Marjorie Saiser's first book, Bones of a Very Fine Hand, won the Nebraska Book Award for Poetry for 2000.
Saiser received the Literary Heritage Award in 1999 from the Nebraska Literary Heritage Association and a fellowship in literature in 2000 presented by the Nebraska Arts Council.
Her poems continue to be published in literary journals including Prairie Schooner, Cream City Review, Laurel Review, Meridian, and Georgia Review.
This Ain't No Bass Boat Day
My love is in the shower,
his elbows banging the sides,
the shower small as the cabin is small,
the woods huge around the cabin, around me,
waiting in bed as I am
for my love to be done in the shower,
my love already done with fishing-
three big walleye keepers, two
thrown back-my love having already
walked down to the boat in the dark, having
already fished and come back, he says,
victorious. Ready now for a romp,
he says, in this haystack I've been keeping warm.
Haystack, nothing, I say. More like, I declare,
a whole darn marina. This ain't no 16-foot Lund day.
Consult your almanac. If luck holds, if the wind is right,
this could be your twenty-footer inboard/outboard day;
this could be your off-shore racer day.
With any luck at all, I tell him, this could be your
open seas day, your unlimited hydroplane V-8
with supercharger day. This ain't no snark day,
no jonboat on top of the car day. This ain't no
Yellow Jacket 9.9 Evinrude day. You can start hoping,
I tell him, for a twin-hulled Hobie Catamaran day.
The moon perched as it was for luck last night,
a golden grossbeak above the flat dark lake,
you might hope for your 40-foot
three-deck Grady White day. And later,
if luck holds, if the wind is right,
we'll have a late breakfast in town at the cafe.
If luck holds, if the wind is right, maybe our ultimate
good luck charm, the town eccentric, will return.
He'll come into the cafe, bow to the waitress,
his green cap pulled down on his forehead
like a good omen, and he'll shuffle in his skinny-leg way
to his favorite booth in the back,
sprinkling our future good fortune right and left,
singing and shuffling, shuffling and singing-
only slightly off-key-
I don't know why I love you like I do.
I don't know why; I just do.
Frying Eggs in Bacon Fat
Frying the eggs in bacon fat
the next morning she thinks about it.
She doesn't like to think about it,
the river filling her mouth and throat,
her hands clawing the dark water,
clawing his arm; he was mad
about that, the scratches on his arm
and he was mad about the ring,
said he'd never buy her another,
said she had one if she could
find it on the bottom of the Niobrara.
In part of her mind
she thinks it was not her fault,
they shouldn't have been
pushing on her head and laughing,
her husband, his brother,
but men did that sort of thing.
It was supposed to be fun,
cooling off in the river.
Nothing can make them sorry,
not the least bit apologetic.
She bastes the eggs,
blindfolding them the way
he likes, splashing bacon grease
over them with her mother's
old spatula. The yolks
whiten in the hot fat,
the brown flecks
catch and hold. Maybe with time
he'll come to be more loving and kind.
To the Man in First Class Who Will Not
Look at Me Today
We come on, the general boarders,
we file by and our line slows and I am
the end of it, in the aisle of the first class compartment,
waiting, one hand behind me for the handle of the bag with wheels,
one hand in front with my carry-on. You,
having no particular place to focus
and having finished or forgotten your copy of whatever you read,
look briefly at my sweater, my red beads.
Briefly briefly past my face face face.
I catch on fast. I look out your window to the tarmac, to the
four-wheeled sideless topless vehicle with orange cones
piled on it. I focus on its faded triangular flag
flapping like a tongue. The steward
begins his speil into his microphone:
overhead and baggage and compartment and stow,
and I am the end of the line, I can't move
forward, can't pass your steel-wool chest hair
at the neck of your unbottoned shirt,
your thick gold chain
and I am sweating, waiting,
my too-much baggage like an anchor in the aisle.
I have dragged it through the airport,
airline to airline, my original flight last-minute cancelled.
Hey, first class
Hey, gold chain
I am 4D, the rows they call last
I am sweaty, I made it this far, I made it-
my black turtleneck reeking,
my hands full-I blow the hair out of my right eye.
Hey, leg room
Hey, ice cubes
Live a little.
Relax.
Review of Lost In Seward County by Laurel Johnson, Midwest Book Review
On the back cover of Lost in Seward County, a Saiser fan states she is one of Nebraska's literary treasures. I agree. Her poetry typifies what is strong and pure among those who call Nebraska home. Ms. Saiser says in "Re-Entry":
"I have your genes, your no-fooling DNA."
No-fooling, indeed. Everything about this poet's work is served straight up.
In one of my favorites, "Taking the Baby to the Prairie", she says:
"I lift this child to grassland,
to kingbird,
to cedar and sumac,
to long roots hidden like a deer in the draw."
Her words bring prairies to life, communicate their beauty simply and effectively. In "Nine Mile Prairie, April":
"The smell of plum brush so sweet it makes some exquisite nerve ache."
In "Not So Much Bottom Line but Bluestem" she speaks of family ties and friendship, what's truly important.
"....and I was ashamed how I had a moment before
been promoting myself, trying to get ahead,
selling myself when what matters is close against the ribs
and next to the beating noise of the heart...."
"Father" tells of tenderness and touching.
"....as he showed me in Kramer's mortuary
that grandmother did not mind being touched
and that those dead, and living, are not untouchable
if you are not afraid."
And always, Marjorie Saiser paints a true picture of Nebraska, such as in "Holed Up in Valentine, Nebraska."
"....I imagine the Niobrara,
lying low in her white banks while this thing blows over.
I imagine a Charolais or an Angus, head-down,
turning tail to the wind. Out of the snowbank
at the edge of the parking lot, a single stalk of dry prairie grass
flops like a metronome. Thirty to forty, with gusts to 50.
Life blows on."
This poet has won numerous awards. I say, for good reason.
This page last updated: July 28th, 2003
