Remembering a poet's hospitality

Editor's note: Most Minnesota writers knew Bill Holm, but not all of them had been to his house in Minneota, Minn., for a sleepover. Barton Sutter's reminiscence, below, was included in a booklet published last year by the McKnight Foundation, which named Holm its Distinguished Artist for 2008. It also appears in Sutton's most recent book of poems, "Farewell to the Starlight in Whiskey."

Not Sleeping at Bill Holm's House In the corner of my narrow room,

There's a double-barreled shotgun,

Which will not go off in this poem.

Reclining on the bedclothes:

A small stuffed bear and pink flamingo,

Which I set aside. Turning back the spread,

Bearing a Frosty the Snowman motif.

This bed is too loud to sleep on, and I am

Too wired with coffee and wild ideas to dream

But settle in, anyhow, with a volume by Sandburg,

A poet far better than I had remembered,

And passengers rocketing into the dark

Toward strange destinations, like Omaha.

What could be stranger than Omaha?

I'm a passenger, myself, in this crooked old house

Full of books and the ghosts of hot arguments.

And, out in the yard, a barred owl asks, Who?

Who are you? I answer that I am

A passenger on the Minnesota Express,

Bound for points west -- Canby and Mars.

I can hear, in the next compartment, my comrade,

Cough and hack and growl in his sleep,

Which I envy. I can't count sheep

Or the number of books in this house.

In the outer room, a harpsichord waits

As patiently as a horse-drawn cab

Who done it? Who knocked me out?

And how did it get to be daylight

And Bill banging out hymns

On the downstairs piano, just now

That sweet Shaker tune

Tis also a gift to be complex and ornery,

With a house full of music,

Cigar smoke and whiskey,

And Icelandic sagas

Preserved by farmers