However, I just posted two of my newest poems (and please understand that they are in draft form and unpolished) in response to my blogger-friend Nicelle Davis' 'April Poetry Challenge,' based on an analytical essay in Gregory Orr's masterful book 'Richer Entanglements' which distinguished four main 'temperaments' in poetry writing, namely 'story,' 'structure,' 'music' and 'imagination.' Nicelle invited people to write four poems, one of them to emphasize each of these temperaments. Whilst this is the opposite strain from Orr's advice that each poet should aim to identify their own strongest 'temperament' and build up all four so that their poems contain them all, it's a useful exercise for sure. This was supposed to be in honor of April's National Poetry Month, so I'm rather late!
Today, I posted poems highlighting 'story' and 'structure.' I'll be working on the other two.
You can see Nicelle's original post and my poems in response here - but I'll paste them in here too. Please respect my intellectual integrity and property, and please also know that they are unpolished drafts!
Temperament: ‘Story’
‘Spencer Allen Nearly Loses His Truck in the Tide’
‘Spencer Allen Nearly Loses His Truck in the Tide’
Just a regular guy in an old ford truck,
trying to turn an honest buck…
trying to turn an honest buck…
To drive the beach of Homer is a risky proposition
but the equinoctial low tides make for easier decision
a vast exposed expanse of sands don’t need so much precision,
and just a few miles north of town you barely see a soul –
you own the beach! – you and the birds – a beach bestrewn with coal!
but the equinoctial low tides make for easier decision
a vast exposed expanse of sands don’t need so much precision,
and just a few miles north of town you barely see a soul –
you own the beach! – you and the birds – a beach bestrewn with coal!
Just a regular guy in an old ford truck,
trying to turn an easy and honest buck
with his jacket of tatters and two shaggy mutts
he gives his own orders and takes his own pride
when you don’t expect much then you stay satisfied
summer sea, winter land, always the tide.
trying to turn an easy and honest buck
with his jacket of tatters and two shaggy mutts
he gives his own orders and takes his own pride
when you don’t expect much then you stay satisfied
summer sea, winter land, always the tide.
He’s gathered quite a load of coal but wants that last big slab
(the mutts have chased a poodle and been banished to the cab)
tide’s moving in, he’s almost done, but thinks he’ll take a stab.
That hunk of coal, though close to shore, is in a deeper region:
as soon as he pulls up his truck, he rues his rash decision –
his vehicle sinking in the sands dooms this and every mission.
(the mutts have chased a poodle and been banished to the cab)
tide’s moving in, he’s almost done, but thinks he’ll take a stab.
That hunk of coal, though close to shore, is in a deeper region:
as soon as he pulls up his truck, he rues his rash decision –
his vehicle sinking in the sands dooms this and every mission.
Just a regular guy in an old ford truck
trying to turn a simple and honest buck
it doesn’t look so simple now that his rig is stuck
He digs in the quicksand to no avail
all hopes of driving away curtailed;
he gives it up for lost, gets ready to bail.
trying to turn a simple and honest buck
it doesn’t look so simple now that his rig is stuck
He digs in the quicksand to no avail
all hopes of driving away curtailed;
he gives it up for lost, gets ready to bail.
Ground giving, sinking, fluid, it’s acting just like water
well, normally it’s under sea, so water’s been its tutor
the sea’s an endless gaping maw, it gives no mead nor quarter;
it wants his truck! He knows this, drags his tools above the tideline
his tools, his dogs, himself – relegated to the sideline
a wretched, truckless future stretching clear within his mind’s eye.
well, normally it’s under sea, so water’s been its tutor
the sea’s an endless gaping maw, it gives no mead nor quarter;
it wants his truck! He knows this, drags his tools above the tideline
his tools, his dogs, himself – relegated to the sideline
a wretched, truckless future stretching clear within his mind’s eye.
We found the guy with his sinking truck
ruing his rashness and cursing his luck:
we swore we’d get him out of the muck.
We’d put down boards for the spinny wheels to tread
jack it up in front to lift up its head
but first, for goodness sakes, let’s unload the bed!
ruing his rashness and cursing his luck:
we swore we’d get him out of the muck.
We’d put down boards for the spinny wheels to tread
jack it up in front to lift up its head
but first, for goodness sakes, let’s unload the bed!
So certain had he been of the ocean’s claiming all
that salvage of his mobile goods had been his only goal
and so his sinking truck was packed with hundredweights of coal!
So we helped him shed his load and bring the tools where we could use them,
our optimistic flurry seeming merely to confuse him
but jacked and treaded, towed, there’s just no way his truck was losing!
that salvage of his mobile goods had been his only goal
and so his sinking truck was packed with hundredweights of coal!
So we helped him shed his load and bring the tools where we could use them,
our optimistic flurry seeming merely to confuse him
but jacked and treaded, towed, there’s just no way his truck was losing!
So our regular guy in his rescued truck
made haste for home as soon as he’d gotten unstuck
with a new respect for intertidal muck.
made haste for home as soon as he’d gotten unstuck
with a new respect for intertidal muck.
Temperament: ‘Structure’ (Villanelle)
Journey’s Mirror
Journey’s Mirror
If I’m alive, it must be meant to be
there must be some end point to all my journeying
my end, my death, is all that calls to me.
there must be some end point to all my journeying
my end, my death, is all that calls to me.
So many charts and plans are sent to me
adventures’ invitations, constant learning
if I’m alive, it must be meant to be.
adventures’ invitations, constant learning
if I’m alive, it must be meant to be.
But yet a constant shadow pulls on me
participation’s liveliness deterring
my death, my end, is all that calls to me
participation’s liveliness deterring
my death, my end, is all that calls to me
Life’s chartless plan promotes its liberty,
its winters hint at signs of joy returning
if I’m alive, it must be meant to be.
its winters hint at signs of joy returning
if I’m alive, it must be meant to be.
These plays of life flick by like shoals at sea,
mere ripples on the ocean of my yearning
my death, my end, is all that calls to me.
mere ripples on the ocean of my yearning
my death, my end, is all that calls to me.
Mind’s mirror must distort reality
and keep the whirlpool of my vision churning:
if I’m alive, must it be meant to be?
my death, my end, is all that calls to me.
and keep the whirlpool of my vision churning:
if I’m alive, must it be meant to be?
my death, my end, is all that calls to me.
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