Beautiful Girl #6

Number six, because the poem has been revised many times.  The meter is iambic tetrameter (I think) and the rhyme is ABA, CDC, EFE, GHG.  I like this better than my previous attempt at revising last years Valentine’s Day poem.  See what you think.  Happy Valentine’s Day!

Beautiful girl, you draw and excite
my eyes.  My gaze can’t help but rise
to you, like to a starlit night.

Though I am often stuck in town,
you do appear.  You captivate.
Fair and bright, you still shine down.

You beckon to that country place
and there decry the diffuse pride
of city light: a lesser grace.

The sky has its own ageless cheer.
The stars revealed by darkest night
are far, and beg us to draw near.

Bathtub

Bathtime!

I’m in the tub
and here’s the rub:
Mom says to get out soon.

The water’s warm,
and what’s the harm
in wrinkles like a prune?

I’m staying in!
Look, I can swim!
Let’s sing another tune.

Now close your eyes.
Here’s your surprise:
It’s me!—the goose-bump-goon.

Beautiful Girl (Revised)

The following poem is a revision of the previous post entitled Beautiful Girl.  I wrote that poem a year ago for my wife.  This year, I revisited it and attempted to structure the poem more carefully, giving closer attention to rhyme and meter.  I don’t know much about this, but I believe I am becoming more aware of the benefits of rhyme and meter.  They may very well enable better poetry.  Their use has certainly caused me to think more carefully about why I am writing a poem, what my theme is and so forth.  Also, I believe they help me think about language: how it works, and why we say things as we do.

Try comparing the two posts and see what you think (I am still fond of the previous effort).  My rhyme scheme is not exact, but I attempted to structure it like this: ABAB, CDCD, ABAB, DCBA.  My meter is probably inadequate, but there are 28 syllables per stanza (approximately seven per line).

The many good essays posted by Patrick Gillespie on his blog PoemShape have influenced me to make a greater effort in the direction of traditional poetry.  He prefers poetry written before the age of free verse (most modern poetry is free verse poetry).  He argues for the several benefits of learning traditional poetry methods.  He believes more people would buy poetry if it made use of the traditional forms and techniques.  I think he may be right.

I hope you will enjoy this, perhaps even share it with your “Valentine.”  Here is another of my attempts at traditional poetry called Winter Walk.

Beautiful girl, you draw
and excite my eyes—my gaze,
like on a starlit night, rises
to your skies and it remains.

Though I am often stuck here
in the city, you endeavor
to come through and do appear:
uncommon light, and true—

you captivate.  Now, fly
with me to that country place
and may we, by its’ black, decry
city light as duller grace.

May we heed the ageless cue
while stars by dark are clear.
May we make our bright embrace
by night, and they espy us here.

Beautiful Girl

Beautiful girl, you draw me.
I anticipate.  My eyes gaze,
like on a starlit night—they rise
to your skies and remain.

Though I am sometimes stuck
in the city you still appear, still
come through.  I look for you.
You are more than mere light.

So take me tonight, take me
to that country place.
Go with me to that dark freedom
and give me your full glory.

Let us lie close.  Bring a kiss.
Capture me with your bright face.
The stars are at the window;
They are drawn by our embrace.

If Home Is Where You Go

"Back Door at the Hoover Cottage" by Patricia Rottino Cummins

If home is where you go—
if, here, you strike accords
between the sometimes angry
parties at the table;
if, here, you are able
to heed the bell’s harmonic
when another round begins—
you stand on solid ground.

If your pulp fictions
hit the trash bin by the gate
before you stump
over the back step
and through the door,
if home is where
you log the daily lore,
your feet are on the floor.

If this is where you laugh,
cry, get surprised, listen,
touch, desire someone’s eyes,
believe they believe
that you are wise,
then you are wise.
If this is your light
and your sanctuary,

if home is where you go
to rejoin the fight
after a long day,
if your joints shake
and nerves jerk your skin
at the thought of this,
your beacon, quenched,
you are a sage and a seer;

you are a lovely footed
messenger in flight.

to see other wonderful paintings by Patricia Cummins click here

Baseball In A Box

Baseball provided by Placido Polanco and the old Busch Stadium

I have a baseball in a box—
a leather pearl—on my shelf.
The box is clear to show

red stitches and a smudge
on Rawlings where the bat
greeted it with a rough kiss.

I gaze at it and conjure up
the errant arc over first base;
the upraised arms and hands

that would have a lofted relic:
HERE IT COMES!
I cried, and grabbed it.

Some guy exclaimed
he too had touched the pearl,
but the usher arrived

to check my fingers.
All too soon,
the sting quit my skin.

A baseball had graced me!
I put it in a box to burn
my palm, again, another day.

Everything Is Broken by Bob Dylan

Broken lines, broken strings,
Broken threads, broken springs,
Broken idols, broken heads,
People sleeping in broken beds.
Ain’t no use jiving
Ain’t no use joking
Everything is broken.

Broken bottles, broken plates,
Broken switches, broken gates,
Broken dishes, broken parts,
Streets are filled with broken hearts.
Broken words never meant to be spoken,
Everything is broken.

Seems like every time you stop and turn around
Something else just hit the ground

Broken cutters, broken saws,
Broken buckles, broken laws,
Broken bodies, broken bones,
Broken voices on broken phones.
Take a deep breath, feel like you’re chokin’,
Everything is broken.

Every time you leave and go off someplace
Things fall to pieces in my face

Broken hands on broken ploughs,
Broken treaties, broken vows,
Broken pipes, broken tools,
People bending broken rules.
Hound dog howling, bull frog croaking,
Everything is broken.

Answered Prayer

photo by Denton Harryman of GreenvilleDailyPhoto.com

“Answered prayer,” she says, “you are an answer.”
Billiard balls dance behind plate glass.
Cue sticks aim, wave, conduct our conversation.
Like over-sized batons they signal us to begin.

Friendly strangers, we lay out the makings
for a tapestry—words, expressions.  We weave
answers and questions.  A weft thread
beneath the warp rises to the pattern.

With longing, each one eyes the other
standing there.  Each looks for a close weave,
for a familiar image to appear amidst the intricacies,
beneath the lighted Corner Pocket sign.

Our eager, wanton prayers fly quickly, brightly,
like a tight rack of balls at the break.
Like many lavish threads, they emerge from below,
pressing against each other to form a whole.

to see more of Denton Harryman’s photography visit http://GreenvilleDailyPhoto.com

An August Night Sky

Watched by stars,
we lay reposed
upon the summer sod

with quiet breeze,
and clouds that grew,
a planet for a prod.

Now and then
a truck passed by,
unheard above our thoughts.

We lounged—absorbed,
pulled up, pressed down—
upon our star flight mats.

…The breeze touched
our toes.  An owl
consulted with the moon…

We pondered
our significance—
our breath and yawn—a while.

You thought aloud,
Is smallness good?
I nodded at your smile.

Specks of sand
burned blue and white.
They fit our bones with awe.

And I revived
a boy who played
in culvert holes, with frogs.

Motorcycle Memories: There Came A Graceful Rider

The following poem is an extensive revision of the previous post entitled Motorcycle Memories: One Day A Graceful Rider Caught Me. Try comparing them and see what you think.

I recall the asphalt—a blur
beneath—and my days
at the school of tachometry.
All my dreams had chrome
tailpipes and handlebars.
They shone like a vision.
I leaned into the turns
until the foot pegs scraped.
Hardtop suited me just fine.

I evoke the throttle’s spirit—
the twist and release—
and the engine’s heat.
They moved me, but pavement
takes a toll and ditches are replete.
All those close calls,
falls, and crashes hurt,
but I never refused the road.
I crossed the double line

before I slowed.  Then,
there came a graceful rider.
He rode from ancient days
on everlasting tires because
the fullness of time had come.
When he spoke, I shattered,
but he whispered to each piece;
for every shard he shouted.
His voice was bread and wine.

Pursuit was his standard
and he tattooed me with fire.
I ducked and dodged
and rolled with bent desire,
but he planned my course.
He pierced and purchased—
broke my bones and mended—
then caught me with a look…
He saw a man born blind.

When my will failed, he gripped.
He healed my road-rash knees,
rebuilt my make and model;
he saw to parts unseen
and my gears made changes.
Rubber on the street
moved me to new places.
Beneath chain and sprocket,
I saw narrow roads unwind.

Motorcycle Memories: One Day A Graceful Rider Caught Me

This poem has been revised many times.  It is getting much closer to what I want it to be.  Yes, I used to ride motorcycles.  I wrecked several times, including a crash where my bike stuck into the side of a Ford Escort and I flew over, landing in the road.  By the time I came back to consciousness, the emergency crew had arrived.  A full-face helmet saved my head (and life).  I had many other close calls.  Clearly, God preserved my life each time as he continued to pursue me by his mercy and grace.  In a very real way, he rode with me.  In an earlier version of this poem I said, “Only he could look me in the eyes at speeds of 80 and above.”  He never backed down or gave up on me.  This poem, one of the first I ever wrote, continues to be an encouraging reminder of my Savior’s faithfulness.  I hope it encourages you as well.  Thanks for reading.

I remember the asphalt…how it let me
live outside the lines on a bike.
I remember a rowdy night-spot
where speed got up to pick a fight.
My bright wheels cannot forget: boots,
a leather jacket, and turns
that made me lean down to the pegs.
The boundary blurred
till hardtop hit like hard times.

I recall the throttle: a twist and clutch
made emblems in the road.
It sounded good, but ditches stood
nearby; the pavement took its toll.
Parking lots demanded wheelies.
I never did say no to them.
Close calls, falls, and crashes…
some could lay it down, but I wrecked.
My graceful arc crossed double lines.

Still, I did not slow the pace.  Then,
one day a graceful rider caught me.
How he chased!  How his engine raced!
He had new tires and tattoos of fire.
His eyes were like mirrors,
and when I looked I shattered.
But to each piece he whispered;
for every shard he stood and shouted.
His voice could not be unkind.

He made pursuit his standard.
His hands, like living stone, never tired.
I rolled with bent desires,
but he anticipated every deviation.
He determined my progress;
he broke my bones, then mended.
I fled, until he pierced and purchased,
until he caught me with the look of love…
a look that saw a man born blind.

He gripped when my will failed.
He healed my road-rash knees.
He knew my make and model.
He saw parts no one sees.
Now I listen as gears make changes—
as rubber on roadway moves me
and I approach new signs and places.
As chain and sprocket go humbly
beneath, a narrow road unwinds.

Junkyard Dog, Eight AM

A dog, a brown boulder,
visible through the chain link,
listens for her only friend.
A whistle—a call to greet
the open gate—and she bolts,

unbound by the drab lot.
A flatbed backs and stops,
grinds to first, and barges off.
Red-dirt flags of dust unfurl
over mountains of tires.

A trailer is unlocked
to bring out a sack of food.
Her muzzle chomps,
down in her bowl,
beneath a live oak’s shelter.

A cigar ash grows
and the sun
expands a kudzu vine
to hide the bumpers, hoods,
and fenders that go nowhere.

A junkyard is a strange and somewhat mysterious place.  We think of it as a dead end, both for automobiles and the people who work there.  Most of us do not visit them.  Many of us don’t even know where to find one.  Often, they are physically hidden in out of the way places behind large fences or hills.

Junkyards serve us by hiding our trash (and material excess).  They also provide used parts and a lot of scrap metal that can be recycled and reused.  They are part of the landscape of industrial society: rows and rows of cars sprawled over acres of fields.

The people who work there could be considered hidden servants of our society.  They take responsibility for our castoffs and capitalize on the value that remains in those old cars.  Wise junkyard operators are concerned to protect their asset, thus, the junkyard dog.

In this poem, the dog works at night and is greeted by its master at opening time.  Intruders are rare, therefore the dog has a “drab lot.”  But, come morning, there is anticipation of contact with the master and the enjoyment of food and rest.

I tried to represent the hidden and lonely yard from the perspective of the dog as a metaphor for individuals who work hard and faithfully in jobs that are invisible to most of society.  The animal is approached by none but the master, who knows it well enough to do so.  The dog does not wish to be friends with any but the master.  It is doing what it has been bred and trained to do, i.e. be an enemy to all.  This is hard work for the dog and only the master’s appearance brings rest.  The oak tree and the kudzu are metaphors for rest.  Like a blanket of green, the kudzu protects the car parts while the dog is gone (during the day).  Rest is given from above (the sun causing kudzu to grow) and often in mundane ways (dust settling like a blanket on the tires).

We live in a castaway society where people are forgotten, or regarded as shameful, if they do not provide pleasure, entertainment, or a return on our investment.  In the poem, the master’s provision of food and companionship, the tree, the kudzu, and dust settling on the tires are metaphorical coverings for the shame of castaway people and things.

I also tried to say something about contentment with one’s calling or lot in life.  The dog is satisfied to do its work, receive its daily chow, and take shelter beneath the tree.  It is thankful and waits patiently for the one friend who truly cares.

The cigar ash is a metaphor for the slow steady burn of a man’s workaday life (within which are comforts and joy).  I ended with the cigar image because I am really talking about the human experience of work and life, not a dog’s.

Broken

Between us, on a tabletop of glass,
a working hand becomes a hammer.

A man wants his way.
He won’t take no.

Blood, though not spilled, boils.
Shards ring out and sing

the ways we will not mend—
how the heart, like a fractal,
repeats a pattern of breaks
and splits when magnified.

My heart rages.  It pushes blood
along a crooked line of strife

until I heed the rattle-crack
and attend the bang of anger.

The embittered rackets rise until
the broken pieces lay at rest between us.

Winter Walk

The silver paths beneath me rise, they brighten and sustain;
and I, by measured stride, rejoin their whited old refrain.

The snow—like fairest company—this night, has come to call
till barren branch and evergreen are heartened by its’ fall.

Till, luminous, the moon reveals the way upon the row
and I, in bright reflection, lose my burdens as I go.

Till boots conceal their little plots of white upon the track
then rise to leave their mark upon the polished silver back.

The silver paths beneath me rise; the night is bright as day;
and I, my measured stride, release beneath their drift and sway.

Amid Old Friends

Amid old friends, a working hand
comes down hard.  Fear falls on the land,
as a fist becomes a hammer,
a glass tabletop to shatter.
A man, afraid, will take a stand

when, not according to his plan,
he receives a humble brand
and is loath to drop the matter
amid old friends.

Shards sing out how rage will expand
into violence, will demand,
with a loud rattle of anger
and a bang of bad behavior,
that we heed a fool’s reprimand
amid old friends.

The Violence Bearer

3.  The Violence Bearer

To recap, there is no virtue in me that changed the meaning of violence in my life.  But there is Jesus, who was subjected (in humble reliance on his Father’s goodness and loving-kindness) to the collective brutality of every sin.  On the cross He absorbed every violence that ever was, and ever would be.  By doing this he enabled the forgiveness of every sin (past, present, and future) for everyone who would call on him for forgiveness.

After all, every violation of God’s good law is ultimately against God and his son Jesus (and the Holy Spirit).  The historical figure of King David makes this very clear in his response to the prophet Nathan’s rebuke of him for killing Uriah and taking Uriah’s wife, Bathsheba.  (Continue…)

Elegy For An Uncle

Your second death, this.  The first you cheated—
buried alive, then resurrected to describe
paralysis beneath a cave-in.

They dug you out, but no hands reach you now.
Your story is complete.  The tumor pressed you
down in ways no one could defeat and

I despise it.  You would have wanted to
assure me that you’re in a better place;
I want that for you.  But here,

I fight the enemy of your absence.
I can’t get another handshake or hardy laugh.
There is no father, no husband,

no uncle who donned an apron and cooked
chicken halves at picnics on a giant barbecue
he welded in the garage;

no quick joke or story to bring a smile;
no soft voice—the sound of a Vermonter—asking,
well hi John, what’s going on with you?

I have an early memory: you’re on Grandma’s sofa,
snoring loudly; I am only five or six and
a bit afraid of the great rasp.  Now,

I just hurt—God gave you for my Uncle;
I’ve known some love through you—I miss you,
but I’m willing to believe that is good news.

The Denial Of Violence

2.  The Denial Of Violence

It was in a seminary lecture on violence that God spoke, quietly and clearly, “John, violence is a problem for you.  You need some help.”  I went to my professor after class and told him about some of my failures.  Later, we met and he told me to participate in an anger management group and other counseling if I wanted to continue taking classes at that school.

I was embarrassed and alarmed again.  But I followed his recommendation and began to see how my angry, vengeful violence could be changed; that, in fact, the very meaning of my violence could be changed.  (continue)

The Violence Of The Cross

1.  The Violence Of The Cross

Late one night, over Dunkin Donuts and coffee, I made this offhanded comment about the crucifixion to my college roommate, “At least he [Christ] didn’t have to hang there too long.”  My friend was indignant, “What?!  John, let me tell you a little bit about a crucifixion!” And he went on to describe the horrors of the cross in great detail.  Everything about a cross-death was designed to cause maximum suffering.  It is, perhaps, the cruelest tool of human torture ever devised.  The word excruciate is derived from Latin words that mean “out of the cross.”

At some point during the description, I cut him off.  I was embarrassed and alarmed.  (continue…)

The Rising Of The Lake

Early morning, the lake is rising.
A shroud of mists veils
sullen surface tensions
and conceals murky passions.

A cold and weary night withdraws
from the slight granite moon
hung high, despite approaching dawn.
The hunkered sun, provoked and taunted,
once again confronts the darkness;
languid vapors, daunted, turn to run.

A forlorn host winks shyly
and nods to the yellow spy
now preparing to reveal
blue bright sky.

Generous, drab, the lake donates
an evolving portrait:
The Triumphant Return
(of wind and light, cloud and song).
Strains of “No Night There” are ringing
twixt the glints and ruffles of the offered painting.