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Memories and Observations in "Choreographer"
By Laura Peters
Library Communications
Posted 9/22/2008
MADISON, Wis. –The Choreographer of Raindrops is a poetry chapbook recommended to those who appreciate the power of language in conveying
memories, experiences, and observations. Lindner extols the truths of small moments. Mining wry philosophical gold from the commonplace, he finds hidden depths in curious places, even in compost. “[S]awdust speaks / …[of] the grinding / of years, …grass clippings tell… / …the cost / of outgrowing, …coffee grounds / moan of nights, long nights. / …If not for the whisper of seedlings, / I don’t know what I’d do.”
Carl Lindner is an emeritus professor at the University of Wisconsin-Parkside where he taught literature, writing, and composition from 1969 until 2007, during which time he was awarded on several occasions for his teaching efforts. This is the second chapbook Lindner has contributed to the Parallel Press poetry chapbook series. His first, Eat and Remember was published in 2001. Since then he has published two other chapbooks: Vampire, and The Only Game, along with two full-length collections: Shooting Baskets in a Dark Gymnasium and Angling into Light. He is the father of two children and currently resides in Racine, Wisconsin with his cat, Jesse James.
The Parallel Press is an imprint of the University of Wisconsin-Madison Libraries. For more information, visit http://parallelpress.library.wisc.edu/chapbooks/poetry.
Orders may be sent to:
The Parallel Press
372 Memorial Library
728 State Street
Madison, WI 53706
Phone: (608) 262-2600
A Selection from “Starlings:”
I see them on pavement,
always next to windows
that cut short their flight.
One lies outside a bank,
suddenly locked in a vault
without a combination.
Another stiffens
on the other side
of my window at school,
having learned a hard lesson.
Over and over
they fly into glass,
stunned by what
they cannot see
or glimpse too late.
En route in open space,
heading to safety,
they sail into panes
and crack their necks,
a bubble of blood
on their beaks
like a last word.
Now in a greenhouse,
a hot room of glass,
I hear a flutter overhead.
And I try
to shoo it
toward the broken
pane it came through,
fail, then raise a row
of windows, look again
to see if it will make
for this narrow door of light.
It is already gone.