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Thank You Jeffrey Brown of PBS News Hour

Stephen Kuusisto to appear on PBS News Hour
Image: Logo of PBS News Hour

Tonight the PBS NewsHour will air a segment about my new book Have Dog, Will TravelThe piece features an interview with Jeffrey Brown whose reporting on literature and poetry is well known to book lovers across the nation. Jeffrey is also a poet whose first collection The News is available from Copper Canyon Press. In our time together we talked about poetry, civil rights, disability culture, dogs for the blind, the field of disability studies, and the power of literature to bring people together around social justice movements. And yes, there’s a lovely dog, Caitlyn, a sweetie pie yellow Labrador from Guiding Eyes for the Blind.

The program airs locally, in Syracuse at 7 PM. Check your local listings.

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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:
Amazon
Prairie Lights
Grammercy Books
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 

Uncle History’s Extended Family…

There was this scientist
Put a microphone
Into an ants nest
Mandibles, legs,
Antennae, jaws
Pure John Cage
Music of tiny hairs
“Sounds like
My nieces and nephews”
Uncle History sez
“My stowaway tribe”
Each child
Doing its part
Lifting the sugar cube
Of tragedy
All in darkness
On any given day
They’re busy
Moving the sweet horror
Like the children
Of the poor
They’ve been put to work
Early

Uncle History and His Relatives

There’s nothing between uncle history
And his relatives—he’s the good uncle—
Quiet, respectful,
Happy (when it rains)
To play Monopoly
He speaks volumes
With his eyes
His sister, La Religieuse
Has loads of children
Game time lasts months
And the green, democratic
Springtime sneaks up
The way seasons do
Silently, infused
With death
They keep rolling
The dice—
Chance, no chance
Fireflies appearing
At windows

When spring comes…

When spring comes
Uncle History puts away
His winter carvings
Raises his checkered face
Walks in the open
Whispers the oldest sentence
“Live a little, after all…”
His home-made nick-nacks
Tell another story—
Shuman under Clara’s piano
Music, the refuge
Of color
Weary eyes
Blood spatters
Of tuberculosis
He carves these things
Because they are true
Little chatchkas
That resemble birds
You can go in his house
And look

Uncle History loves drunks…

Uncle History loves drunks
Van Gogh sitting under a tree
With absinthe
Grant on horseback
Waving a bottle—
“Watch out Vicksburg!”
And Hemingway
Who drank so much
You could see his liver
Under his skin
Like a worm
Joe McCarthy
Hunting Communists
With Scotch…
He’s known them all:
Churchill
Kerouac
Veronica Lake
Sultan Selim II
Alcibiades
What a list!
His favorite moment:
The Greeks
After a night of drinking
Nursing their hangovers
Inside a wooden horse

Uncle History owns four things…

Uncle History owns four things
Of zero use—
Cable from the Brooklyn Bridge
A pile of Polish zlotys
The first ever fur coat
And a mini Rosetta Stone
Covered with mistakes
These keep him going
He fingers the cable
Dons the coat
Spends zlotys
In a mind-brothel
And translates hieroglyphs
Of nonexistent gods
Now he rings a little bell
Calls for tea
Though he has no servant

Uncle History’s Shack

No one comes to the shack
Where Uncle
Lives with his wife
And her beautiful art
There’s no term
For what she makes
Even a blank wall is thrilling
Especially this one
Where a spider walks a fine crack
She turns lonely
Into loneliness
The way priests paint eggs
For children—
The analogy
Can’t be explained
Uncle loves to watch his wife’s hands
Moving through the air
Like snails on broken glass
(Another one
That can’t be explained)
This is how art occurs
In empty roomss

Uncle History is a Pointillist Masterpiece

Uncle History is a pointillist masterpiece
When he leans to his mirror
He’s all colored dots
It’s time to jump into the day
But in public
No one spots him
“A trick of the light”
That’s what they call him
Pins of sun
On fresh snow
Imagine going through life
Both known
And invisible
Central to all
And easy to forget
Beautiful, that’s what he is
Picture the smallest flecks
In the world
Falling where you walk
He’s “dot-daddy” alright
Sadly people walk over him