I stand by what I've written, so up yours.

So--here's the series of events as I see it. I posted a poem on January 10, 2013, one inspired by an essay by Wendell Berry. On January 11, 2013, just one day after my post, Mr. Berry spoke at a Baptist college conference and came out in favor of fair treatment of gays, including the right of gays to marry. Soon after the report of Mr. Berry's speech made the rounds, conservatives (religious and political) immediately distanced themselves from Mr. Berry, afraid (I suppose) of catching some germ that would turn them into homosexuals. (Why, in the accompanying photo above, is Mr. Berry surrounded by so much "wood"? is this a subliminal message?) Many of the arguments made against Mr. Berry focused on his supposed mental state. Comments such as "he's gone crazy," it was his "Grandpa Simpson moment," he's "off his rocker," he's "lost it," summed up the substance of the logic against Mr. Berry.

I have come to suspect that this entire reaction is a hidden anti-poetic agenda against my poem. So here, in front of Gawd and ever-body, on this blessed day of January 18, 2013, I publicly come out and say . . . I stand by my poem as written.

Here and Heaven

I'm posting this one to show my oldest daughter that I really don't mind Chris Thile's singing (though I still think he is a far better mandolin picker than singer). This is a remarkable song, featuring artists at the top of their game.

Irish Harp: Niamh McGloin

This is a wonderful video, beautiful harp playing by one of the best in Ireland. Great setting, sound good, the choice of music perfect--slow and meditative in the beginning, ending with something you can move to.

The Rising

dVerse host Victoria Slotto has offered some excellent words concerning the use of images in poems, and the way these images can offer the reader a message or new perspective. In the following poem I . . . well, the following poem is an attempt at something or the other. (This is based on a passage in an essay by Wendell Berry called "The Rise.") It would be nice if you could join in with a poem of your own!

The Rising

The black water rising, bold with recent

rains, extended beyond its normal reach,

lifting every loose thing: leaves and fallen

limbs, a poorly-built dock, beer cans

from weekenders, turned soil from newly

plowed fields. Swollen up to the bottom

branches of the overhanging trees,

it moved the chirping birds further toward

the heavy sky where they sing, anyway.

Toward night the fisherman put in, needing

to gather up his final lines

of the day, careful yet unafraid

of his old flowing friend. He leaned

and grabbed a line, droplets of water

falling like life's-blood into the current. A heavy 

line this one. The braced foot slipped. Carried away

from the bank, away from the noise of water

breaking, into the unhindered channel,

he cried out. For hours he passed

the unconcerned herons, and families

in their riverfront houses heard him howl

as he went by unseen, not knowing

what to make of it.

Language

For Three Word Wednesday, prompt words focused, pair, vacant. Also submitted to dVerse OpenLinkNight. Short and sweet this week.

Language

I pared

a pair

of pears.

Focused

hocus-pocus,

well-meant

yet

vacant—

for

what does

“I”

imply?

Collom Lune: The Raindrop

Tonight at dVerse, the marvelous poet Samuel Peralta has challenged us to write either a Kelly lune or Collom lune. I chose the latter, in a two stanza form. The form is similar to haiku; however, instead of syllable count, words are counted (lines of 3-5-3). The subject is inspired by the gentle rain falling outside. Please join in--it is a fairly simple form to work with, yet it can yield powerful results. (edited to fix the spelling of Jack Collom's name!)

the raindrop falls

from the tip of the

magnolia leaf bearing

the reflected world

falls and breaks into a

thousand tiny worlds

For Foy Lanier's

For Three Word Wednesday, prompt words idle, pace, nagging. Also submitted to dVerse OpenLinkNight. Happy New Year to all!

For Foy Lanier’s

The only thing on tap

was Bud or Miller Lite,

sometimes served warm due

to a temperamental cooler;

bathroom stall doors

torn from their hinges

idled against the opposite wall

after some friendly fisticuffs.

The floor slanted hard

to the left, giving

a drunken pace even

to the sober, which we

mostly were, those times

we’d all meet after work to have

a few or a few too many, tapping

out cigarettes and telling lies

about when we were young.

Well before closing time

we’d leave Foy’s to fend for

itself, until we felt the nagging

urge again to drink to health,

good favor, to peace,

prosperity, happy times.

We’ve all gone our separate

ways by now, and today

I noticed Foy’s is just

an abandoned dusty field.