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In Memory of a Banyan Tree: Poems of the Outside World: 1985 to 2022
Three Wooden Trunks
The Country Where Everyone’s Name Is Fear: Selected Poems
Hiding from Salesmen  
  Scott Poole

ISBN 978-0-9717265-2-9     $24.95  /  $25 (Canada)     6 x 8.5       

88 pp      
PUB DATE: Spring 2003       Poetry


Scott Poole’s poems are witty, terse, irreverent, sad, and, mostly, totally unexpected. Hiding from Salesmen—such a great title, signals, accurately, original, delightful.

—Diana O’Hehir

It would be simple enough if all Poole were interested in was comic resistance to certain death-pulls in our culture. Instead, his speaker—a husband, a father, someone grateful for “reality’s green backyard”—looks everywhere for signs of nobility and magic in human life. He finds it at a girl’s soccer game, at the river’s edge where lovers meet for picnics, at the scene of a terrorist attack. Under the beam of an MRI, the huge machine circling round him, “I let it register my love of baseball, / the friend I saved from drowning . . . / And I hoped / something greater than me / might show up on the screen.” Just as the instrument searches within, the poems in Poole’s book look out, tracking what is beautiful, useful, and true.

—Richard Robbins

Experiencing Scott Poole’s poems is like visiting inside the human brain. His words pulse with electric life, and carry the reader on a torrent of wonderful energy to encounter marvel after marvel. A narrator grows corn inside his garage, another person bounces basketballs off a Rodin sculpture, a man sticks his foot into a coal mine on a Spring day permitting hundreds of tiny miners to escape.  A sensitivity quivering with the terror and joy of existence inhabits this poetry. A man temporarily abandons replacing a broken automobile starter to savor “the perfection of babies.” Another realizes that living beings posses a power such “that death / can’t completely inhabit the body.” Poole’s words would convince anyone that our species will endure and triumph. Humorous, thoughtful, and vibrating with magic, the poems of Hiding from Salesmen are simultaneously vehicle, idea, organic compound and music. The future of poetry—hey, the future of humanity—is in good hands if it’s in Scott Poole’s hands.

—Tom Wayman


Shaker architecture is as simple as sex.
Two naked elms in a field wait to be
wooden bowls filled with light.
Each scratch visible.
Staircases. The sound of rising and descending steps
into clouds of bleached wood.
Rows upon rows of plain drawers without labels.
Skylit room.

All doors are open. The hinges greased.
Cold air dances without music.
A Shaker house is as sexual as a waiting skillet.

I don't care what you think.
The Shakers are the sexiest people.

All their chairs are empty.