Correspondence - A Love Poem

I was acting as a volunteer janitor at my church today, which means I had plenty of time to think. My wandering mind hit upon the idea of people writing letters to each other, and the difficulty of waiting for the post to go back and forth. I liked the idea of a patient romance, a steadily progressing bond, and this is the poem that resulted when I got home.

Farewells

Well, I think this is the end of my blog. It's lasted a lot longer than I expected, and I kind of enjoyed it. I sincerely hope you did too. Whoever you are, if you are reading this, I would like you to know that I am incredibly, sincerely grateful to you for the time you've taken to read something by me. I don't know if I'll try my hand at much writing in the future, I'm going to try to give up poetry; if it does die off, I wasn't much of a poet, but if I can't keep from jotting things down, then maybe I have a snowball's chance in Hell. Either way, I'll know more. Again, thank you for taking the time to read.

Potential

I'll be honest, I only write these intros so I can use the page jump feature, so I can keep more accurate statistics about page views. I was at the Art Institute recently, and the modern wing had no descriptions on the placards. Only in retrospect is art made clear. n.b. I'm not claiming to have talent at all, let alone on the level of artists whose work is in the AIC.

Breaking Down

Yet another depressing poem from Will. I hope you like it!

Once More, Dear Friends

Another poem that is a cynical extrapolation on a very famous speech.

Couches

Yet another one of my poems that won't show up on facebook, but is only available to those who subscribe or are careful in their browsing of this blog.

The Great Dance

I am watching Sherlock, the BBC modernization of the classic Sherlock Holmes stories, and I decided to write a little tribute to the final episode.

Do You Care for the Dregs

Death is a tragic thing, and I'm often touched to see people who respond in public ways to deaths in their community. However, I often wonder, after I read descriptions of those who have passed, which invariably focus on the positives of the departed, and it makes me wonder about those who invariably die, but are not remembered as fondly. This is largely directed at myself, as I often find it easy to pass over those who I am not naturally drawn to, and I need to focus more on the inherent worth of each individual, regardless of how pleasant they are.

I'm Not Gonna Bleed

This is loosely based on a famous speech - no prizes for guessing which, though I suppose you may get some respect.

Siblings' Cross-Country Run From The Law Ended

I struck upon an idea tonight for a series of poems. Most of the idea is taken from John Leax, who wrote a hilarious book of poems called "Tabloid News." The poet Thom Satterlee recommended it to me, and I in turn highly endorse it. My thought tonight was to visit one internet news site a day, and write a poem that shares a headline with the first news-story to catch my eye. The poem won't bear much in common with the actual event, and I'm going to try not to actually read the story, but to instead write whatever springs to mind based off of that headline. Today, on CNN, I saw a story entitled, "Siblings' Cross-Country Run from the Law Ended." This is what I wrote.

Book List

Today I finished The Pleasures of Reading in an Age of Distraction, by my former professor Alan Jacobs. It was delightful.

What Are Friends For?

This poem was developed while reading Brian Turner's Phantom Noise.

Breath

A poem that touches upon the idea of prevenient grace.

Grace - Cheap

The companion poem to the last one, on a different notion of grace. No prizes for those of you who guess which version I feel is closer to the truth.

Grace - Costly

A poem on grace that I thought up while driving across the country. Sorry that some lines jump down, the indented lines are meant to be read with the line above.

Song of Stillness

An imaginative poem representing internal conflict and thought.

Summer Cookouts

Two poems on the tradition of men grilling in the summer - the first, shorter poem is roughly the original I wrote early in the summer while in Texas, the second is a longer piece expanding on those themes. I think I like the shorter one more, it kind of encapsulates the mood for me.

Teams

I like looking at goofy little phrases and coming up with goofy little games to play with them. This is one such example.

Charles Lyons

I really like the work of E.A. Robinson, who is most famous for his poems "Miniver Cheevy" and 'Richard Corey." So, I wrote a poem of my own about a miserly figure.

Crystalline

A minimalist approach to telling a poetic story - though I hesitate to use that phrase, because it draws to mind the work of Raymond Carver, who was so insanely talented any comparison would reflect negatively on me.

The Pugilist

A pugilist, for those unfamiliar, is properly a bare-knuckle brawler, but has come to refer to any fighter. This poem does in fact refer to the early connotation, thinking of the famous pugilists of the late 18th and early 19th centuries, men such as the Game Chicken. The fights would go until someone could no longer rise, something roughly akin to MMA fights today, but with less enforcement of rules and no influence from any martial arts.

The Skies of October

When I was younger, one of my favorite books was October Sky, by Homer Hickam, Jr. It was made into a movie, which wasn't as good as the book (of course), but I reveled in the story of a small town boy who took advantage of the opportunities he had to achieve his dreams. This is a short poem I jotted down, thinking about what that book meant to me.

The Spirit Of God

In case you've been under a rock and haven't heard me whining about it in the recent past, I'm the director of a small camp/conference in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada mountains. The past two months have been filled with prep work, and now it's actually happening. I've been blown away in the first three days I've been here - to be simple, this is not the camp I planned, it is infinitely better than what I planned. God, as he always does for this camp, has come alongside and is working powerfully. I'm humbled by his actions, and each day I wake up trying to remember that it's not me, it's God. Last night, I gave my "Welcome to Camp" intro/mini-sermon. I got up to speak without a single page of notes, not entirely sure what God wanted me to say, but I stood up, read a passage from Ephesians, and proceeded to speak for about 15 minutes, asking campers to examine themselves and see if they are willing to let God work in their lives. I felt like it went alright, but all of my counselors informed me that it was exactly what was needed - again, it wasn't me, it was God.

So, this poem is about the struggle to try and manipulate things to fit the pattern I want, when if I just rely on God, he will prepare the way for me. So far, so good, I pray that I remain focused on Him! Thanks for the prayers, camps is going beautifully!

Packing My Words

One of the most famous descriptions of what poetry is comes from Wordsworth, in the Introduction to Lyrical Ballads; "The spontaneous overflow of powerful emotions recollected in tranquility." (Or something very close to that) I think the second bit is what often gets ignored by me, the waiting until a tranquil time to think on those emotions. If this poem is confusing in its message, it's because I need to wait longer (or because I suck at this, but I really hope it's the first option).

A Prayer Through Darkness

I'm utterly swamped with work today, and have many hours of work to do without many hours left to do it in. It's like finals week in college, but if I mess this up I ruin a camp for about 70 people. Anyways, I needed to take a quick break to write a poem, this is a plea for aid, a prayer poem. I don't give a fig if you like it or not, I needed to write these words, and feel encouraged already.

Summer Life - Introduction

The title of my blog was designed to not be specific to poetry, though it was created for National Poetry Month. Yes, I know it may shock you that there was any design behind this project at all, but rest assured, there was. Though I'm even worse at writings of other types (save for academic essays, I can crank those babies out no problem) than I am at poetry, I had initially hoped to include a variety writing samples on this blog. I focused too heavily on poetry to start, and so I am only now getting around to writing other pieces.

I really love Creative Non-Fiction, at least when I'm reading; I find it nearly as difficult to write as fiction (I HATE writing fiction), but it is such a wonderful form for expression and information. As I've always loved telling stories, I initially thought I would take to it naturally - was I ever wrong. Like most things in my literary world, I was introduced to this genre by David Wright, who taught my Creative Writing course at Wheaton College. He exposed me to some fantastic authors, and I soon developed a passion (if not a talent) for non-fictional prose.

This piece is going to be in three parts, dealing with two things that have defined my summers since early high school. This excerpt is the introduction, leading up to the first section, which I have yet to complete. It's not too long, and it is my attempt to introduce the subject matter and find a voice of my own.

Real Men

I saw a bumper sticker today that said, "Real men love Jesus." Being an essentially contrary person, I thought, "not necessarily," which got me going on the theme of what exactly does constitute real manliness. Being something of a literal person as well as being a contrary person (and wearing my "You've Got Male" X-Y chromosome shirt), I thought of some of the features that define real men. Apologies to any men who feel excluded from these categories, or women who feel included. Keep in mind these are only guidelines, and only a poem, after all.

Workplace Evolution

I wrote this poem a week or so ago, after a friend said on facebook that his job was so easy, a trained monkey could do it. The imaginative properties of that statement got a hold of me, and voila!

Office Conventions

My office at work (I am the director for a small conference/camp for the youth of the Anglican Diocese of San Joaquin) is next to one of the priest's offices, and he was talking to a mutual friend on the phone rather loudly. It was a good-natured talk, and a bit odd, so it got me thinking.

Substitution

I'm not sure which way I meant the tone of this poem to be taken, I think you can read it in a number of ways. Does it come off as open to interpretation (good) or confusing (bad, unless you're T.S. Eliot)?

Windows

I've batted this image around for a few months, I should probably refine it further, but I'm in the mood for dashing a few lines off (meaning I have dishes to do, and I want a break).

Moon-Hanging

I'm trying to work on my poetic images, coming up with new ways of describing things that renders them fresh in our minds and captures an experience. To quote the already over-quoted phrase of William Carlos Williams, "No ideas but in things." So, a poem about the moon.

The Perils of Reading

I'm a voracious reader, and I read books on a wide range of subjects. While I do derive a great deal of pleasure from books, as I get older I've realized with some sadness that each book I read puts me in a more "exclusive" and lonely category. While I might be passionate to share the information I just learned on Bismark, trying to do so will inevitably look like showing-off, and be met with blank stares. So, do I keep reading and keep isolating myself, or stop reading and lose something I love?

Hearing Plain And Simple

Well, part of this poem came to mind during church this morning, so I went home and wrote the whole thing out. I enjoyed writing it, and it was good for me to think on such things, which makes it, for me, a successful poem.

I Do Not Lessen The Night

Hey, it's a poem about nighttime, and walking, and words. What's not to love?

Yet Another Cheap Shot At The Nation I Live In

Yes, I'm sure it's gratuitous, and I don't really feel this cynical about America, but writing cynical poems about America is low-hanging fruit - easy pickings.

Love Is A Feeling

I wrote this poem the same night I declared my sabbatical - I really could not go without writing in some way or another. What a pitiful fool I can be sometimes, with my artistic pretensions. Still, I had been batting some of these images around for a few days, and they came together in an interesting way, or at least it was interesting for me.

Ode to Lethe

I know I said I was on hiatus, but life has gotten even crazier as of late, and I realized I only have the energy to do one of two things - continue with my daily duties, or stay away from poetry. As my duties are, well, my duties, I figured to let poetry back into my life. I hadn't realized how much I would miss it, I love it more than I had thought. Anyways, at the very least I can publish this poem without the slightest worry of it bleeding into my personal life in any way - although I am tired. n.b. Morpheus was the Greek god of dreams, and the Lethe was one of the five rivers of Hades, and when you drank from it you forgot your previous existence. And poppies, well, if I have to explain poppies to you...

Sabattical

I have decided to take a break from writing poetry. This decision has been coming for quite some time, and tonight I decided to make it final. I need some space from my writing, to better evaluate why I'm doing it in the first place, and if I should keep going at all. I genuinely appreciate the support I have been given, and I am not taking a break due to a perceived lack of interest. Simply put, I am in a very turbulent period in my life, with many changes of situation just behind me and just ahead of me, and I find it difficult to write without having that stress and angst bleed into my poems. While poetry is certainly capable of expressing emotion, I have found that it is best not to try and express emotions when you are in the middle of emotions, and that means I need space.

I do have one request of you, my reader, should you be willing. I ask that you write me and let me know honestly what you think. If you appreciate things I have written, would you try and tell me which pieces and why they had an impact on you? If you feel that I'm really just not that good, would you try and find a tactful way of saying that as well? If you are willing, please use your name when you comment, or, if you are unwilling to comment in public (perfectly reasonable), email me at william.hierholzer@my.wheaton.edu. I should be clear - I do not mean this to be a pity party, I'm not saying I'm going to give it up entirely if no one says anything - I am trying to evaluate my strengths and weaknesses as a writer, and, more importantly, to deal with other pressing matters and responsibilities.

Thank you for your time. May God's blessings be with you.

Will

Instructions on Acquiring Dreams

It can be a fine line to walk, the definition between dreaming and disregard for God's path for your life. To be honest, sometimes I struggle with the feeling that God wants me to do things with my life that I don't want at all, and it takes me some time to admit that if it really does come to that, he knows better than me. I hope you read this as redemptive, not sorrowful.

Daffodils and Memory

I have something of a fan group at my church in Fresno - a number of the older attendees of the first service have become my sincere friends, and whenever we meet they ask with great interest how I've been, and tell me they've been praying, and I know they truly mean it, day after day of prayers for me. I'm so grateful to them. This poem is born of a memory of the time this summer I mentioned to one of the ladies that I remembered her love of Wordsworth and daffodils, and I may have quoted a line or two. My dad later spoke to her, and said those few words had moved her deeply, and it got me thinking about what large impacts small, offhand statements can have. It was nice to see it work for good once.

Curiosity and the Cat

I'll be honest, this is a bit of a dark poem. I just wondered, why did Curiosity kill the cat?

Faded and False

I probably should have gone to bed a while ago, but still I write on. I don't think any of this is any good, but it sure feels cathartic. A poem in three parts, on the three great aspirations of my life, and two great failures.

Measurements

This is one of those moments where I just started to write, and I'm not entirely sure what I mean by it. I emotionally understood what I wrote, but I doubt I could explain with other words what I meant to say. Either this fails or succeeds. Tell me which it is.

Viva la Indifference

I like to read, as it allows me to think, especially when I can relax with some music playing and a glass of wine at the same time. That's the setting in which I wrote this poem, like basically everything I post on here it's a first draft, so go easy on me.

Ekphrastic - Gerrit van Honthorst's "St. Sebastian"

This is another of my favorite paintings, it's in the National Gallery in London. I'm a fan of the Carravagio school, and this painting, with it's quiet yet intense focus, seemed to me a fresh way of portraying a saint who, to be fair, is a bit over-represented in the art world. The poem switches between two time periods - the time in which van Honthorst painted, the early 17th century, and the time when Sebastian died, which I believe was the 4th century.

A Trashy Observation

I like writing poems about common phrases and folk wisdom, because it's a chance to take something a bit prosaic and mundane, and put it in a different light. They're rarely serious poems though, and this is no exception.

The Poet as Physician

I was sitting at my dining room table, thinking glumly about how utterly worthless poets are from a utilitarian point of view, and I thought of all of the knowledge I possess, which yields very few utils. Compare this with my dad, who is a physician, a psychiatrist - medicine is something that is obviously of great value to society, and his years of knowledge yield a great quantity of utils. I hope you know that I'm saying this tongue in cheek, I firmly believe the arts have great value, but of an utterly different sort than practical things like medicine or carpentry. Still, a phrase came to mind - the old, cliche shout, "Is there a doctor in the house?" Viola!

My 100th Poem Posted - Another Short Love Poem

This makes for the 102nd post of my blog, and, as two of them were prose, it is the 100th poem I have posted. I'm a little surprised I've kept going with this, I'm normally not a very regular person about these things. Surprised, however, does not begin to describe how I feel about the reaction to my poems - I have received over 2,300 pageviews since starting, mostly from the US, but from roughly 20 other countries as well, among them Germany, Norway, Japan, India, Russia, Brazil and Singapore. To my dear friends and readers - thank you so much for your affirmation and support - your kind comments have taught me that I do not need to be published to be a successful poet. Thank you.

So now, here's the poem!

A Third Short Love Poem - After the Irish Style

I know precious little about romantic love (I feel like only those who have been married for years should be allowed to write love poems), but that hasn't stopped me from trying my hand at some short poems about love.

A Second Short Love Poem - After the Irish Style

Here is another attempt at the style of short Irish poems I've come to love.

A Short Love Poem - After the Irish Style

While visiting my sister Anne in Texas, I found a lovely little book of short Irish poems. I looked at it initially because of the humorous title The Hip Flask: Short Poems From Ireland, but I quickly discovered that it is full of heart-achingly beautiful verse. My favorite, for instance, is by Monk Gibbon, an otherwise unknown poet to me - it reads:

I tell her she is lovely and she laughs,
Shy laughter altogether lovely too;
Knowing, perhaps that it was true before;
And, when she laughs, that it is still more true.

Beautiful, is it not? So, because I'm the sort of person who is not content to let beautiful things be, I tried to imitate the style. Here's my first attempt.

Love Glutton - Pseudo-Martyr

If you remember my previous poem, Pseudo-Martyr, you'll know that they are a fictional suburban church band. The name came from a religious work by John Donne, and Ben Stephens and I loved to shout the name at each other in rock & roll voices. I use Pseudo-Martyr as a satirical vehicle to poke fun at the community I know best, and kind of belong in. This poem's title comes from a comment by Dr. Foster on another piece of Donne's, about how needy Donne seems to be in that poem, and Ben and I again seized upon the phrase. I've waited a while to write it, but here it is - Love Glutton, by Pseudo-Martyr. I hope you pick up on the fact that it is clearly satire on the world of Christian dating.

The Cycle of Faith

I like shape poems, though I've read very few. This is a crude attempt at one, trying to create the shape of a circle with the lines, but it's a start.

Ekphrastic - Hopper's "The Long Leg"

I used to take art lessons - I wasn't all that good, but I learned well enough, and still hold a fond place in my heart for those who can create with chalk and watercolor, oil and ink. One of the paintings I copied was Hopper's The Long Leg, which is in the Huntington Gallery in Greater LA. I've seen it in person many times (I kind of grew up with it), and there's a replica in my bedroom opposite my bed (I don't know when it showed up, my mom put it in there). Oh, and my crude pastel version is on our living room wall. If you ever come over, you'll recognize it as the least talented work in the room. Anyways, I wanted to write a poem about it, and was struck by the angular nature of the work.

Ekphrastic Duel - Caillebotte's "On the Pont de l'Europe"

My first poetry professor was David Wright, and he introduced me to the wonderful genre of ekphrastic poetry, poetry about art. Our creative writing  class took a trip to the Art Institute of Chicago, where we were told to pick out one painting and sit in front of it and study it. I sat in front of a Monet for about an hour, and it was remarkable how much my interpretation deepened and developed in that time.

Recently, I've made another attempt at ekphrasis, using prints I have at my house. I wrote to David asking his opinion of a particularly nice Caillebotte, and he in return challenged me to a duel of ekphrasis. We had until noon today (differing time zones meant I had a little more time), and David said neither of us could use the word "blue." Here's the painting, and the poems follow.

*David would like me to say that his poem is a rough draft, and I suppose mine is too*

Le Sacre de Porcelaine

We currently have a toilet that occasionally emits a high pitched drone, like a tv left on, except louder. This is somewhat irritating, as you have to flush it to make it stop. But the other day, it started to emit two notes at once, which was surprising.

Sheep Ain't Poetical

While reading another Patrick O'Brian novel (The Ionian Mission, for those who care), I came across a humorous conversation between Jack Aubrey and William Babbington, in which Jack states "But sheep ain't poetical, whereas horses are." This got me thinking, and so, a whimisical poem on sheep.

In Search of Cure

I just rediscovered this in my poetry file, I can't recall when I wrote it, though I'm pretty sure I never posted it.

Earth Dances

I just took a trip to the Central Coast of California, though I never saw the ocean, only wineries and mountains. For those unfamiliar with the Central Coast, it is quite beautiful, one of my first loves, which is why I wrote this poem about them, though it cannot do them much justice, they are far too wonderful. This poem is meant to be interactive - when you see the link embedded, try to open it in another tab and keep reading, so it plays in the background at just the right spot. I have no clue if this will work, but let's be ambitious!

As Made

I wrote this poem maybe a week ago, and finally typed it up.

Pour and Spill

I was frustrated recently while trying to neatly spoon some coffee grounds into the pot, as no matter how zealous I am to avoid spills, I find the counter covered with a liberal dose of black dots afterwards. That got me thinking, so, here's a poem.

Men of Clay

So, this is about some of my favorite subjects - forgiveness, guilt and grace. I find their interplay to be fascinating, so here's a poem I'm developing.

Unexpected Visitors

In reading Billy Collins, I've been struck by the way poets can take ordinary phrases and make stories of them. So, I decided to give it a go.

Plastic Lemons

While writing poetry last night, I found myself staring at the table in front of me, where my mom has a decorative display. So, I wrote about it.

To Billy Collins

Tonight, I sat and read and wrote. At the end of it, tired and mentally drained, I read some Billy Collins, who is the best-selling poet in America. While some may dismiss him for being popular, the man is ridiculously gifted. I also listened to Bruckner at the same time (symphony 9, mv I, Sir Colin Davis and the LSO), and despaired that I could ever write even a single poem that approached half the beauty of a single minute of Bruckner. Hence, a poem to Billy Collins.

One Nation

This Memorial Day gave me reason to stop and think about the way Christians in America speak about God. If this is over the top, it is because I fear any subtlety on the matter would be missed entirely.

Fragile Attempts

Today I took some time to sit and read poetry, and essays about poetry. This, along with the beer I was sipping, helped relax me enough to write some decent verse. Or at least I think it is decent.

And She Smiled At Him

I've been contemplating how to describe a smile in terms of poetry - here is one attempt.

He Speaks of His Loss of Desire

Often I feel that I have nothing to write about, especially in the summer, when my life becomes much more mundane and pleasant. When there is nothing that taxes your thinking too much, I feel that there's not too much to write about. Well, I decided to try that fancy thing called empathy, where you imagine what it would be like to be someone else. So, I tried to write as a jilted lover. I have no idea if it succeeded, but I'm content with the result.

Trending Upward

One of my favorite TV shows is Top Gear, a British car show that is possibly the most watched show on earth, with estimated viewership at 250 million per episode. For those who are unfamiliar, it is a quirky blend of road tests of hypercars and family hatchbacks, epic races between cars and other forms of transport (the Japanese bullet train, for instance), and some sophisticated mayhem. None of that really has an impact on this poem, except that today I was watching the first episode of the second season, from 2003. Now, in the past three years or so, there have been a number of arch references to financial crises in the world and the producers saying they needed to have more family cars on the show and fewer pieces of Italian exotica. This first episode, however, featured nothing exciting at all, at least not in terms of cost. The most expensive car was less than £18,000, which is rather moderate actually. This struck me as odd - there seemed to be as much of an emphasis on affordable living 8 years ago, but without a catchy, economist endorsed name for it. It got me thinking about trends, and how it allows us to label ourselves more conveniently and give us excuses for doing things. Well, that's the longest intro I've ever written for a poem. May you read and understand.

Poetic Development

Well, I don't have many readers left, which is only to be expected in the summer, and feedback has dropped to zero. This makes me a bit sad. This poem summarizes the way my poetry has been received.

Something Old, Something New

I write a lot of poems, and yesterday while sipping a beer in my back yard and reading Rebecca West's massive and brilliant Black Lamb and Grey Falcon, I jotted this down in the back of the book. It's born from reflection from a philosophical question I posed when rather young, and the response I got from a family friend who has a PhD. in philosophy.

He Wishes For Any Cloth At All

I've been reading William Butler Yeats recently, whose poetry is so beautiful and perfect it almost makes me weep. In particular, his "He Wishes For The Cloths of Heaven" is heart-wrenchingly gorgeous. This is a conversation poem, written somewhat in response to Yeats.

El Capitan

I know almost nothing about rock climbing, if I'm honest, but this metaphor is based on El Capitan, the massive granite face in Yosemite, 60 miles from my house. I found this one in a notebook as well, and have spent some time trying to rework and reconstruct it. I may return to this one.

Eliot and Hamlet

I found this in a notebook, like a lot of poems recently. I have no idea if I meant to title the poem "Eliot and Hamlet," or if it was the title of the lecture I should have listened to, the page is pretty much blank aside from that. Still, I'm not too sure what I meant by this at the time, but I can see where I took some elements for later poems.

Sonnet - Treacherous Love

Here's a sonnet from an undated page in my notebook. It was incomplete, I dashed off the final three lines just now. I like sonnets, they're such an expressive form.

Food For Thought

Here's a poem I discovered in a notebook, dated March 25 of this year. I won't say which class I wrote it in.

Hop, Step, Jump

While talking with my mom today, the subject of moving on in life was raised. We both agreed that for God to guide our paths, we need to first decide to walk at all. This is the poem that resulted from that thought. Also, hop, step, jump is the order for the triple jump, which I used to do quite poorly in High School.

Apocalyptic Revelations

Well, for those who don't know, the world apparently is not ending today. I could talk a lot about proof-texting and numerology, but I just wrote something mildly whimsical. Enjoy.

The Top Heavy Man Makes A Request

Here's another poem born of my long hours of driving. I didn't really write it all in my head, but I thought out a lot of the issues on the road, and typed them up when I got home. This deals with the issue of guilt and asking for forgiveness. Originally, the idea is that the speaker is asking a fellow human for forgiveness, but while thinking about it I realized it also works well as a prayer to God. I think that's telling, in that our offenses are against both God and man.

The Praises of an Impoverished Land

I've just completed a road trip from Chicago to Texas to California, and much of that land was desert. I love the desert, the American Southwest is truly gorgeous. Driving through for hours, I got to do a lot of thinking about that land, and this poem is partly the result.

Summer Indolence

I think I need to work on my titles, they aren't very imaginative. Oh well. This poem is about the emptiness that Summer often seems to contain. It was fine when I was young, but now that I'm older, the slower pace seems slightly worrisome.

Repartee

This poem is born from thoughts about verbal deflections, and how we can use humor to foster or discourage conversation of depth. The final stanza is a line that I've came to me months ago, and I've been mulling it over since.

A Poem for My Peers

I finished my finals today, everything is in, and now the waiting begins. I graduate in three days. Most of my friends are pretty excited, but I'll be honest, I don't know what I feel. I do know that I'm close to tears a lot of these days, and that makes me ashamed. Experience though, has taught me that in those moments I feel most alone, I am most human, the most easily identified with. So, for those who are graduating with me in a few days, or graduating in a year, or at all, or if you feel sorrow for reasons you cannot explain: You are not alone.

Clean-Up

I'm done with finals, and have only my department portfolio left. This means I must start to pack up all my belongings and leave, for the last time. This is sad.

Verse Epistle - On John Donne

For my John Donne course, our final assignment was to write a verse epistle - a letter in poetry form. I made several attempts to copy Donne's style, iambic pentameter couplets, but when I write like that I focus too much on the rhyme and not enough on what I'm saying. So this is the final version. I chose instead to work on meter, with the lines alternating between 8 and 6 syllables each. It was written to a good friend.

New Directions

Yes, I'm aware that this post is not a poem. Now that National Poetry Month is done, I've had to decide if I will keep the blog going - and for now, the answer is yes, I will. That's the simple stuff though. I'm writing this to try and gauge people's opinions on where I stand as a poet and writer as a whole, and to try and figure out where to go from here.

To begin, the reason I created the blog at all was to circulate my work among friends, firstly, and also to gather feedback on my writing. On the first point, the blog has been quite a success - 1,300+ page views already, from 8 different countries (to be fair, I think the ones from Brazil and Singapore were mistakes). The second point was largely successful, as a number of wonderful friends took the time to tell me they were reading along, and that they enjoyed what they read. If you've voiced your opinion to me, thank you so much, putting my work on display was a very difficult decision for me, and your support and affirmation means more than I can say.

However, I've only received positive feedback so far, and I'm not stupid or proud enough to believe that it's because I'm a brilliant poet. I greatly appreciate the kindness that restrains some tongues, but I would like to ask for people to let me know when a poem is bad, when a line is just plain wrong, if a rhyme or meter seems forced, etc. Some of you have taken the time to do so once or twice, and I encourage you all to do the same. It doesn't matter if you "know" how to read poetry or not, I care what everyone thinks. If an image is confusing or ineffective, say so! I want to become a better writer, and that won't happen if people don't honestly tell me when I'm doing something wrong! Be a real friend, criticize me!

A Battle of Wills

As the end of my college career hastens, I've been occasionally beating myself up over opportunities missed, dares never taken. If I'm honest, a lot of the time I was mad at God for not giving me the opportunities I wanted, and therefore missed out on seeing how incredible my options really were. Life moves on though, and I need to as well.

Deus Ex Machina

This is another poem about Doctor Who, a show I love dearly. Basically, he's a time traveling alien,  and he's always revealing that he's actually the truth behind some legend, or took part in some crazy historical event, so I wrote a modest little poem about the origin of a certain phrase. I hope you enjoy!

Overdue Introductions

Well, here's another one of those poems that is probably a bit convoluted in its thought process, but I think I mean what I'm saying. Unless you dislike what it says, then you're just reading it wrong.

Osama's Death

I'm a big fan of Arrested Development, and in the second or third season, when they think they've found evidence of WMD's in Iraq, the anchor man says, "Weapons of Mass Destruction found in Iraq, what this means for your weekend, coming up." I think it's hilarious, and very telling - we get very, very worked up over things that may or may not have a direct impact on us, due to the global media. Yes, Osama bin Laden is now dead, but it doesn't reverse the deaths of 9/11 or the war that followed, nor does it make the dead rest more easily. It may make us feel better, but I think we all know that this death really doesn't change much - there are lots of other terrorists out there, and there's still plenty of time for someone to step up to take Osama's place. Anyway, I wrote a poem about his death. It's satirical, and I'm not sure what I'm advocating for. But I wrote this, so read it.

Late Night, Denny's

So, I'm sitting in a Denny's working on a paper, and there are some really weird people nearby having a rather crude conversation. Oh, wait, they're just going. Well, Ben Stephens encouraged me to write a poem about them, and I did.

The Silence

So, I'm a big Doctor Who fan, and the new season is the best one yet, and is totally freaky. This poem is in no way a spoiler, but tries to capture the utter creepiness that the new villains represent.

Great Expectations

Well, as National Poetry Month ends in thirty minutes, I am writing out a lot of poems that I've had rattling around my head for a while. I think this is kind of born from that famous paradox about all Cretans being liars.

Why Walk?

I realized that as I am someone who writes poems (I hesitate to say that I'm a poet, that implies a level of talent I lack), I am potentially expected to answer the question of why poetry is important. I don't know, all I know is that it's important to me.

Perceive the Poet

This poem is based on the thoughts of Lord Berkley, who speculated on the nature of being, namely that to be is to be perceived, or, more commonly stated, if a tree falls in the forest and no one is around, does it make a sound? He said that God is the knower of all, so we all have being because we are perceived in his mind. It's interesting stuff - to what extent is our existence based upon the perception of others?

Journey

I am very tired, and I have no idea what this means. But wrote it, and you read it. So it is something. And things mean things.

Why I Was Late to Class

So, today was my final day of classes, a bittersweet moment. For some reason, I started writing a poem in the last of the day and my college career, and it quickly morphed into something else. Well, this is in no way autobiographical, I figured I should state that up front.

Flying Kites

This poem is a bit odd, I started free verse, unrhymed, unmetered couplets, but then I had a section of rhymed pentameter, followed by a rhymed 8 syllable couplet (what's the term for 8 syllable lines, I can't think of any). So, I may or may not go back and clean it up, but I like the loose start that goes into a more ordered feel.

Sunny Day

Today is a rather pretty day in Chicagoland, and I have spent a fair portion of it outside. I always have an issue this time of year with which poets to read and what music to listen to, the reason for this being that most of my year is spent in miserable winter, and all the music and poetry I consume takes on a tint of bitter cold. So, in Spring, I try to break out the bright colored arts, like Hopkins or Wordsworth. The question is, now that I write poems more often, how do I write more cheerful verse? It's a bit of a shift, but one that's quite pleasant to try and figure out. So, here's an attempt at a happier poem.

Blissful Sight

Well, I can't stop thinking about Good Friday stuff, so here's another poem on the subject.

The Goodness of Friday

Today is Good Friday, the day when Jesus was sacrificed on the cross. I cannot write poetry on this day without being reminded first of George Herbert's "The Sacrifice," and second of W.H. Auden's "Horae Canonicae." Both are far, far deeper than anything I could hope to say. Nonetheless, I wrote, trying to struggle with the wave of mundane expressions I see on this day. How easily we forget how painful and bloody goodness is, and refashion the word into a Hallmark sentiment.

Roaming Minds

This is not quite a traditional Good Friday poem - actually, I'm not really trying to deal with those themes at the moment. This poem is simply my attempt at a minor romantic verse, I figured all the convoluted inner monologues could use some balancing out. I hope you enjoy this.

Sober Mercy

This poem came to me as I sat at breakfast and saw some friends who I know had recently been passed over for an opportunity - I won't say what, but I've had other friends passed over for the same opportunity, and was passed over myself, and I realized that given time, these friends might be tempted to become bitter over this situation. Having gone down that path, I know how foolish that is, so this is my advice to those who are tempted towards bitterness. I think it might be somewhat inspired by Gerard Manley Hopkins' "Carrion Comfort," or maybe I just hope it is.

Pseudo-Martyr

Ben Stephens and I were talking in our John Donne class about how great of a name "Pseudo-Martyr" would be for a band. So, I made it one. The original piece was an essay by John Donne about religious tolerance and persecution in England at the time, I shudder to think what he would say if he could read my version.

Balance Sheets

Some things in life shouldn't make sense, but do anyways. I seem to think about those moments a lot.

The Last Words of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark

Here's a little speech that I imagine Hamlet making while lying on the floor, waiting for death. Not exactly cheerful, but then again, neither is the play. I hope Shakespeare won't be too pissed at me for this.

Fight

A poem on the nature of grit and determination, and their effectiveness.

In Illo Tempore

Much of the writing of the 20th century involved a good deal of longing for either the past or the future, which makes the 20th century like just about every other time period.

Undone

The words of the prayer of confession in the Book of Common Prayer are familiar to me, rolling off the tongue without effort, but something in me catches at one phrase, "In what we have done, and what we have left undone," speaking of how we have sinned. It's easy to admit your mistakes, but what about that which never was?

Free Will

To counteract the whimsy of some of my other poems, here is a serious look at the doctrine of free will.

Lovely Word

Unable to sleep at 1:36 am, sometimes all you can do is write whimsical poetry on love.

Working for the Weekend

As senior year rushes by, I realize that nothing should be taken for granted.

Illuminations

Written after a particularly spectacular lighting storm.

Hiding the Evidence

Today's poem is something of a midrash, an exploration of nuances in Biblical stories that are not explicitly commented on. Scott Cairns is the first poet I read to do this, and David Wright introduced me to the concept. This piece takes as its basis the collection of manna in the desert.

April Fools' Day

This is the start of NaPoWriMo, and the first day this week that I really didn't want to write poetry. I had a few ideas kind of come to me, but as I worked on them the lineation fell apart, or I felt like the idea needed a lot more work before I could show it. Still, writing is not something that just happens, it must be worked at, it's a craft, a skill that must be honed, so I sat and thought and wrote for an hour or so, and came up with something that hopefully is half decent.

Rocky Faith

Laying in bed, I thought of the rooster's crowing, the archetypal sign of morning (I was not looking forward to waking up, sleep is precious). For some reason, I connected that with the image of Peter denying Christ, and the old play on son and sun came to mind. I tried to weave in a number of allusions to other Biblical episodes, and to include some etymological treats.

Suspender Cycle - III

The third part of my cycle inspired by a birthday gift from my little sister.

Suspender Cycle - II

Part two of my exploration of the wonders of suspenders. Enjoy the whimsy.

Suspender Cycle - I

For my birthday, my little sister sent me a fez, a bow tie, and a pair of suspenders - a reference to the fantastic t.v. show Doctor Who.  While wearing the suspenders around campus, I discovered it can be quite a whimsical activity, and three poems were born.

Vietnam Protest Poetry

For my senior seminar, we read a number of protest proems from the Vietnam War era, or that were written later by veterans. This poem is a distillation of my thoughts and criticisms of the pieces.

Conventional Greetings

Sometimes, while we are tired, we make slightly embarrassing mistakes, and sometimes we imagine elaborate hypothetical situations. This is something of a combination of the two.

Sonnet - In the Style of Petrarch

A quick reminder - the Petrarchan style is composed of an initial octave that sets forward a question, or establishes a situation, and is followed by a sestet that answers the question or changes the viewpoint. Also, the subject matter is typically focused on the cold, chaste, distant woman whom the speaker is desperately in love with and whose scorn he must endure. Finally, it is dangerous to assume that the speaker in a lyric represents the opinions and views of the poet.

Sonnet - To My Little Sister, Mary

This is for my wonderful little sister, Mary. Hopefully a similar poem for my big sister, Anne (who is equally fabulous), will soon be written.

Winter Scenes

Something of an ekphrastic poem, in that it muses upon the concept of art, this is something I scribbled on a notecard one winter day during my junior year. I had recently heard or read something about the connotations of the word "nature" as opposed to the word "creation" - one implies a creator, the other implies a somewhat random world.

Fishing in Heaven

I think we've all heard people talk about how they look forward to Heaven, to be able to kick back and just spend all day fishing, and just as often, people seem to talk about looking forward to meeting certain famous people and tell them how much they love their book, their music, whatever. I understand the sentiment, but I think it's also a bit silly, and potentially dangerous to try and drag heaven down to our level.

Silent Before Sin

Why is it we all pretend that when we hear of some horrible sin that we cannot imagine a human could do such a thing? Why do we act that way about mundane sins? All it would take is for someone to read a bit of the Bible, or spend five minutes looking at themselves, to realize we're all fallen beings, and we all experience the corruption of sin in all aspects of our lives.

Grounded Flights

Attention doesn’t

take flight,

that requires

way too much

energy.

No,

it kind of

sits there,

bland, blinking

stupidly

at all light,

bright or not.

Valentine's Doggerel

Though snow may melt and flowers rot

I’m pretty sure you’ll always be hot.

And if I’m wrong, well, never mind,

I guess I’ll love you for your mind –

Until I find your hidden hates,

Then I swear, no more dates,

Because you are an ugly jerk

(and neither fact is a perk).

So I’ll keep expectations low

And we’ll take it very slow,

So when you give voice to my fears

That you no longer care for me,

You’re off, you’re gone, totally free,

With scornful smile and haughty glare,

I’ll admit that it’s only fair:

You leave because your love is dying,

I stayed although I was always lying.

(Just to be clear, this wasn't written with anyone in mind)

Pride

They say they are proud,

brewing Starbucks’ coffee:

I assume they mean

they are relieved.

I say relieved,

because they avoided

the monotonous hassle

of sampling various beans,

ranking aroma,

strength,

smoothness,

acidity,

against cost:

going corporate

can be so cozy.

Birthdays

Had you told me

one year ago

my twenty-second birthday

would be spent

in a library,

I would have recoiled

in shock and a bit of fear,

probably, and asked

how you could know that.

You see, this is the problem

with hypotheticals.

You no doubt

sought to make conversation,

expecting me to reply

that it would be a surprising

turn of events.

But apparently you

possess either clairvoyance

or time travel technology –

do you expect me

to take that news

just lying down?

Sometimes

People ask me

what flavors I detect

in my wine.

“Grapes,” I reply,

though to be honest

I think fresh grapes better.

This only happens

on glass number one.

By glass three,

I am much more

articulate and precise

in my lying

about the persimmons

and apricots in my Zinfandel.

Appearances

The way your hair

gently shimmers past your ear,

sweet head gently inclined

against your studious hand,

makes it look like

you’re flipping me the bird.

I don’t mind,

things often appear different

from how they are.

Beret

I think berets

are due for a comeback.

They last looked good

when Ingrid Bergman

sat outside Le Belle Aurore,

looking slightly sad.

Even that birthday

Uncle Larry pranced about

avec beret, avec cognac,

has begun to fade

from memory.

I think berets

are due for a comeback.

Eucharistic Prayer

You have fed me
your body,
blood.

Now come to life
within me,
each breath flowing
over, with, in
bread and wine,
reanimating that which
has already risen.

May the Word
again take on
flesh,

this flesh.

Stumbling Christ

He is risen,
so he is indeed,
which means he was born,
o Emmanuel, Emmanuel.

I already know,
creeds informed me of such,
paintings, oratorios, poems,
sermons, all remind me that
unforgettable things occurred.

But he stumbled.

Word made flesh,
perfect God,
sinless man,
shouldering his burden
misstepped, caught a sandal,
hit a rock,
was too weary,
whatever -
he fell and needed help.

Praise be God
whose ways are
mysterious,
wondrous,
incarnate.

Why Batter a Broken Wall?

One of the most meaningful poems to me is John Donne's Holy Sonnet 14. I first read it my freshman year of college, and was blown away by the powerful language Donne used. I wrote my first poetry explication on it, and in the process memorized it. I bought a copy of Donne's poetry soon after, and have studied his verse ever since.

This poem is a conversation piece with that sonnet - while it probably makes sense on its own, it uses a lot of the language Donne used, and (I think) becomes much more meaningful if you know what I'm thinking of. It's also a personal expression of my struggles with God - the sort of thing all of us Christians I think can understand.

Why Batter a Broken Wall?

Be gentle, no need to batter away,

               I'm ready to surrender.

The white flag is flying, why bother to bend your force

                         against these walls, a mere breath

                                   might bash a gaping maw

                         in my beleaguered barriers.

Come on, don't tarry, what more shall I say?

               Please? Pretty Please? Tell me, I'm feeling

                         a bit desperate here;

               Dearly I love you, won't you say the same?

Reason may have been Donne's viceroy,

               but post-modernity did him in long before

                                                we ever met.

A town in enemy hands still applies,

                         I was too distracted                   to repel boarders.

                                                                   (by life)

Married to this world and your enemy?

               No divorce is strong enough to end

                         this abusive relationship,

               I long for death instead.

The ravishing can wait for a later date,

               end my existence to this world now,

                         let me die

               for I can never be for you so long

                                   as I exist.

One must die, my body or my hopes

               of praising you on high:

God of mercy, love, faith and hope,

                         I know which one I want to die,

                                   please help soon.

Picture of Dorian Gray

In my senior seminar course this semester, we read Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray. While discussing the novel, Dr. Bieber expressed frustration whenever we would make a comment about one of the three main male characters without distinguishing which "he" we meant. Viola!

We three "he's" of Dorian are
Pondering life, yet we just mar.
Actress slaying, self-hating,
We have made beauty our star.

O art is wondrous, art is might,
Art is languid, truth, and right,
Inward leading, self-deceiving,
Make us into perfect frights.

(Sing to the tune of "We Three Kings")

This is Just to Say

In my senior year of high school, I was given my first introduction to poetry by Mr. Endicott, my teacher. Though he was an excellent teacher, and really loved poetry, I did not enjoy it very much. It seemed to me that most poets were cheating if they didn't rhyme, which meant when we read this poem by William Carlos Williams, I did not think too highly of it. The result was what might well be my first poem, a parody. I hope you enjoy.

This is Just to Say

I have stopped
caring about
the poems given
in class

and which
you were probably
thinking
had meaning

Forgive me
they were idiotic
so simple
so dull

In Honor of Aaron Belz and His Visit to Wheaton

This is a poem I wrote for Aaron Belz, a poet who visited Wheaton's campus earlier this semester. His verse is quite humorous and pithy. I was able to spend a couple of hours sitting and talking with him and other students, and I presented this poem to him.

Sticks and stones
may break my bones,
so a well weighted club
should be more than adequate.

Green-peace Girl

(Written after a visit with John Raines to Santa Cruz)

I nearly stopped to ask
the young woman
out on the streets
of Santa Cruz
if I could take
a picture by her side.

In truth, I had stopped
with my friend at my side
as the young lady
accosted us for money
as dozens of others
had done already.

But no hobo she,
no desire for drugs
or numbing booze,
but to save the whales!
What a rarity,
a cliche in action!

Green-peace girl,
desiring donations
for a fund
lampooned
from all sides;
who wouldn't want
a photo with her?

I mock in vain
for she had
what I lack
conviction
for a cause.
Hers for creatures
doomed to die;
mine for creatures
meant for salvation.

Had she the cause
I possess,
how long until
all the world knows?

I nearly stopped to ask
the young woman
out on the streets
of Santa Cruz
if I could take
a picture with her:

why did I not stop and ask
the young woman out-
right if she knew Christ,
offer employment
of an eternal nature,
win a friend,
and find a sister?

Faith

Like pencil
pressed hard,
writ large,
then hastily
erased,

so is your hand
in my book.

My eyes scan
seeing no
gray lines
or curves
of script,
and then
I panic

But when all is lost,
my hand slides
under page,
fingers find those grooves,
that prove you are still
in life.

I smile,
wipe tears,
trudge on.

Admission

Of course, none of this
could have been avoided
by an answer of "yes."

Pain is pain;
the milestones of our
long pilgrim's trip.

Should I find
myself lost again
and pass by a marker

in the wilds,
instinct may guide
my feet, though perception

fails. Still, some
seem to be blessed
to caravan, rather

than travail, which
has been my lot until
this point,

for the next many points.
For all this, trains still run,
green pales into red,

and I smile,
ask after her well being,
and wait for the ache

to finally end.

A Classy Poem

I cannot begin to comprehend
the common usage of the phrase
"as classy as hell."

In a day and age where vulgarity
enjoys a wide and prosperous reign,
no one bats an eye.

What the speaker no doubt implies
is that his subject is both a gentleman
and a scholar to boot,

whereas he is but a tawdry little man
who thinks of diamonds as sparkly,
a fine tawny port as yummy,

and class as diabolical.

Mother Teresa is Denied Entrance to Heaven

This is another poem that was written for my creative writing course in the Fall of 2009. It always interests me to see the varied reactions to Roman-Catholics in evangelical circles, and this poem is a parody of the viewpoint that many Wheaton students seem to secretly cling to. I'm sure I'm wrong about that, so don't worry, I'm not talking about you. I'm not very good about discussing themes in my verse, so if you think there's something there, tell me, and I'll repeat that in the future.

Cranmer to the Crowd

This is the first poem that I wrote that I felt good about. The original was very poorly lineated, and my creative writing prof, David Wright, used it as an example for the rest of class of different methods of lineating a poem - a bit embarrassing at first, but incredibly helpful. This is the version I finally settled on, and I am very much indebted to David for his help.

Thomas Cranmer was the Archbishop of Canterbury under Henry VIII, Edward VI, and Mary Tudor. It was under Mary's reign that he was executed for his role in the Protestant Reformation of the English Church. He is remembered now for the creation of the Book of Common Prayer. This dramatic monologue imagines his final moments in St. Mary's in Oxford, where he was taken before his execution, that he might repent of his sins. He had earlier signed a confession, condemning his Protestant works, as he had been promised a full restoration to his post as Archbishop, and reward managed what torture could not. When he was put in the pulpit though, he shocked everyone by loudly condemning the persecutions that Mary, the Catholic monarch, had ordered, and he repented of turning from that which he believed to be true. He was dragged out into the streets to be burned, and as the fires were lit, he thrust his right hand down, declaring that the hand which signed his recantation would suffer first. He stood there, impassive, as the flames rose around him, his hand defiant. He was a great man.

The final text in italics is taken from the collect The first day of Lent, commonly called Ash Wednesday, written by Cranmer. Also, the "crooked Pole" I speak of is Archbishop Pole, the Catholic Cardinal who led Queen Mary's inquisition.

Cranmer to the Crowd

You drag me off, eager to end my heresy

I say

and believe Christ did die once for all

even those whose eyes prefer

English to Latin.

I do not fear those fannéd flames,

great Heaven's Gate lies beyond

that portal.

Penitent, I pass through the heat,

intended to incinerate, instead, purifies

my putrid soul. Yes, putrid,

Archbishop though I am.

This hand, by torture's test unmoved,

foolishly let flow forth

that fatal ink,

My repulsive recantation, damned

apostasy

This was the Hand that wrote it,

therefore it shall

suffer first!

When the rack's subtle subversion

yielded

no yelps other than of agony,

pleasure's gentle persuasion,

a potential pardon, secured

my shameful signature.

That crooked Pole and Mary,

anointed by Anglican

blood,

to crown their crass joys,

publicly proclaimed

my craven capitulation.

My pious present to the people

prayers in the common tongue, lies

dead, scorned and shamed.

Their promised pardon

proved false

a date determined for my

death

a pulpit provided for my final

farewell.

My tongue then uttered that

Truth

I should have trusted first -

I renounce him, and all his works, him

The Pope!

As you gather in to stunt my speech,

I collect my consciousness one

final time.

Almighty and everlasting God,

which hatest

nothing that thou hast made,

and dost forgive

the sins of all them that be

penitent:

Create and make in us new

and contrite hearts,

that we worthily lamenting out sins,

and acknowledging our wretchedness,

may obtain of thee, the God of

all mercy,

perfect remission and forgiveness; through

Jesus Christ.

Forgive us Father!

NaPoWriMo

Welcome to the weird writings of Will! This blog has been created for National Poetry Writing Month 2011, and it is my intent to use it to circulate the poems I write this month among my friends. I might also include poems from poets that I love, or information on events and the like.

If you like what you read, let me know! If you dislike what you read, well, I want to hear about that as well, but I would appreciate it if you could point out what it was that you disliked - I'm still a baby poet, and very much looking for suggestions and help. Also, if you have suggestions for things I should write about, or poets you think I should read, please let me know!

I think I'll put up some of my older poetry as well, so those who are inclined to wonder about my poetic development (or lack thereof) can have things to muse on.

That's all for now, enjoy!