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!