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    A House Called Tomorrow: Fifty Years of Poetry from Copper Canyon Press
    A House Called Tomorrow: Fifty Years of Poetry from Copper Canyon Press
    A House Called Tomorrow: Fifty Years of Poetry from Copper Canyon Press
    Ebook689 pages6 hours

    A House Called Tomorrow: Fifty Years of Poetry from Copper Canyon Press

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    About this ebook

    Copper Canyon Press celebrates its first 50 years of poetry publishing in anticipation of the next 50 years.

    Poetry is vital to language and living. This anthology celebrates 50 years of Copper Canyon Press publications, one extraordinary poem at a time. Since its founding, Copper Canyon has been entirely dedicated to publishing poetry books; here Editor in Chief Michael Wiegers invites press staff and board—past and present—to help curate a retrospective. The result is a collection of beloved poems from books spanning half a century: representing Pulitzer Prize-winning books, debut collections, works in translation, and rare books from Copper Canyon’s early days. This book is a tribute to Copper Canyon poets and readers everywhere, because, as Gregory Orr writes, “Certain poems / In an uncertain world— / The ones we cling to: // They bring us back.”

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCopper Canyon Press
    Release dateFeb 28, 2023
    ISBN9781619322684
    A House Called Tomorrow: Fifty Years of Poetry from Copper Canyon Press

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      Book preview

      A House Called Tomorrow - Michael Wiegers

      1973–1979

      GERALD COSTANZO

      from Badlands: First Poems, 1973

      Everything You Own

      Sometimes I think you’re

      from the South. You speak

      with that drawl. You move

      slowly as if taken by heat.

      There are burning desires,

      strange elevations you

      never overcome. Everything

      you own is in your

      pockets. I see you in the

      drugstore down on Main,

      sipping soda, spitting

      tobacco, mopping your brow.

      You could tell me what this

      country needs.

      ROBERT HEDIN

      from Snow Country, 1975

      Transcanadian

      At this speed, my friend, our origins are groundless.

      We are nearing the eve of a great festival,

      The festival of wind.

      Already you can see this road weakening.

      Soon it will breathe

      And lift away to dry its feathers in the air.

      On both sides the fields of rape seed and sunflowers

      Are revolting against their rows.

      Soon they will scatter wildly like pheasants.

      Now is the time, my friend, to test our souls.

      We must let them forage for themselves,

      But first—unbuckle your skin.

      It is out here, in the darkness

      Between two shimmering cities,

      That we have, perhaps for the last time, chance

      Neither to be shut nor open,

      But to let our souls speak and carry our bodies like capes.

      W.M. RANSOM

      from Waving Arms at the Blind, 1975

      Pastime Café

      The eyes in this place droop

      thick puckers under the eyes

      folds under necks droop

      jowls and the plants in the windows

      droop plants in the pictures on the walls

      droop cigars in racks

      bowling trophies, unmatched silver droops

      this table and its cracked vinyl chairs

      droop warm salads, year-old crackers

      droop my tired hands droop

      Eddy Arnold droops from the jukebox

      I wake up away from you again

      and my whole body droops.

      GLADYS CARDIFF

      from To Frighten a Storm, 1976

      Combing

      Bending, I bow my head

      and lay my hands upon

      her hair, combing, and think

      how women do this for

      each other. My daughter’s hair

      curls against the comb,

      wet and fragrant—orange

      parings. Her face, downcast,

      is quiet for one so young.

      I take her place. Beneath

      my mother’s hands I feel

      the braids drawn up tight

      as piano wires and singing,

      vinegar-rinsed. Sitting

      before the oven I hear

      the orange coils tick

      the early hour before school.

      She combed her grandmother

      Mathilda’s hair using

      a comb made out of bone.

      Mathilda rocked her oak wood

      chair, her face downcast,

      intent on tearing rags

      in strips to braid a cotton

      rug from bits of orange

      and brown. A simple act

      preparing hair. Something

      women do for each other,

      plaiting the generations.

      RICHARD HUGO

      from Duwamish Head, 1976

      Neighbor

      The drunk who lives across the street from us

      fell in our garden, on the beet patch

      yesterday. So polite. Pardon me,

      he said. He had to be helped up and held,

      steered home and put to bed, declaring

      we got to have another drink and smile.

      I admit my envy. xxxviii found him in salal

      and flat on his face in lettuce, and bent

      and snoring by that thick stump full of rain

      we used to sail destroyers on.

      And I’ve carried him home so often

      stone to the rain and me, and cheerful.

      I try to guess what’s in that dim warm mind.

      Does he think about horizoned firs

      black against the light, thirty years

      ago, and the good girl—what’s her name—

      believing, or think about the dog

      he beat to death that day in Carbonado?

      I hear he’s dead, and wait now on my porch.

      He must be in his shack. The wagon’s

      due to come and take him where they take

      late alcoholics, probably called Farm’s End.

      I plan my frown, certain he’ll be carried out

      bleeding from the corners of his grin.

      T.E. JAY

      from River Dogs, 1976

      Fir

      He eats rain

      and the shared light

      of a single star.

      The far-rooted wind

      blesses and terrifies him

      in turn.

      His slow fire burns greener

      than a great cat’s eye.

      Blind as the sky,

      he never sleeps

      but his dreams

      can make it snow.

      KENNETH REXROTH

      from The Silver Swan: Poems Written in Kyoto, 1974–75, 1976

      As the full moon rises

      As the full moon rises

      The swan sings

      In sleep

      On the lake of the mind

      GEORGE HITCHCOCK

      from The Piano Beneath the Skin, 1978

      Solitaire

      all that winter you were gone

      the skylarks went on crutches

      I woke up every dawn

      to crows quarreling in ditches

      I’d been there before I knew

      that landscape of demented kings

      I’d seen the courtiers in blue

      masks and idiot posturings

      when you’re nailed to a scar

      you don’t think much of fine words

      the jugglers at the bazaar

      or the man who eats swords

      the world’s deceptive—too many

      crafty smiling bones

      eyes masquerading in money

      and loquacious spoons

      so I said goodbye to the foxtrot

      and to badminton in the park

      I shuffle the deck and deal out

      snowflakes in the dark

      DAVID LEE

      from The Porcine Legacy, 1978

      For Jan, with Love

      1

      John he comes to my house

      pulls his beat-up truck in my drive

      and honks

      Dave John sez Dave my red sow

      she got pigs stuck and my big hands they won’t go

      and I gotta get them pigs out

      or that fucker she’s gonna die

      and I sez John goddam

      we’ll be right down and John sez Jan

      he yells JAN where’s Jan she’s got little hands

      she can get in there and pull them pigs

      and I sez Jan and he sez Jan and Jan comes

      what? Jan sez and John sez tell Jan Dave

      and I sez Jan John’s red sow’s got pigs

      stuck and his hand’s too big and won’t go

      and he’s gotta get them pigs out

      or that fucker’s gonna die (John he turns

      his head and lights a cigarette)

      (he don’t say fuck to no woman)

      and Jan she sez well let’s go

      and we get in John’s beat-up damn truck

      and go to pull John’s pigs

      2

      John’s red sow she doesn’t weigh

      a hundred and sixty pounds

      but he bred her to his biggest boar

      and had to put haybales by her sides

      so the boar wouldn’t break

      her back because Carl bet five dollars

      he couldn’t and John he bet

      five she could and John he won

      but Carl enjoyed watching anyway

      3

      John’s red sow was laying

      on her side hurting bad

      and we could see she had a pig

      right there but it wouldn’t come she

      was too small and John sez see

      and I sez I see that pig’s gotta come out

      or that fucker’s gonna die

      and Jan puts vaseline on her hands

      and sez hold her legs and I hold her legs

      and Jan goes in after the pig

      and John gets out of the pen and goes

      somewheres else

      Jan she pulls like hell pretty soon

      the pig come big damn big little pig

      dead and I give Jan more vaseline and she goes

      back in to see about any more

      and John’s red sow pushes hard on Jan’s arm

      up to her elbow inside and Jan sez

      there’s more help me and I help

      another pig damn big damn dead comes

      and John’s red sow she seems better

      and we hope that’s all

      4

      John’s red sow won’t go

      out of labor so we stay all

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