The New Yorker published Todd's poem about Alaska just prior to W. W. Norton's publication of his debut collection, Yellowrocket. He wrote the poem while serving as the self-appointed poet laureate of Nina's Cafe in Saint Paul, where for two years he ran "Verse and Converse," a monthly reading series.
The poem recalls the two years Todd spent getting his MFA at the University of Alaska – Anchorage, surrounded by the Talkeetna, Alaska, and Chugach ranges.
One Can Miss Mountains
and pine. One
can dismiss
a whisper’s
revelations
and go on as
before as if
everything were
perfectly fine.
One does. One
loses wonder
among stores
of things.
One can even miss
the basso boom
of the ocean’s
rumpus room
and its rhythm.
A man can leave
this earth
and take nothing
—not even
longing—along
with him.
The poem is oddly prescient. Twelve years later, Todd would quit his lease, sell nearly everything he owned, and begin life as a nomad.
Every writer dreams of landing in The New Yorker. On the day I got the news, I was working at The Playwrights' Center in Minneapolis. Unable to concentrate on anything else, I asked for the remainder of the day off and biked home, stopping on the Franklin Avenue Bridge to watch the Mississippi River awhile. The wonder of that moment is still with me.
