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.