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Braided Creek
After Jim Harrison and Ted Kooser had exchanged letters and poems for years, Kooser was diagnosed with cancer. "Ted's poetry became overwhelmingly vivid," Harrison recalls. "Then we decided to correspond in short poems, because that was the essence of what we wanted to say to each other."
"Braided Creek" contains over 300 poems exchanged in this longstanding correspondence. Wise, wry, and penetrating, the poems touch upon numerous subjects, from the natural world to the nature of time. Harrison and Kooser decided to remain silent over who wrote which poem, allowing their voices, ideas, and images to swirl and merge into this remarkable suite of lyrics.
Each time I go outside the world
is different. This has happened
all my life.
*
The moon put her hand
over my mouth and told me
to shut up and watch.
*
A nephew rubs the sore feet
of his aunt,
and the rope that lifts us all toward grace
creaks on the pulley.
*
Under the storyteller's hat
are many heads, all troubled.
Jim Harrison, one of America's best-loved writers, is author of two dozen books of poetry, fiction, essays, food criticism, and memoir. He is best known for a collection of novellas, "Legends of the Fall," and the epic novel "Dalva." He lives in western Montana and southern Arizona.
Ted Kooser is the author of eight collections of poetry and a prose memoir. His poetry appears regularly in "The Atlantic Monthly, The New Yorker, Poetry," and "The Nation." He lives in Nebraska.
"Braided Creek" contains over 300 poems exchanged in this longstanding correspondence. Wise, wry, and penetrating, the poems touch upon numerous subjects, from the natural world to the nature of time. Harrison and Kooser decided to remain silent over who wrote which poem, allowing their voices, ideas, and images to swirl and merge into this remarkable suite of lyrics.
Each time I go outside the world
is different. This has happened
all my life.
*
The moon put her hand
over my mouth and told me
to shut up and watch.
*
A nephew rubs the sore feet
of his aunt,
and the rope that lifts us all toward grace
creaks on the pulley.
*
Under the storyteller's hat
are many heads, all troubled.
Jim Harrison, one of America's best-loved writers, is author of two dozen books of poetry, fiction, essays, food criticism, and memoir. He is best known for a collection of novellas, "Legends of the Fall," and the epic novel "Dalva." He lives in western Montana and southern Arizona.
Ted Kooser is the author of eight collections of poetry and a prose memoir. His poetry appears regularly in "The Atlantic Monthly, The New Yorker, Poetry," and "The Nation." He lives in Nebraska.
90 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 2003
About the author
Jim Harrison
185 books1,560 followersJim Harrison was born in Grayling, Michigan, to Winfield Sprague Harrison, a county agricultural agent, and Norma Olivia (Wahlgren) Harrison, both avid readers. He married Linda King in 1959 with whom he has two daughters.
Librarian Note: There is more than one author in the GoodReads database with this name. See this thread for more information.
His awards include National Academy of Arts grants (1967, 68, 69), a Guggenheim Fellowship (1969-70), the Spirit of the West Award from the Mountain & Plains Booksellers Association, and election to the American Academy of Arts and Sciences (2007).
Much of Harrison's writing depicts sparsely populated regions of North America with many stories set in places such as Nebraska's Sand Hills, Michigan's Upper Peninsula, Montana's mountains, and along the Arizona-Mexico border.
Librarian Note: There is more than one author in the GoodReads database with this name. See this thread for more information.
His awards include National Academy of Arts grants (1967, 68, 69), a Guggenheim Fellowship (1969-70), the Spirit of the West Award from the Mountain & Plains Booksellers Association, and election to the American Academy of Arts and Sciences (2007).
Much of Harrison's writing depicts sparsely populated regions of North America with many stories set in places such as Nebraska's Sand Hills, Michigan's Upper Peninsula, Montana's mountains, and along the Arizona-Mexico border.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 137 reviews
September 20, 2016
My friend Jen said she was reading this book., which I had read more than once decades ago, so I thought I would read it again as she was reading it so we could talk about it. And I recall that Jim Harrison, whose work I know pretty well, died this year, RIP. Most people know his Legends of the Fall and other novels sometimes made into films, and I like those books, but I really like his poetry, too. Ted Kooser I am less familiar with; he wrote a book called Winter Morning Walks: 100 Postcards to Jim Harrison, and this book, Braided Creek is also a series of postcards, though this time an exchange of poems, a dialogue of poems, with Harrison. And then the two authors refuse to identify who wrote what, which I also loved.
When I started reading I liked the poems less than I had many years ago. I thought (this time) they sounded much like little informal things anyone might drop in talking or writing with each other: “Everyone thought I’d die/ in my thirties, forties, fifties. This can’t go on forever,” or “Rowing across the lake/all the dragonflies are screwing. Stop it. It’s Sunday.” Nice. Worth a smile, but not startling. I like the idea at this point of dialogue poems more than the actual poems themselves.
But over time, the poems feel like haiku or zen koans. Harrison said it was because Kooser was diagnosed with cancer, which somehow deepened his writing, which in turned deepened Harrison's responses:
“At 62 I’ve outlived 95 per cent/ of the world. I’ll be home/just before dark.”
“The butterfly/ jots a note on the wind/ to remind itself of something.”
“Crow with a red beak/ looks over its shoulder.”
“It’s hard to believe there’s a skeleton/ inside of us, certainly not the beautiful/ girl getting out of her red car.” (Okay, there ‘s a cliché in there, but I still like it)
“Bucket in the rain, rejoice!”
“I’m sixty-two and can drop dead/at any moment. Thinking this in August/I kissed the river’s cold moving lips.” (I’m 63 as I read this, ha!)
“Buddhists say everything is led by the mind./My doubts are healed by drinking/a bottle of red wine in thirty-three minutes.” (ha! And me with a drink in hand as I read and write this.)
“I was born a baby./What has been/added?”
“The pastures grow up/with red cedars/once the horses are gone.”
I finally loved hanging with these two sweet friends that love each other and hearing their braided poems. Kooser got cancer first, but Harrison died first. As of this writing, Kooser recovered, so maybe he's wrong: Maybe it does go on forever. As long as I have these poems, it does.
When I started reading I liked the poems less than I had many years ago. I thought (this time) they sounded much like little informal things anyone might drop in talking or writing with each other: “Everyone thought I’d die/ in my thirties, forties, fifties. This can’t go on forever,” or “Rowing across the lake/all the dragonflies are screwing. Stop it. It’s Sunday.” Nice. Worth a smile, but not startling. I like the idea at this point of dialogue poems more than the actual poems themselves.
But over time, the poems feel like haiku or zen koans. Harrison said it was because Kooser was diagnosed with cancer, which somehow deepened his writing, which in turned deepened Harrison's responses:
“At 62 I’ve outlived 95 per cent/ of the world. I’ll be home/just before dark.”
“The butterfly/ jots a note on the wind/ to remind itself of something.”
“Crow with a red beak/ looks over its shoulder.”
“It’s hard to believe there’s a skeleton/ inside of us, certainly not the beautiful/ girl getting out of her red car.” (Okay, there ‘s a cliché in there, but I still like it)
“Bucket in the rain, rejoice!”
“I’m sixty-two and can drop dead/at any moment. Thinking this in August/I kissed the river’s cold moving lips.” (I’m 63 as I read this, ha!)
“Buddhists say everything is led by the mind./My doubts are healed by drinking/a bottle of red wine in thirty-three minutes.” (ha! And me with a drink in hand as I read and write this.)
“I was born a baby./What has been/added?”
“The pastures grow up/with red cedars/once the horses are gone.”
I finally loved hanging with these two sweet friends that love each other and hearing their braided poems. Kooser got cancer first, but Harrison died first. As of this writing, Kooser recovered, so maybe he's wrong: Maybe it does go on forever. As long as I have these poems, it does.
September 16, 2025
3.5 stars
I have to agree with other reviewers that the origin story in the blurb of this braided collection of short "postcard" poems is better than a lot of the actual poems. Still, below are some I quite liked in this LFL find....
"I want to describe my life in hushed tones
like a TV nature program. Dawn in the north.
His nose stalks the air for newborn coffee."
"You told me you couldn’t see
a better day coming,
so I gave you my eyes."
"Suddenly my clocks agree.
One has been stopped for several
months, but twice a day
they have this tender moment."
"The moon put her hand
over my mouth and told me
to shut up and watch."
"Under the storyteller’s hat
are many heads, all troubled."
"Rowing across the lake
all the dragonflies are screwing.
Stop it. It’s Sunday."
"Trust snow to keep a secret."
"An empty boat
will volunteer for anything."
"I prefer the skyline
of a shelf of books."
I have to agree with other reviewers that the origin story in the blurb of this braided collection of short "postcard" poems is better than a lot of the actual poems. Still, below are some I quite liked in this LFL find....
"I want to describe my life in hushed tones
like a TV nature program. Dawn in the north.
His nose stalks the air for newborn coffee."
"You told me you couldn’t see
a better day coming,
so I gave you my eyes."
"Suddenly my clocks agree.
One has been stopped for several
months, but twice a day
they have this tender moment."
"The moon put her hand
over my mouth and told me
to shut up and watch."
"Under the storyteller’s hat
are many heads, all troubled."
"Rowing across the lake
all the dragonflies are screwing.
Stop it. It’s Sunday."
"Trust snow to keep a secret."
"An empty boat
will volunteer for anything."
"I prefer the skyline
of a shelf of books."
October 3, 2021
It's fun to eavesdrop on this Conversation in Poetry between Jim Harrison and Ted Kooser.
Woodpecker,
why so much effort
for such little gain?
It's nice to think that when
we're fossils we'll all be in the same
thin layer of rock.
Sometimes the teakettle rattles
over the flame with the And! And! And!
of a child telling a story too big
to pour out all at once.
Come close to death
and you begin to see
what's under your nose.
You should listen in.
Woodpecker,
why so much effort
for such little gain?
It's nice to think that when
we're fossils we'll all be in the same
thin layer of rock.
Sometimes the teakettle rattles
over the flame with the And! And! And!
of a child telling a story too big
to pour out all at once.
Come close to death
and you begin to see
what's under your nose.
You should listen in.
January 29, 2011
"Under the storyteller’s hat
are many heads, all troubled.
Rowing across the lake
all the dragonflies are screwing.
Stop it. It’s Sunday.
Only today
I heard
the river
within the river.
I want to describe my life in hushed tones
like a TV nature program. Dawn in the north.
His nose stalks the air for newborn coffee.
Nothing to do.
Nowhere to go.
The moth just drowned
in the whiskey glass.
This is heaven.
Let go of the mind, the thousand blue
story fragments we tell ourselves
each day to keep the world underfoot.
If you can awaken
inside the familiar
and discover it strange
you need never leave home.
You told me you couldn’t see
a better day coming,
so I gave you my eyes.
The one-eyed man must be fearful
of being taken for a birdhouse.
Sleeping on my right side I think
of God. On my left side, sex.
On my back I snore with my dog.
The face you look out of
is never the face
your lover looks into.
Suddenly my clocks agree.
One has been stopped for several
months, but twice a day
they have this tender moment.
Fresh snow standing deep
on the phone wire. If you call me,
speak softly.
It’s nice to think that when
we’re fossils we’ll all be in the same
thin layer of rock.
Oh, to write just one poem
that would last as long as that rose
tattooed on her butt!
Last year the snake
left her skin on the floor,
diaphanous like the name
of a lovely girl you’ve forgotten—
but not her flesh.
Come to think of it,
there’s no reason to decide
who you are.
I prefer the skyline
of a shelf of books.
The moon put her hand
over my mouth and told me
to shut up and watch.
Like an old dog
I slowly lower and arrange myself
in a heap of sighs.
Old friend,
perhaps we work too hard
at being remembered."
are many heads, all troubled.
Rowing across the lake
all the dragonflies are screwing.
Stop it. It’s Sunday.
Only today
I heard
the river
within the river.
I want to describe my life in hushed tones
like a TV nature program. Dawn in the north.
His nose stalks the air for newborn coffee.
Nothing to do.
Nowhere to go.
The moth just drowned
in the whiskey glass.
This is heaven.
Let go of the mind, the thousand blue
story fragments we tell ourselves
each day to keep the world underfoot.
If you can awaken
inside the familiar
and discover it strange
you need never leave home.
You told me you couldn’t see
a better day coming,
so I gave you my eyes.
The one-eyed man must be fearful
of being taken for a birdhouse.
Sleeping on my right side I think
of God. On my left side, sex.
On my back I snore with my dog.
The face you look out of
is never the face
your lover looks into.
Suddenly my clocks agree.
One has been stopped for several
months, but twice a day
they have this tender moment.
Fresh snow standing deep
on the phone wire. If you call me,
speak softly.
It’s nice to think that when
we’re fossils we’ll all be in the same
thin layer of rock.
Oh, to write just one poem
that would last as long as that rose
tattooed on her butt!
Last year the snake
left her skin on the floor,
diaphanous like the name
of a lovely girl you’ve forgotten—
but not her flesh.
Come to think of it,
there’s no reason to decide
who you are.
I prefer the skyline
of a shelf of books.
The moon put her hand
over my mouth and told me
to shut up and watch.
Like an old dog
I slowly lower and arrange myself
in a heap of sighs.
Old friend,
perhaps we work too hard
at being remembered."
February 22, 2009
Along with Winter Morning Walks, these are two books I read every year around this time of year. I couldn't do without them.
February 2, 2019
I first heard about this poetry collection in a talk from Naomi Shihab Nye called "The Art of Teaching Poetry (which you can find on YouTube and I highly recommend my teacher-friends watch). She mentioned this collection specifically for its use to introduce high school students to poetry. I ordered it immediately and read it in a day when it arrived. I found the premise of this collection very interesting and created an assignment for my students in which they were randomly assigned two of their peers to write poems to (most chose to do so anonymously). My students were reluctant at first but I gave them the weekend to read over select poems from Braided Creek and then create their own correspondence poems. On Monday my freshmen were eager to have their poems delivered to their peers. All of my classes enjoyed this experiment and wanted to do it again. So thanks Mr. Harrison and Mr. Kooser for the inspiration :)
May 11, 2020
A unique and wonderful dialogue in verse between Harrison and Kooser. The stanzas are not attributed, but it's usually obvious who is writing which stanza -- if it's an observation about a moth drowning in a whisky glass, it's Harrison; if it's raindrops on the glass, it's Kooser. Both voices are worn with experience and smooth with age. These guys know what they're doing, even if they sometimes sound like cranky old men, which I suppose they are. But they're insightful cranky old men, and they have the ability to cast that insight beautifully onto the page.
September 8, 2011
Comment after first 45 pages.
This is wonderful. I find myself with a huge grin or pausing for introspection on nearly every page. Brilliant idea and lovely in its execution.
----
Definitely 4+.
Two dear friends corresponding via poems, "American Haiku," and aphorisms. I love that there is no ownership of the poems. From the back cover, "When asked about attributions for the individual poems, one of them replied, 'Everyone gets tired of this continuing cult of the personality . . . This book is an assertion in favor of poetry and against credentials.'" A beautiful little book that can be gobbled in a quick sitting. . . and returned to for further enjoyment.
Samples:
Under the storyteller's hat
are many heads, all troubled.
All I want to be
is a thousand blackbirds
bursting from a tree
seeding the sky.
A book on the arm of my chair
and the morning before me.
Lost: Ambition.
Found: A good book,
an old sweater,
loose shoes.
I want to describe my life in hushed tones
like a TV nature program. [read in David Attenborough voice] Dawn in the north.
His nose stalks the air for newborn coffee.
Some days
one needs to hide
from possibility.
If you can awaken
inside the familiar
and discover it strange
you need never leave home.
You told me you couldn't see
a better day coming,
so I gave you my eyes.
This is wonderful. I find myself with a huge grin or pausing for introspection on nearly every page. Brilliant idea and lovely in its execution.
----
Definitely 4+.
Two dear friends corresponding via poems, "American Haiku," and aphorisms. I love that there is no ownership of the poems. From the back cover, "When asked about attributions for the individual poems, one of them replied, 'Everyone gets tired of this continuing cult of the personality . . . This book is an assertion in favor of poetry and against credentials.'" A beautiful little book that can be gobbled in a quick sitting. . . and returned to for further enjoyment.
Samples:
Under the storyteller's hat
are many heads, all troubled.
All I want to be
is a thousand blackbirds
bursting from a tree
seeding the sky.
A book on the arm of my chair
and the morning before me.
Lost: Ambition.
Found: A good book,
an old sweater,
loose shoes.
I want to describe my life in hushed tones
like a TV nature program. [read in David Attenborough voice] Dawn in the north.
His nose stalks the air for newborn coffee.
Some days
one needs to hide
from possibility.
If you can awaken
inside the familiar
and discover it strange
you need never leave home.
You told me you couldn't see
a better day coming,
so I gave you my eyes.
July 18, 2023
Rec'd by my favorite author, Michael Perry.
---
And of course very worthy of the rec. Glorious. Sometimes the 'dialogue' comes clear, sometimes the poems seem to be just sharing observations. But always nibble-sized snippets that are mostly juicier, or meatier, than their length and prosaic subjects would seem to indicate.
Under the storytellers hat
are many heads, all troubled.
All I want to be
is a thousand blackbirds
bursting from a tree,
seeding the sky.
How foolish the house plant
looks as it offers its droopy leaves
like hands to be kissed.
It's nice to think that when
we're fossils we'll all be in the same
thin layer of rock.
Come to think of it,
there's no reason to decide
who you are.
---
And of course very worthy of the rec. Glorious. Sometimes the 'dialogue' comes clear, sometimes the poems seem to be just sharing observations. But always nibble-sized snippets that are mostly juicier, or meatier, than their length and prosaic subjects would seem to indicate.
Under the storytellers hat
are many heads, all troubled.
All I want to be
is a thousand blackbirds
bursting from a tree,
seeding the sky.
How foolish the house plant
looks as it offers its droopy leaves
like hands to be kissed.
It's nice to think that when
we're fossils we'll all be in the same
thin layer of rock.
Come to think of it,
there's no reason to decide
who you are.
December 17, 2019
There's a huge and deep meaning in every poems you could read in this book. It's quite fascinating how these two authors had exchanged their thoughts in a poetic way. Everything is about poetry. The underlying meaning in it will always remain concealed for by Jim and Ted will always find its sea and astonishing truth behind.
May 5, 2022
Wow! Loved it. It made me laugh, it made me think. This book is a treasure, full of short haiku-like poems on a range of topics. Highly recommend!
May 2, 2022
This is a really nice, slim collection of poems. The book is a unique (at least to me) experiment in poetic conversation, since the two authors do not have their names appended to any of the poems inside the book. This erasure of authorship is explained on the back of the book, and it doesn't even tell you which of the authors came up with the idea. Basically, these are all micro-poems of approximately haiku length (and sometimes of haiku style) which were mailed back and forth between the two authors, apparently later in life, since there is mention of Kooser's cancer diagnosis. There is a strange irony to this, as he outlived the other author, and I even got to meet him a few years back (in fact, shortly after the other author, Jim Harrison, died).
The poems vary quite widely in quality and content matter, but the former is to be expected with any poetry collection, and the latter is to be expected if the theme(s) weren't "decided" upon by the two friends. The most common themes include nature, aging, mortality, time, writing, women, and politics, with the latter two being the two which felt like they didn't fit in as well. I'm pretty sure that those last two were mostly Harrison's work, since I've never really seen Kooser write poems on either topic. After a brief glancing through Harrison's work and reviews of his work, it looks like he includes both, especially women, in his writing.
This all raises a very interesting angle, as I was somewhat attempting to decipher which author wrote which poems as I went along. Perhaps it would be better to read this collection if you knew both the authors or neither of them, but I'm only familiar with Kooser (and quite decently so at that). Some of the poems were just.... bad, and those were often the ones about women or politics. Kooser is such a timeless author that I'd find it hard to picture him writing some of those, but you never know, since these were initially included in private letters between friends. It seems equally hard to imagine that the shower-room talk was one-sided, that Harrison was constantly bringing up those two topics despite Kooser. If you're looking for an introduction for each poet's work, I don't think I'd recommend this, as its quality varies so much. Kooser's Wheeling Year is a great starting place, and I'm going to explore Harrison's work soon.
As for the poems themselves, they vary in form, but are never longer than 5 lines, averaging at 3. There are a couple which are only 1 or 2, and those actually hit really hard:
But the seventeen-year cicada
has only one syllable.
Trust snow to keep a secret.
An empty boat
will volunteer for anything.
The sparrow is not busy
but hungry.
I prefer the skyline
of a shelf of books.
The blind man navigates
by stars behind the daylight.
There are some true haiku in this collection, where there are two main nature images, a cutting word between them, a sense of impermanence, some wabi-sabi, but many are just short contemporary American poems. The poems about nature are the most consistently good of the collection, while the ones about age, time, and women vary the widest in quality. The Time ones vary from "wow, that sounds like a fragment of a shakespeare sonnet" to "wow, that's just tedious". One of the authors in particular kept mentioning a clock he has that is broken at 5:30, and he makes a groan-inducing boomer remark about it "being right twice a day". I'm really just surprised that that reference made it into so many poems. Some examples of the better ones:
Each time I go outside the world
is different. This has happened
all my life.
Some nights are three nights long,
some days are a mere noon hour, then whistled
back to work, the heart-dredging sludge.
Midday silence is different
from nighttime silence.
I can't tell you how.
Likewise, the poems about women ranged from tastefully poetic to kinda disgusting. It's always a little uncomfortable to hear older people talking about sexuality, since we often assume that they've either become less sexual or that their opinions on the matter don't matter since they're largely out of the pool. Anyway, here's a couple that didn't suck:
When she left me
I stood out in the thunderstorm,
hoping to be destroyed by lightning.
It missed, first left, then right.
It's nice to think that when
we're fossils we'll all be in the same
thin layer of rock.
Oh, to be in love,
with all five buckets
of the senses
overflowing!
The poems about aging ranged about as much, but aging is a topic that Kooser has been working on for a while now, so I think he probably had some of the better ones in here. The author(s) made several remarks about the youth of old age, the fact that we never stop feeling like kids, that we all are just overgrown children. It's humbling to think like that when looking at others, and it's surprising how many people have noted the same thing. Another thing they noticed is something I've thankfully already figured out, namely that you should never ever wish away time, especially when you're bored. If you find yourself bored, that's a sign to daydream or write poetry or just be observant. Anyway, have a few examples:
At my age,
even in airports,
why would you wish
time to move faster?
How can it be
that everyone my age
is older than I?
As a boy when desperate I'd pray with bare knees
on the cold floor. I still do,
but from the window I look like an old man.
Getting older I'm much better at watching
rain. I skip counting individual drops
in favor of the general feeling of rain.
Like an old dog
I slowly lower and arrange myself
in a heap of sighs.
The most inconspicuous category of poems are those about writing, but perhaps that makes since since these friends are a couple of authors. I think that Harrison might have more books published, but Kooser is a more public author, being a pulitzer-prize winner, the poet laureate of the US for a year, and teaching at the University of Nebraska. He is known for his poetry, whereas Harrison is known for novellas. It's not a competition... or is it? Either way, have some poems:
Strange world indeed:
a poet keeping himself awake
to write about insomnia.
At the tip of memory's
great funnel-cloud
is the nib of a pen.
I surely understand paper and how poets
disappear despite it. These days I write
so lightly I don't quite touch it.
The poet holds the podium
in both hands
like a garbage bag of words.
Lastly, we have the nature poems, which are somewhat Kooser's specialty. Though Kooser has a distinctly Nebraska taste to his choice of imagery, his images, his diction, and his terminology are never pretentious, never excluding to those "not from around here," and that's why I love him. He's conversational, accessible, and still extremely engaging. I'm kinda tempted to go to another book signing of his so I can ask if my favorites from this book were written by him. I'll leave you with a sampling of some good nature-poems:
Fear is a swallow
in a boarded-up warehouse,
seeking a window out
The pigeon
has swallowed a fountain!
Listen!
The black sleeve falls back
from the scalded fist:
a turkey vulture.
What is it the wind has lost
that she keeps looking for
under each leaf?
The butterfly
jots a note on the wind
to remind itself of something.
In my garden
the late sun glows
through a rabbit's ears.
The poems vary quite widely in quality and content matter, but the former is to be expected with any poetry collection, and the latter is to be expected if the theme(s) weren't "decided" upon by the two friends. The most common themes include nature, aging, mortality, time, writing, women, and politics, with the latter two being the two which felt like they didn't fit in as well. I'm pretty sure that those last two were mostly Harrison's work, since I've never really seen Kooser write poems on either topic. After a brief glancing through Harrison's work and reviews of his work, it looks like he includes both, especially women, in his writing.
This all raises a very interesting angle, as I was somewhat attempting to decipher which author wrote which poems as I went along. Perhaps it would be better to read this collection if you knew both the authors or neither of them, but I'm only familiar with Kooser (and quite decently so at that). Some of the poems were just.... bad, and those were often the ones about women or politics. Kooser is such a timeless author that I'd find it hard to picture him writing some of those, but you never know, since these were initially included in private letters between friends. It seems equally hard to imagine that the shower-room talk was one-sided, that Harrison was constantly bringing up those two topics despite Kooser. If you're looking for an introduction for each poet's work, I don't think I'd recommend this, as its quality varies so much. Kooser's Wheeling Year is a great starting place, and I'm going to explore Harrison's work soon.
As for the poems themselves, they vary in form, but are never longer than 5 lines, averaging at 3. There are a couple which are only 1 or 2, and those actually hit really hard:
But the seventeen-year cicada
has only one syllable.
Trust snow to keep a secret.
An empty boat
will volunteer for anything.
The sparrow is not busy
but hungry.
I prefer the skyline
of a shelf of books.
The blind man navigates
by stars behind the daylight.
There are some true haiku in this collection, where there are two main nature images, a cutting word between them, a sense of impermanence, some wabi-sabi, but many are just short contemporary American poems. The poems about nature are the most consistently good of the collection, while the ones about age, time, and women vary the widest in quality. The Time ones vary from "wow, that sounds like a fragment of a shakespeare sonnet" to "wow, that's just tedious". One of the authors in particular kept mentioning a clock he has that is broken at 5:30, and he makes a groan-inducing boomer remark about it "being right twice a day". I'm really just surprised that that reference made it into so many poems. Some examples of the better ones:
Each time I go outside the world
is different. This has happened
all my life.
Some nights are three nights long,
some days are a mere noon hour, then whistled
back to work, the heart-dredging sludge.
Midday silence is different
from nighttime silence.
I can't tell you how.
Likewise, the poems about women ranged from tastefully poetic to kinda disgusting. It's always a little uncomfortable to hear older people talking about sexuality, since we often assume that they've either become less sexual or that their opinions on the matter don't matter since they're largely out of the pool. Anyway, here's a couple that didn't suck:
When she left me
I stood out in the thunderstorm,
hoping to be destroyed by lightning.
It missed, first left, then right.
It's nice to think that when
we're fossils we'll all be in the same
thin layer of rock.
Oh, to be in love,
with all five buckets
of the senses
overflowing!
The poems about aging ranged about as much, but aging is a topic that Kooser has been working on for a while now, so I think he probably had some of the better ones in here. The author(s) made several remarks about the youth of old age, the fact that we never stop feeling like kids, that we all are just overgrown children. It's humbling to think like that when looking at others, and it's surprising how many people have noted the same thing. Another thing they noticed is something I've thankfully already figured out, namely that you should never ever wish away time, especially when you're bored. If you find yourself bored, that's a sign to daydream or write poetry or just be observant. Anyway, have a few examples:
At my age,
even in airports,
why would you wish
time to move faster?
How can it be
that everyone my age
is older than I?
As a boy when desperate I'd pray with bare knees
on the cold floor. I still do,
but from the window I look like an old man.
Getting older I'm much better at watching
rain. I skip counting individual drops
in favor of the general feeling of rain.
Like an old dog
I slowly lower and arrange myself
in a heap of sighs.
The most inconspicuous category of poems are those about writing, but perhaps that makes since since these friends are a couple of authors. I think that Harrison might have more books published, but Kooser is a more public author, being a pulitzer-prize winner, the poet laureate of the US for a year, and teaching at the University of Nebraska. He is known for his poetry, whereas Harrison is known for novellas. It's not a competition... or is it? Either way, have some poems:
Strange world indeed:
a poet keeping himself awake
to write about insomnia.
At the tip of memory's
great funnel-cloud
is the nib of a pen.
I surely understand paper and how poets
disappear despite it. These days I write
so lightly I don't quite touch it.
The poet holds the podium
in both hands
like a garbage bag of words.
Lastly, we have the nature poems, which are somewhat Kooser's specialty. Though Kooser has a distinctly Nebraska taste to his choice of imagery, his images, his diction, and his terminology are never pretentious, never excluding to those "not from around here," and that's why I love him. He's conversational, accessible, and still extremely engaging. I'm kinda tempted to go to another book signing of his so I can ask if my favorites from this book were written by him. I'll leave you with a sampling of some good nature-poems:
Fear is a swallow
in a boarded-up warehouse,
seeking a window out
The pigeon
has swallowed a fountain!
Listen!
The black sleeve falls back
from the scalded fist:
a turkey vulture.
What is it the wind has lost
that she keeps looking for
under each leaf?
The butterfly
jots a note on the wind
to remind itself of something.
In my garden
the late sun glows
through a rabbit's ears.
Read
January 8, 2026“Reading poetry late at night
trying to come back to life.
Almost but not quite.”
a conversation pierced by levity and occasional gems—like finding a few diamonds in a pile of obsidian.
“So much to live for.
Each rope rings
a different bell.”
the death/aging discourse was a strong thread, and some of those images were particularly moving. how can we die? and then what?
“It’s nice to think that when
we’re fossils we’ll all be in the same
thin layer of rock.”
“The pastures grow up
with red cedars
once the horses are gone.”
hopeful, in the end. a good start to my Year of Returning to Poetry.
trying to come back to life.
Almost but not quite.”
a conversation pierced by levity and occasional gems—like finding a few diamonds in a pile of obsidian.
“So much to live for.
Each rope rings
a different bell.”
the death/aging discourse was a strong thread, and some of those images were particularly moving. how can we die? and then what?
“It’s nice to think that when
we’re fossils we’ll all be in the same
thin layer of rock.”
“The pastures grow up
with red cedars
once the horses are gone.”
hopeful, in the end. a good start to my Year of Returning to Poetry.
January 23, 2008
I'm reluctant to say I'm done with this book and I'll probably end up purchasing it. Most of the poems are three lines written back and forth on postcards, semi-haikus of wisdom, wit and the bittersweetness of life.
Some favorites:
When she left me
I stood out in the thunderstorm,
hoping to be destroyed by lightning.
It missed, first left, then right.
I grow older.
I still like women, but mostly
I like Mexican food.
The face you look out of
is never the face
your lover looks into.
Straining on the toilet
we learn how
the lightning bug feels.
One of the co-writers, Ted Kooser (U.S. Poet Laureate from 2004-6) has a book called Valentines that started out as a nifty little postcard project and exploded. I'm seeing a trend...and also waiting anxiously for the library to get a copy of the book when it comes out in February. The woman who recommended Braided Creek to me was one of the women Kooser wrote his valentines to.
Some favorites:
When she left me
I stood out in the thunderstorm,
hoping to be destroyed by lightning.
It missed, first left, then right.
I grow older.
I still like women, but mostly
I like Mexican food.
The face you look out of
is never the face
your lover looks into.
Straining on the toilet
we learn how
the lightning bug feels.
One of the co-writers, Ted Kooser (U.S. Poet Laureate from 2004-6) has a book called Valentines that started out as a nifty little postcard project and exploded. I'm seeing a trend...and also waiting anxiously for the library to get a copy of the book when it comes out in February. The woman who recommended Braided Creek to me was one of the women Kooser wrote his valentines to.
March 10, 2012
An easy 5 stars. This is a book I could carry around for a few months. It's certainly not going on my actual shelves any time soon. Two old poets hold forth in short spurts. If you like like haiku, or asian verse, and if you'd like to know how the American idiom can comfortably extend the forms this is the book for you. If you'd like a master class in writing but hate the how-to books, this is for you.
Here's what: this book can teach you how to see, and it can teach you how to think about what you've seen, and it can teach you how to write about both. That's big stuff, but not only that, there's at least one gem on every page. Here are a few, at random:
The old hen scratches
then looks, scratches then looks.
My life.
In my garden
the late sun glows
through a rabbit's ears.
How can it be
that everyone my age
is older than I?
A nephew rubs the sore feet
of his aunt,
and the rope that lifts us all toward grace
creaks in the pulley.
Like I said, big stuff.
Here's what: this book can teach you how to see, and it can teach you how to think about what you've seen, and it can teach you how to write about both. That's big stuff, but not only that, there's at least one gem on every page. Here are a few, at random:
The old hen scratches
then looks, scratches then looks.
My life.
In my garden
the late sun glows
through a rabbit's ears.
How can it be
that everyone my age
is older than I?
A nephew rubs the sore feet
of his aunt,
and the rope that lifts us all toward grace
creaks in the pulley.
Like I said, big stuff.
May 2, 2011
Short, aphoristic poems by two old friends. I wasn't quite as enamored by this collection as when I first read it over a decade ago, but I still liked it a lot. Some favorites this time:
How one old tire leans up against
another, the breath gone out of both.
--
If you can awaken
inside the familiar
and discover it strange
you need never leave home.
--
I have grown old and know
how an owl feels,
seeing a man with a lantern.
--
I hope there's time
for this and that,
and not just this.
--
As long as the woodpecker
taps on my roof I'll be fine,
a little life left in the shell.
--
The pastures grow up
with red cedars
once the horses are gone.
How one old tire leans up against
another, the breath gone out of both.
--
If you can awaken
inside the familiar
and discover it strange
you need never leave home.
--
I have grown old and know
how an owl feels,
seeing a man with a lantern.
--
I hope there's time
for this and that,
and not just this.
--
As long as the woodpecker
taps on my roof I'll be fine,
a little life left in the shell.
--
The pastures grow up
with red cedars
once the horses are gone.
January 7, 2015
I don't like the fact that there is no attribution in this book of tiny haiku-like poems. Initially. I found myself thinking more about "which guy wrote this one" than about what was being written. By mid-way through, I felt certain I knew. Having read all of Kooser's works, and some of Harrison's fiction, it was not that hard. The two of them prove that friends can be very different sorts of people. While I love Kooser, I did find some of these very humorous, and I am sure they were Harrison's.
December 24, 2007
I'm a little on the fence with this book. It's not great by any stretch of the imagination, but it's an enjoyable quick read. Looked at in terms of something that will make you want to write, it does a fine job. It reminds you that poetry is everywhere and is not all that hard or difficult but can be a few lines scribbled between friends. My favorite mini poem in here was about topographic maps being fingerprints of God.
February 14, 2013
A short, simple book of aphorisms and small poems that Jim Harrison and Ted Kooser wrote to one another when Kooser was ill. They don't attribute specific lines to one another.
Some lines made me laugh out loud, some were sentimental, some reminded you of the joys and burdens of the mundane, and a handful were on aging. Very little was inspiring or awed me with beauty, but I don't think those were the purpose of this book.
A quick, easy, enjoyable read.
Some lines made me laugh out loud, some were sentimental, some reminded you of the joys and burdens of the mundane, and a handful were on aging. Very little was inspiring or awed me with beauty, but I don't think those were the purpose of this book.
A quick, easy, enjoyable read.
October 9, 2017
It took a little time to get into the style of this book. It is written by two different people, and the fact that there is no notation of who wrote what (the book is written like one long poem) felt off at first. It made it difficult to discern sometimes when the writing had moved from one person to the next, and there were a few spots when it would have been nice to know that detail.
November 17, 2012
Kooser and Harrison trade off insightful and, in some cases, delightful short poems in this shared collection. Not as prosaic as Harrison's poems can be, or as reserved as Kooser can be on his own. This is a great contemporary collection for fans of haiku.
December 15, 2009
I met Ted Kooser at the Dodge Poetry festival.I wish there were more of these types of books and poetic interactions
April 7, 2016
This is an incredible book of poem things. I've never read anything quite like it.
April 10, 2017
some of these aphorisms, blurbs are good
i expect that all or most of the good material was contributed by ted kooser and all of the silly non poetic material was contributed by jim harrison
i expect that all or most of the good material was contributed by ted kooser and all of the silly non poetic material was contributed by jim harrison
April 4, 2018
I like the idea of two authors exchanging letters of poetry (or "poetters" as I have been calling them) but I would have liked more continuity from one to the next.
December 26, 2023
These poets are utter delights, disguised as everyday observations..
January 11, 2025
“This book is an assertion in favor of poetry and against credentials.”
What a beautiful assertion it is. Beautiful and eagle-eyed, and wistful, and wise. And hilarious.
What a beautiful assertion it is. Beautiful and eagle-eyed, and wistful, and wise. And hilarious.
August 6, 2018
Your thoughts on this collection of very short poems will likely depend on two factors: how low your expectations are about the nature of this conversation in poetry, and how much you agree with the comments made by the authors. If you are expecting or hoping for sustained observations in the nature of Ted Kooser's better work, that is not going to be found here. On the other hand, if you are expecting the concise work to be as tightly organized as Kooser's winter reflections sent on postcards to Jim Harrison, you will also be disappointed. Rather, these books are a collection of short and witty comments made about a wide variety of matters, and this is less a collection of real conversations but rather a conversation of witty epigrams [1], of the sort of conversation that is expected out of cynical but intelligent people, the sort of conversation that happens on sitcoms. To be sure, some people love that sort of conversation and some people hate it, but that is the sort of conversation we are dealing with here, and it should be recognized regardless of how it is viewed.
This short collection of poems lasts less than 100 pages, but some of the short sayings in here are deeply reflective on such subjects as death and aging, love and relationships, the nature of friendships, creation, and the search for wisdom. Unfortunately, some of the poems are also somewhat judgmental and harsh. One of the poems, for example, mocks Republicans and ascribes to them the thought that darker people are having more fun than them, which the author then affirms. This sort of cheap shot is part of the reason why many leftist writers are viewed with some reason as the enemies of what is decent and good, and why our political battles have gotten out of hand in recent years. Another aphorism on a woman's perfect butt shows the adulterous longings of the poet, not understanding that it was entirely proper and not loutish at all for the woman's husband to tell him (and others), that the enjoyment of his wife's perfect butt was reserved to him. To insult someone for telling you the truth is to be further away from wisdom, not closer to it. This poetic collection, in other words, is definitely a mixed bag.
And perhaps it could not help being so. As much as Ted Kooser is a poet whose thoughts and insights are worth taking seriously and who has a lot to offer as a writer, it is hard for me to be as charitable to Jim Harrison, who seems at times to be more of a cheap partisan hack. Perhaps it was thought by the two friends involved that a collaborative effort would bring out the best in them, but that does not appear to have been the case, as this book is far from the best by Ted Kooser, the poet I am familiar with the most. Whether or not it brings Harrison's efforts above their level or sinks it as a result of the complacency these two seem to feel with each other is not for me to say. At any rate, these two poets seem to be like two friends riffing in a bar while drinking various intoxicants and assuming that they are far wiser and more clever than they really are. The end result is that what may be perfectly entertaining to an audience of people who are either paid to be kind or who are similarly inebriated is exposed before a sober audience that is likely to be at least somewhat less charitable, unless they too are intoxicated with the same leftist complacency themselves.
[1] See, for example:
https://edgeinducedcohesion.blog/2014...
https://edgeinducedcohesion.blog/2014...
https://edgeinducedcohesion.blog/2017...
This short collection of poems lasts less than 100 pages, but some of the short sayings in here are deeply reflective on such subjects as death and aging, love and relationships, the nature of friendships, creation, and the search for wisdom. Unfortunately, some of the poems are also somewhat judgmental and harsh. One of the poems, for example, mocks Republicans and ascribes to them the thought that darker people are having more fun than them, which the author then affirms. This sort of cheap shot is part of the reason why many leftist writers are viewed with some reason as the enemies of what is decent and good, and why our political battles have gotten out of hand in recent years. Another aphorism on a woman's perfect butt shows the adulterous longings of the poet, not understanding that it was entirely proper and not loutish at all for the woman's husband to tell him (and others), that the enjoyment of his wife's perfect butt was reserved to him. To insult someone for telling you the truth is to be further away from wisdom, not closer to it. This poetic collection, in other words, is definitely a mixed bag.
And perhaps it could not help being so. As much as Ted Kooser is a poet whose thoughts and insights are worth taking seriously and who has a lot to offer as a writer, it is hard for me to be as charitable to Jim Harrison, who seems at times to be more of a cheap partisan hack. Perhaps it was thought by the two friends involved that a collaborative effort would bring out the best in them, but that does not appear to have been the case, as this book is far from the best by Ted Kooser, the poet I am familiar with the most. Whether or not it brings Harrison's efforts above their level or sinks it as a result of the complacency these two seem to feel with each other is not for me to say. At any rate, these two poets seem to be like two friends riffing in a bar while drinking various intoxicants and assuming that they are far wiser and more clever than they really are. The end result is that what may be perfectly entertaining to an audience of people who are either paid to be kind or who are similarly inebriated is exposed before a sober audience that is likely to be at least somewhat less charitable, unless they too are intoxicated with the same leftist complacency themselves.
[1] See, for example:
https://edgeinducedcohesion.blog/2014...
https://edgeinducedcohesion.blog/2014...
https://edgeinducedcohesion.blog/2017...
October 25, 2019
I have always found haiku rather tiresome as they accrue and felt that anyone could probably churn out 250 or so in an afternoon after getting the hang of the form. (I was delighted when the late Robert Peters came up with his satirical “An Eskimo Haiku.”) Even so, I gave in to the late Jim Harrison’s and the still-among-us Ted Kooser’s Braided Creek, a collection of haiku-like poems which seldom exceed 20 syllables.
The poems were done as a sort of exchange between the two poets, both of whom possess ample intelligence, attentiveness and, for sure, humor. I liked some of the poems a lot. I liked others less. And I don’t think either poet gave a damn about how I might feel. That’s part of the devil-may-care charm of the book.
Harrison and Kooser swore never to reveal which of them wrote which poems, but surely this one is Harrison’s:
The one-eyed man must be fearful
of being taken for a birdhouse.
And this is surely Kooser:
The ninth time I screwed Ophelia
in a row I was still a garden hose
but then I woke up in Nebraska.
Yes, anything goes, and there is rampant irreverence.
Oh, to write just one poem
that would last as long as that rose
tattooed on her butt!
There is also considerable reverence:
At dawn, a rabbit stretches tall
to eat the red asparagus berries.
___
The big fat garter snake
emerged from the gas stove burner
where she had coiled around the pilot light
for warmth on a cold night.
___
A nephew rubs the sore feet
of his aunt,
and the rope that pulls us all to grace
creaks in the pulley.
___
In an egg yolk
an artery fine as the touch
of a feather.
And there are moments of nearly preternatural empathy:
The nightmare we awaken from,
grateful, is somebody else’s life.
I’m so glad these guys got together for this book.
The poems were done as a sort of exchange between the two poets, both of whom possess ample intelligence, attentiveness and, for sure, humor. I liked some of the poems a lot. I liked others less. And I don’t think either poet gave a damn about how I might feel. That’s part of the devil-may-care charm of the book.
Harrison and Kooser swore never to reveal which of them wrote which poems, but surely this one is Harrison’s:
The one-eyed man must be fearful
of being taken for a birdhouse.
And this is surely Kooser:
The ninth time I screwed Ophelia
in a row I was still a garden hose
but then I woke up in Nebraska.
Yes, anything goes, and there is rampant irreverence.
Oh, to write just one poem
that would last as long as that rose
tattooed on her butt!
There is also considerable reverence:
At dawn, a rabbit stretches tall
to eat the red asparagus berries.
___
The big fat garter snake
emerged from the gas stove burner
where she had coiled around the pilot light
for warmth on a cold night.
___
A nephew rubs the sore feet
of his aunt,
and the rope that pulls us all to grace
creaks in the pulley.
___
In an egg yolk
an artery fine as the touch
of a feather.
And there are moments of nearly preternatural empathy:
The nightmare we awaken from,
grateful, is somebody else’s life.
I’m so glad these guys got together for this book.
March 31, 2023
This is a twentieth anniversary re-release of a collection of short poems -- on the scale of haiku or tanka -- exchanged between Ted Kooser and Jim Harrison over many years. The poems are unattributed and, famously, literary critics who boldly proclaimed they knew which poems were written by which poet have been proven wrong.
While the length of the poems is similar to that of haiku and tanka, if one were going to categorize them in terms of Japanese verse, most would be more like senryū or kyōka (the poetic genres that match haiku and tanka [respectively] in form, but allow for humor, humanism, abstract metaphors, and freedom to deviate from juxtaposition of natural imagery.) But even that categorization would be deceptive because these poems tend toward a uniquely American voice.
That said, there are a few that fit the Japanese style well, e.g.:
In the morning light, / the doorknob, cold with dew.
Or,
The cups of the tulips / tip forward, spilling their snow.
There are also a few that are more like ko-an than like poems. (A ko-an is a Zen “riddle” designed to help practitioners break the hold of logic and reason on the mind. Typically, the ko-an looks like a question, but it can’t be thought out to an intellectually satisfying answer as most questions can.)
Is this poem a pebble, / or a raindrop coated with dust?
Or,
My wife’s lovely dog, Mary, kills butterflies. They’re easier than birds. I wonder if Buddha had dog nature.
But one hears an American voice in such examples as:
On my desk two / indisputably great creations: duct tape and saltine crackers.
Or,
Rowing across the lake / all the dragonflies are screwing. Stop it. It’s Sunday.
There are philosophical pieces, such as:
Only today / I heard / the river / within the river.
Or,
How tall would I be without my enemies to measure me?
This anniversary edition has a beautiful introduction by Naomi Shihab Nye and a brief epilogue by Kooser, but is otherwise the same.
If you like light and whimsical poetry that can make you laugh, or – sometimes - make you think, you should check out this collection.
While the length of the poems is similar to that of haiku and tanka, if one were going to categorize them in terms of Japanese verse, most would be more like senryū or kyōka (the poetic genres that match haiku and tanka [respectively] in form, but allow for humor, humanism, abstract metaphors, and freedom to deviate from juxtaposition of natural imagery.) But even that categorization would be deceptive because these poems tend toward a uniquely American voice.
That said, there are a few that fit the Japanese style well, e.g.:
In the morning light, / the doorknob, cold with dew.
Or,
The cups of the tulips / tip forward, spilling their snow.
There are also a few that are more like ko-an than like poems. (A ko-an is a Zen “riddle” designed to help practitioners break the hold of logic and reason on the mind. Typically, the ko-an looks like a question, but it can’t be thought out to an intellectually satisfying answer as most questions can.)
Is this poem a pebble, / or a raindrop coated with dust?
Or,
My wife’s lovely dog, Mary, kills butterflies. They’re easier than birds. I wonder if Buddha had dog nature.
But one hears an American voice in such examples as:
On my desk two / indisputably great creations: duct tape and saltine crackers.
Or,
Rowing across the lake / all the dragonflies are screwing. Stop it. It’s Sunday.
There are philosophical pieces, such as:
Only today / I heard / the river / within the river.
Or,
How tall would I be without my enemies to measure me?
This anniversary edition has a beautiful introduction by Naomi Shihab Nye and a brief epilogue by Kooser, but is otherwise the same.
If you like light and whimsical poetry that can make you laugh, or – sometimes - make you think, you should check out this collection.
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