Darkness Sticks to Everything: Collected and New Poems by Tom Hennen

By Tom Hennen

"It's difficult to think that this American master—and I don't use these phrases lightly—has been hidden correct lower than our noses for many years. yet regardless of his loss of popularity, Mr. Hennen, like all sensible word-farmer, has easily long past approximately his calling with humility and gratitude in a tradition whose basic crop has turn into popularity. He simply watches, waits after which moves, offering heart-buckling lines." —Dana Jennings, the recent 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 historic phrases and not enable 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 vast quantities of area, usually uninhabited area, into his brain and so into the entire poem."—Robert Bly

Tom Hennen provides voice to the prairie and to rural groups, celebrating—with unhappiness, compliment, and astute observations—the land, climate, and population. in brief lyrics and prose poems, he unearths the special strangeness of standard issues. This quantity is Hennen's long-overdue creation to a countrywide viewers.

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Sample text

My boots become untied. My coat unbuttoned. My education gone. I don’t care anymore how the world thinks. I only know that the snow Has reached my knees. A Note to My State-Appointed Job Counselor I’m a lousy escapist. Troubles of the world roll off my back. 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.

In the early morning I’ll hang Over evergreen branches My ear lappers down As lights go on In the bedrooms Alarm clocks ringing words Of the first awake. Almost frozen I drift sideways Across the sky Rain turning to snow. Looking at the Windmill My kids come back from the long walk With their hands full of stones. They sense that my foundations Are shaky. They stay up late To play with me And humor me While all night not talking I duck in and out of air caves. I am the distant windmill they know to look at Moved by the least breeze.

They explain How to go for miles between towns Without warming up. Summer Night Air Night doesn’t fall It rises Out of low spots Tree trunks And the back Of the old cow I’m bringing home to milk. Cold in the Trees The hoot Of the owl Is large enough To carry off a whole sheep. Farm on a Winter Morning All I can see are Cows And five am Milking machines Hanging On big teats. The woman who hanged herself Before breakfast With a halter. The price of oats dropping On the way To the house. Me And my father Trying to break the ice Between us.

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