Poetry

Before English 5A with Professor Ogden, I thought poetry was just a way for self indulgent hipsters to assert their creative prowess to anyone who would listen.

I still do.

But having learned quite a bit about finding your voice, identifying the deeper meaning (or "bottom story"), the freedom of personal style & unconventional form and that just about any topic can be the stuff of a great poem, I have developed not only an appreciation for exceptional poetry but the ability to identify it.

It reminds me of a recent trip to Napa for a friend's wedding.  I'm a bourbon and whiskey man.  Wine was for hipsters and poets.  It wasn't until I was dragged to a tasting at a remarkable vineyard that I discovered many of the subtle textures, tastes and aromas of my preferred spirits were also present in wine.  Dry leather, vanilla, fruits and smoky flavors as well as sweet, spicy floral aromas were imbued into many of the wines because they had been aged in old bourbon and whiskey casks.  I came to surprisingly familiar ground and a world away from my expectations.

Poetry is much the same surprise that wine was.  There are so many elements of characterization, observation/ reflection, story telling, writerly presence and style as well as humor, irony, pain and pleasure that I have come to love in prose.

Here are some of my efforts that stand out in my mind.  -Not necessarily because they are great, some were struggles in exploring new concepts while other simply made me think.

Gift from God (Name Poem)

Stressful responsibilities, obligations.  Too many.  Too many.

I’m supposed to be skilled and intelligent

But I’m struggling.

A strong, handsome - even grandiose name like Jonathan Michael May

He must be strong and handsome and intelligent and capable and grand

After all a gift from God who is like God, sure wouldn’t have many flaws, inequities,

weaknesses

So why does he?

Is the name, the responsibility, the dreams too big to live up to?

Is he too afraid of failure?

How could he fail with a name like that?

And yet he has - and does.  And will continue to.

Who could love him in failure?

He cannot love himself, who could?  Mothers do not live forever.

What will it take?  It is possible?  Can he succeed?

Is the name a gift or curse?

Why does he have so many questions and so few precious answers?

Why doesn’t he get it?  Why can’t he get it?  What does he get after all?

Can he do anything else?  Does he want to?

Jonathan: A gift from God.

Michael: Who is like God.

May: … Who the hell knows.  Its a month.  And English.

Anyway, would have “Entry Level May” been a better name?

No pressure there!

Shoot for the stars with that name?

It could be changed, but would a rose fail to blossom by any other name?

Yuck.  That's what I'm talking about right there.

Do the dreams match the name?

The father had a strong name.  Didn’t help him.

I’ve never written a poem before.  This probably doesn’t change that.

Smokes Patiently

Suddenly he exists. I turn behind me to see him already seated, his back to me. The barely noticeable sounds of fabric rubbing, soft-soled shoes stepping, a deliberately audible exhale. My alarm at his instant presence is eased by his slow breaths and his gentle gestures. Transplanted from the shadows of night, he is a lost traveler clad in black and exposed beneath the winter day’s greyer sunlight. A black beanie with messy spurts of black hair like spider legs crawling out to escape. Black raybans concealing his eyes and thus his identity are his mask. His cheeks and neck rich coppery brown skin, then more black. His identity unique but not memorable.

Slowly a cigarette is revealed from some unseen pocket appearing in his hand the same smooth, unwarned way he arrived. He holds it between fingers with confidence and dexterity, like a weapon. Cupping his hands to his face lights the stark white little cylinder. Shattering his silence, he coughs after it begins to burn. Did he cough on purpose? To fit in? So controlled. He spits on the rough, littered cement at his feet. His dry, bitter smoke is carried on the breeze to my face. An unwanted guest who freely imposes on me. I’m not disgusted, to my surprise. I watch him longer. He allows it. Posture and body language betray inner discipline, yet the conservation of his movements dazes my mind. His hand rests on his knee while still holding the cigarette, now with the posture and lazy disregard of a rebellious son enduring a lecture from his father. I forget to care if he knows I’m staring at him while he smokes patiently. We have snared each other. If I turn away and release him from my gaze will he vanish the way he emerged, silently, suddenly?

Indefinitely Tried (Blackout Poem)

He danced until his legs trembled, there was no answer from anyone.

The ship was thundering toward the upper reaches of the universe. It's occupant leaned back.

His name was Indefinitely. He was with not a very good purpose.

Indefinitely wasn’t born immortal. His immortality thrust upon him with a particle accelerator.

The details of the accident are important, no one has ever managed duplicate the circumstances.

People have ended up dead.

His eyes, a grim and weary expression on the ship stereo. He really could've done.

To begin with he had a ball, living dangerously and taking risks.

In the end, he couldn't cope.

When you know you've taken all the baths you can you stare at any given revolutionary.

He stared at the long dark of the soul.

The smiles he used to wear begin to fade, he began to despise the universe and everybody in it.

If there were more directions, would I follow them? (Assembled Poem)

I need more direction in life

I know there’s no smorking here, and some times you can only go one way

We don’t think about life’s exit much day to day, or about breaking glass to pull alarm

But being welcome when the occupancy is far beyond 132 persons and

Crossing when you shouldn't be walking, it makes me want to smork

Even though I don’t like to smork

If I had a horn, I still wouldn’t honk for Jesus or unions or gay marriage

I find myself highly obnoxious as it is -another reason not to smork

When I feel closed when I want to feel open I have a cash only state of mind

I’m like James Dean or Evil Knievel on the 11th minute of my allotted 10

Photosensitive Seizures and Bonding with the Baby

No one knows exactly where or when it started, but a very small percentage of people may experience a seizure when exposed to child rearing. Certain visual images including flashing lights or patterns that appear in parenting describe a father's sense of absorption, preoccupation, and interest in his baby. In one of the earliest studies of father-infant interaction the seizures have a variety of symptoms, including lightheadedness, touching, altered vision, eye or face twitching, kissing, jerking or shaking of arms or legs, disorientation, rocking, confusion, or momentary loss of awareness, or cooing. Researcher Ross Parke made a discovery that might shock the traditionalists: immediately stop playing and consult a doctor if you experience any of these symptoms. The fathers and researchers should watch for the above symptoms. "In sum," writes park, "the amount of stimulatory and affectional behavior depends on the opportunity to fall down or strike nearby objects."