That’s the joke in my house anyway. Other guys grab a beer, sit on the couch, flip on the TV and respond to every question with grunts:
“Uhhnnnhhh Uhhnnnhhh.”
I grab a beer, sit on the couch, flip open a book of poetry and respond with grunts:
“Uhhnnnhhh Uhhnnnhhh.”
The stack of books on my nightstand is getting rather large, but I got my friend John Poch’s new book the other day. It won a big national prize. So of course, I dropped everything to read it–and grunt at my family. (The truth is I read at night in a cave of covers with a book light while my wife sleeps. Like a kid in middle school or something.)
John’s book Two Men Fighting with a Knife is my kind of poetry. (Here’s the book direct from the publisher.) Like all books of poetry, I only marked half of the poems on the first read. Some I marked “FUN!” Others “sad…” One “wow.” And lots of underlined phrases like this one about the speaker’s father:
A god some nights, he carried me up our stairs,
my feet bumping the wallpapered halls, my prayers
let slide for murmurs. He laid the angel’s shields
over me and let them glisten as I slept.
He woke me for chores, for school. Later, he left.
It kind of chokes me up to read it, you know? That’s from “The Angel on the Lamp.” There’s also an astounding sonnet crown dedicated to his surgeon. My favorite poem in the book, though, is a fun sonnet about swatting mosquitoes while on vacation in Mexico (among other things).
Lots of sonnets in the book. John specializes in structured verse, particular forms with rigid rules of rhyme and meter and argument. You can see hints of that in the excerpt above “stairs/prayers,” “slept/left.”
I know the book is good because as soon as I finished I wrote a poem. Good poetry has that effect on me. It’s beautiful and finely crafted, but also inspiring and empowering. In short, John Poch is a master of sprezzatura. So here’s the poem I wrote (which you can hear me read in a new podcast episode):
Shutting Down for John Poch
I hear a cricket in my room, chirping
in time to the flashing cable modem light.
My ears fight the sound, the constant insect flirting
with my mind to take flight together tonight.
Not quite in my room, though, I think it’s outside
our window back on the porch–behind the grill
or underneath or even, God forbid, inside
on the cold, dirty rack where meat and rust still
decay. Like the day in my mind disintegrates
into static from scratching legs or electronic
squeaks from data packages arriving too late.
The monitor’s glow motivates me with chronic
cricket cries to mouse clicks. Shut down. Window’s
symphonic sigh brings silence I suppose.
My friend L. L. Barkat FINALLY discovered the beauty of Texas this past week at Laity Lodge. She also challenged Jim Martin and me to post something we had written while we were there. [UPDATE: my friend, Tod Bolsinger joined the game too, and here's a link to his post.]
L. L. posted about the stairs. For me, Laity is more about ascending cliffs than climbing stairs. So I worked on this old poem I wrote about circle bluff–and my mixed emotions about the way we rush out to nature to get a quick fix, then rush back to our busy lives.
The poem isn’t really finished. It’s the end of a sonnet, but I haven’t written the last 6 lines yet. Maybe I never will. But I did record a reading of it because I believe poetry is essentially oral. So here’s the front-half octave of a sonnet with no title.
(Don’t complain. It’s free poetry. Beggars can’t be choosers. You want the real thing? Go subscribe to 32 Poems.)
A limestone cliff shows the end of the climb
though most never notice the gradual incline
that leads us here. Each step feels more or less
normal, doesn’t wind us or try us. We pass
boulders without stopping and mossy logs,
perfect resting spots. When our tired legs caught
on tree roots or loose rocks, we blamed terrain.
On top, we snap shots, check watches, descend again.
My dog ran out
to chase a motorcycle
speeding through
the neighborhood.
Never expected
to catch it
with her puppy head
and a short yelp
that left her
breathing slow
looking scared.
On the back porch
we wrapped her
in black plastic
we had bought
for grass clippings,
but I didn’t cry
until I carried the bag
to the curb for the dead
animal pickup
and felt her inside
the three ply trash sack
furry and cold and stiff.
I had touched death before
on my waxy grandma
but death took a puppy
to touch me.
Normally, I offer comments and analysis on the poetry I put here. Not today.
This poem is part of the What I Learned from Animals group writing project hosted by Robert Hruzek and HighCallingBlogs.com. Go to those sites to read some happier stuff.
The Brooklyn Bridge in New York was 125 years old this past weekend. The New York Times has some good celebration pictures of the celebration.
Since I couldn’t go hang out in New York, I’m celebrating with this super exciting educational reading of Walt Whitman’s masterpiece, “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry.” I know, I know. I’m a real wild man.
Whitman is writing during the period of Romanticism. Technically, I suppose you’d say he’s a light romantic. He fits in with other transcendentalist writers like Emerson and Thoreau. (But not Poe. His gothic stuff made him a dark romantic.)
Whether you like the light or dark, Romanticism emphasizes feelings and impressions over fact and science and form. Whitman is especially interesting to me because he’s a good bridge between romanticism and realism. He maintains the ruthless optimism of the light romantics Emerson and Thoreau, but his experiences as a nurse during the civil war give his writing a hard, visceral edge. He celebrates himself and the crowds of Manhattan and he acknowledges how beautiful people are even with all of their faults.
In one sense, Crossing Brooklyn Ferry is about just that—riding across the river to Manhattan on the Brooklyn Ferry before the Brooklyn Bridge was completed. But it’s also about shared experiences and the personality of humanity, about what those shared experiences mean for the people who remember us, and ultimately about crossing the gap between the writer and the reader.
Something about this poem makes me think of blogging. Someday all of this turn-of-the-21st-century online flurry will be staring into the faces of people in the future—speaking to them. This blog maybe. Many podcasts. The bests one anyway—the ones with the most truth and beauty will endure. And who knows but that we writers will be looking back at our future readers?
A few weeks ago I posted one of those whiny, doubtful things. I just wanted to say, “God cut through the crap already.” Shortly after that, he gave me a poem that seems to have been a response to that post. There are two versions of the poem, and I’ll post the short one first.
As usual, you can click on the evoca recording to hear me read it. (I’m having more and more fun with these audio productions in audacity…) If you are really a glutton for punishment, you can subscribe to my podcast! (It’s really just me at my kitchen table late at night.)
Looking for Intimacy
I want your R-rated prayers.
You think I can’t handle it?
Polite words leave me cold—
Congested and snot-filled.
I won’t use tissue. I’ll snort
You down, roll you into a ball
Of yellow phlegm with my tongue,
Hock up a church and spit it out.
Wasn’t that a happy little response from God? Happy Friday, everyone!
You see, Robert Hruzek is hosting a group writing project where people write about a mash-up of 18 fun topics. I added bugs and Bibles to his list just for good measure and polished up a poem for his group. He says it’s the first ever poetry entry. Yea, me!
First, the poem itself. You can hear me read it on the Evoca recording, but you’ll have to skip ahead to 1:20 remaining because I get long winded in my intro. (Be sure to check out my sweet musical intro/outro. Royalty free audio is fun!)
Welcoming Summer
Two love bugs mate on my leg
Until I draw them off with this
#2 pencil. The pair crawls past
my thumb as I write—then up
to the pink eraser which must taste
funny to tongue buds on their feet.
They fly away, black-legged snow-
flakes. We think of Christmas specials
where painted children catch snow
on tongues to welcome winter.
“Open wide, kids,†I say. “There’s
never snow in South Texas.â€
My son plays along and we run
up and down the blacktop lot—
heat rising in waves around us—
we must look a pair of Baptist Johns,
prophesying protein in the desert.
A voice of two calling between
parked cars: “Prepare the way
for summer bugs. Make straight
your tongues for them.†Push that
play too far and bugs become God.
All mankind finds salvation in bugs.
And why not? God can raise up
children from rocks and bugs—
even cars with bug-splattered bumpers.
Second, here’s how the poem fits the mash-up rules.
A few weeks ago, we drove (automobiles) to a family reunion (relatives) where my children and I found ourselves surrounded by bugs on our little vacation (recreation) to decorate the graveyard at the Hebron Baptist Church. In fact, the bugs were so thick, we talked about how it was like a blizzard of black snowflakes with legs. My son loved this because he keeps bugs as pets (which means he puts them in bug cages over-night and holds a daily funeral for the ones who don’t make it). You can see from the picture above what so many bugs do to a white car (automobile—again). The snowstorm made me think of the peanuts gang catching snow on their tongues (like food) in the television Christmas special. At that point, my mind took off, and I started writing this poem.
I have to ask, though. Who uses the word automobile anymore, Bob?
Also, Gordon, you asked about W. P. and decoration. I provide a long answer in the audio file above. And you can see W. P.’s grave there on the right. He is my kid’s great-great-great-great granddad. Or maybe just great-great-great, I can never remember.
One last thing about poetry. Bob’s project “What I Learned From…” suggests that I’ll have answers for you here. But poetry isn’t very good at providing answers in the traditional sense. Nevertheless, I hope you’ve found some things to think about in my mash-up of mashed-up of bibles, bugs on my windshield, the subsequent discussions that followed us that weekend, and Writing, Children, Television, Recreation, Relatives, Food, Pets, Automobiles.
Here’s something for poetry Friday. Hat tip to Steve McCoy one of our authors at TheHighCalling.org for pointing me to Billy Collins on YouTube. (Here’s a link to Steve’s articles at THC.org.)
Here’s a happy little poem to commiserate with folks who find themselves away from family on travel. Travel has slowed down for me a bit lately, but last year I learned I don’t travel well.
I love Randy Ingermanson. Let me just start there. I’m very excited to be presenting at Mt. Hermon with L. L. Barkat in part because it means I also get to participate in Randy’s fiction workshop. In fact, I finally went and got Oxygen, a book I’ve been meaning to read for sometime.
That said, I found myself resisting Randy’s latest post at Advanced Fiction Writing…
…and Children, Television, Recreation, Relatives, Food, Pets, Automobiles, Bugs, and Bibles
A few weeks ago, we drove (automobiles) to a family reunion (relatives) where my children and I found ourselves surrounded by bugs on our little vacation (recreation) to decorate the graveyard at the Hebron Baptist Church. In fact, the bugs were so thick, we talked about how it was like a blizzard of black snowflakes with legs. My son loved this because he keeps bugs as pets (which means he puts them in bug cages over-night and holds a daily funeral for the ones who don’t make it). You can see from the picture above what so many bugs do to a white car (automobile—again). The snowstorm made me think of the peanuts gang catching snow on their tongues (like food) in the television Christmas special. At that point, my mind took off, and I started writing this poem.
I love Randy Ingermanson. Let me just start there. I’m very excited to be presenting at 
