Today I’d like to sing the praises of Nolan Zavoral. Every Monday, when I’m home in Minneapolis, I attend our Monday Morning Poetry Group with Deborah Keenan. Nolan, who has been a member of Deborah’s group for ten years, brings a new poem for us each week. I’m always intrigued by his unique view of life after 50. His poems are quirky and insightful and always full of fresh images. When he read this poem last week, I knew I wanted tp feature Nolan and his poem on our website.
Nolan’s background is journalism, thirty years’ worth, mostly on the staffs of metro dailies, in Minneapolis and Milwaukee, and at USA Today. “I quit to write what I wanted: fiction and poetry,” he says. He was a founding member of the Laurel Poetry Collective. Besides being published by the collective, he has published poems in many anthologies and poetry publications.
“With Deborah Keenan’s help,” he says, ” I’m putting together a new poetry manuscript.”
Here is his poem:
These are not age spots on the backs of my hands.
They are freckles.
I go to bed later and later, as if I’m afraid
To release another day.
My stylist takes less and less time for my trims.
She must be getting a lot faster.
Twenty years younger than I, she lost her husband
And brother within a month. I over-tip, like it’s a comfort.
There’s nothing wrong with my memory, although
I still can’t remember the name of The Band’s drummer.
There’s one other name I keep forgetting, but
I can’t remember what it is.
Occasionally, when my prosthetic right hip and pace-
Maker and denture aren’t troubling me, I feel almost 50.
If life throws you a curve, just make contact, is
I have no idea what that means.