Winter Road

by Louis Jenkins

"Louis Jenkins writes satire as elegant as Horace but with motors in it and telephones and the North Shore."—Garrison Keillor

Several of these poems are included in the performance script for NICE FISH, the play.

From the acknowledged "master" of the prose poem comes a new gathering of sixty poems. The work in The Winter Road comprises an extended meditation on the nature of memory and its influence on everyday reality. Within poems that turn whimsical, ironic, and serious, whole imaginative worlds are created and glide the reader into pleasing and unexpected territory. As when Coronado's search for gold lands him empty-handed in Kansas, Jenkins reminds us that "miracles always have a cost," and that our desire for absolute truth can sometimes lead us nowhere. Louis Jenkins' poems have appeared in American Poetry Review, Gettysburg Review, Kenyon Review, et al. and in The Best American Poetry 1999. He lives in Duluth, Minnesota. Old Man Winter Old man Winter doesn't like anything. He doesn't like dogs or
cats or squirrels or birds, especially seagulls, or children or
smart-ass college students. He doesn't like loggers or environ-
mentalists or snowmobilers or skiers in their stupid lycra outfits.
He doesn't like Christmas or television. He doesn't like bureau-
crats, lawyers or pliticians. There is a thing or two he could say
to the host of the local talk-radio show but he knows for a fact
that the son-of-a-bitch does the broadcast from his condo in
Florida. He's pissed off about the OPEC oil conspiracy and the
conspiracy of gas station owners to raise prices. He doesn't like
foreigners and he doesn't like his neighbors (not that he has
many); when they finally die they just leave their junk all over
the yard. He doesn't like that. He doesn't like the look of the sky
right now, either, overcast, a kind of jaundice color. He hates
that. And that stand of spruce trees behind the house turning
black in the dusk . . . . The way it gets dark earlier every day. He
doesn't like that.

Genres: Poetry

72 pages, Paperback

First published October 1, 2000

About the author

Louis Jenkins was an American prose poet .He lived in Duluth, Minnesota, with his wife Ann for over four decades. His poems have been published in a number of literary magazines and anthologies. Jenkins was a guest on A Prairie Home Companion numerous times and was also featured on The Writer's Almanac.

Reviews

[Marie Zhuikov · Rating 4 out of 5]

I received an autographed copy of this book of prose poems as a thank-you gift, of sorts. I am a Jenkins fan and it was fun to read his earlier works. Two of my favorites were "The Telephone" and "Florida."

"The Telephone" appealed because technology has changed so much since Jenkins wrote the poem 17 years ago. In the poem, he opines: No one uses the telephone anymore so telephones, out of habit or boredom or loneliness perhaps, call one another. "Please leave a message at the tone." "I'm sorry, this is a courtesy call. We'll call back at a more convenient time. There is no message."

Ha. I wonder what he thinks of phones now? Time for a poetic sequel.

"Florida" appeals to the romantic in me, and I think I heard Jenkins read it once in person. It deals with the wonder of eating an orange during a Minnesota winter. "One taste and I know there is a world beyond my imagining. It's impossible, like love, yet it really exists."

[Jon Skaalen · Rating 5 out of 5]

After the Dec. 2019 death of this funny, insightful Duluth poet, I started to read or reread many of his works including this volume of prose poems from around 2000. Seeing video of him reading some of these at the Guthrie celebration of his life in March 2020 further brought the wonderful craziness of these minis-tales to life.

[James · Rating 4 out of 5]

Louis Jenkins' prose poems mix satire and humor with wit and wisdom. Some of his poems read like short realistic stories while others venture into the absurd but always with intelligence. I look forward to reading even more of him.

[Geoff · Rating 4 out of 5]

I went to see a play in NYC earlier in the year. It starred Mark Rylance, known for his work at the Globe theatre in London, among other things. It was not Shakespeare however, but a strange play set in the snowy regions of Minnesota. I found out that Rylance had been brought up in Wisconsin, a fact that surprised me as I had associated him with high calibre British Shakespeare. The author is a poet from Minnesota, Louis Jenkins. Rylance had been a fan of his and had mentioned his work when receiving an award. They had never met, but Jenkins saw the award ceremony and they eventually connected. The play was pleasant and humorous, if a bit slight. I enjoyed it's strange elliptical humor, much like old yankee humor I heard from from the father's side of my family. I picked up this slim volume of Jenkins prose poems hoping to find material in a similar vain and was not disappointed. I feel a kinship with the northern regions, where hockey is important, snow is deep, the air can be clear and hard and bright and the forests deep and dark. It is a set of very short (half a page each) prose poems on a variety of subjects, wry and sometimes fantastic.
From Wind in the Trees
'You could live on the go like the wind with what seems like a purpose ar at least a direction, but no home, reckless, pushy, with attention deficit disorder. ... People will say "that guy, you know ..." ...You could live like the trees, parochial, rooted and restless, prone to hysteria. ... you'd have a family, parents,grandparents, aunts and uncles all close around you until, if you are lucky, they recede, one by one, into the peripheral haze of memory. Finally some space, a clearing, a place to fall."

[Kristin · Rating 4 out of 5]

Discovered this Minnesota poet's "prose poems" are a delight. I only discovered him when I discovered that fabulous British actor, Mark Rylance, was a huge fan. What a hidden treasure - at least to me.

My favorite:

River Gorge

I could carve out
a little place for myself
in 10,000 years or so,
but long before that life
would have gone all strange
and none of the landmarks
would be familiar.
Like the water
I'm just passing through,
only I'm not taking
anything with me.

Will not move onto the next one. Stay tuned.

[Jackie · Rating 3 out of 5]

Mother's Day gift, from Lee. Jenkins writes "prose poems". I certainly would not attempt to define poetry, and although I like some of these short pieces, they still did not feel like I think poetry feels, or should feel. That said, I might read more of his work. I like his quirky sense of humor.

[Rauan · Rating 3 out of 5]

a book of ordinary, garden-variety prose poems. a step or two below Bly. and that's not so bad.