day, here is a telling poem by Gary Dop, a Minnesota poet.
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I really like this poem by Dick Allen, partially for the way he so easily draws us in, with his easygoing, conversational style, but also for noticing what he has noticed, the overlooked accompanist there on the stage, in the shadow of the singer.
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I thought that we'd celebrate Halloween with an appropriate poem, and Iowa poet Dan Lechay's seems just right.
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Every child can be seen as a miracle, and here Minnesota poet James Lenfestey captures the beautiful mystery of a daughter.
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When I was a boy, there were still a few veterans of the Spanish American War, and more of The Great War, or World War I, and now all those have died and those who served in World War II are passing from us, too.
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I hope it's not just a guy thing, a delight in the trappings of work.
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Perhaps you made paper leaves when you were in grade school.
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Poetry has often served to remind us to look more closely, to see what may have been at first overlooked.
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Stuart Kestenbaum, the author of this week's poem, lost his brother Howard in the destruction of the twin towers of the World Trade Center.
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What's in a name?
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I've always loved shop talk, with its wonderful language of tools and techniques.
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We mammals are ferociously protective of our young, and we all know not to wander in between a sow bear and her cubs.
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Kristen Tracy is a poet from San Francisco who here captures a moment at a zoo.
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Hearts and flowers, that's how some people dismiss poetry, suggesting that's all there is to it, just a bunch of sappy poets weeping over love and beauty.
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A part of being a parent, it seems, is spending too much time fearing the worst.
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I'd guess you've all seen a toddler hold something over the edge of a high-chair and then let it drop, just for the fun of it.
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Poets are especially good at investing objects with meaning, or in drawing meaning from the things of this world.
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I don't often talk about poetic forms in this column, thinking that most of my readers aren't interested in how the clock works and would rather be given the time.
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Sometimes I think that people are at their happiest when they're engaged in activities close to the work of the earliest humans: telling stories around a fire, taking care of children, hunting, making clothes.
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I've lived all my life on the plains, where no body of water is more than a few feet deep, and even at that shallow depth I'm afraid of it.
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