Per caputque pedesqu….

Per caputque pedesqu….

Please dear book bring me consolation
Tall windows of hospitals can’t do it
And the sunset is thin

Catullus: O this age! How tasteless and ill-bred it is!
Thanks old boy you’re of little use

The darkness is knocking…

Today is not a day for writing…

Today is not a day for writing
And yet this comes anyway
Like my friend’s goat
Amiable enough

If you know goats
You’ll understand
The rank odor of poems
Appetites running to sweat

Mushrooms grew last night
While I slept
A garden snake
Sleeps underfoot

Morning is for the unwashed child in us

Stephen Kuusisto and HarleyABOUT: Stephen Kuusisto is the author of the memoirs Have Dog, Will Travel; Planet of the Blind (a New York Times “Notable Book of the Year”); and Eavesdropping: A Memoir of Blindness and Listening and of the poetry collections Only Bread, Only Light and Letters to Borges. A graduate of the Iowa Writer’s Workshop and a Fulbright Scholar, he has taught at the University of Iowa, Hobart and William Smith Colleges, and Ohio State University. He currently teaches at Syracuse University where he holds a University Professorship in Disability Studies. He is a frequent speaker in the US and abroad. His website is StephenKuusisto.com.

Have Dog, Will Travel: A Poet’s Journey is now available for pre-order:
Amazon
Barnes and Noble
IndieBound.org

Have Dog, Will Travel by Stephen Kuusisto

(Photo picturing the cover of Stephen Kuusisto’s new memoir “Have Dog, Will Travel” along with his former guide dogs Nira (top) and Corky, bottom.) Bottom photo by Marion Ettlinger 

Poetry comes and goes….

Poetry comes and goes
Like melody or rain
I miss you father

**
Horse weed grows by the house
Seeds fly
Little eye travelers

**

Grass blades
High summer clouds
Far off a car starts

**

Where are the books I loved as a child
Are they buried in the earth
I think so

**

I remember as a boy
The first time
I clung to a dog’s fur

Old Notebook department….

I remember a poet who disliked people.
He was always well dressed.
When alone he lived under a bush.
He had a beard. Even “it” didn’t like him.
He wore Italian cowboy boots.
To be charitable: he had grim memories
That leaned beside him at every podium.

**

Prose Poem

I cannot see the great blue heron.

**

Looking into a Tide Pool

Even the blind can do it.

**

May Sarton was one mean woman.
While visiting a small college
I heard her tell a young woman
Who said she loved uniting poetry and dance,
“You my dear are a fraud!”
I’ve never forgotten it.

**

The old guru eats a chocolate brownie.
Soon all the adepts are eating brownies.
I saw it happen.

**

Sometimes when I think of my childhood all I can remember is frost on windowpanes.

**

Sonia in Crime and Punishment is Dostoevsky when alone.

Stephen Kuusisto and HarleyABOUT: Stephen Kuusisto is the author of the memoirs Have Dog, Will Travel; Planet of the Blind (a New York Times “Notable Book of the Year”); and Eavesdropping: A Memoir of Blindness and Listening and of the poetry collections Only Bread, Only Light and Letters to Borges. A graduate of the Iowa Writer’s Workshop and a Fulbright Scholar, he has taught at the University of Iowa, Hobart and William Smith Colleges, and Ohio State University. He currently teaches at Syracuse University where he holds a University Professorship in Disability Studies. He is a frequent speaker in the US and abroad. His website is StephenKuusisto.com.

Have Dog, Will Travel: A Poet’s Journey is now available for pre-order:
Amazon
Barnes and Noble
IndieBound.org

Have Dog, Will Travel by Stephen Kuusisto

(Photo picturing the cover of Stephen Kuusisto’s new memoir “Have Dog, Will Travel” along with his former guide dogs Nira (top) and Corky, bottom.) Bottom photo by Marion Ettlinger 

Sorrows and consolations….

When I was in the psych hospital at 15—anorexic, depressed about blindness, in reality just an ordinary adolescent—I had a room mate. He was likely no older than I am now but I thought he was an old man. He spoke very little English. He was an immigrant from Eastern Europe. Anyway, while I was busy starving myself to death he lay in bed and moaned and muttered to himself. Every now and then he’d totter my way, lift his gown, and say: “Look at my scar!”

The depth of his sadness was impossible to absorb. That was my first lesson in sublime unending sorrow.

As I watch the horrors unfolding on our nation’s border with Mexico I again feel the palpable call of unendurable sorrow.

Refugees are crying: “look at our scars.”

Trump, our junk mail president smirks.

Scars are for losers.

**

Ode to My Right Eye

In pain
More than half
The day
Cold
As a starling
But wise
For that
Knowing
Fostered
Words
Of light
My drowner
Blind sister
Who can’t
Be consoled.

**

Consolation is tailor made for aphorisms. I have none. Every single human is scarred.

**

To my 15 year old self:

Scars are a matter of winning.