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...