I Inflict Another Poem on the Reading Public

I received the May/June issue of Gilbert Magazine today (yes, in Chestertonian style, the issue arrived on August 3rd). To my delight, one of my clerihews was published in it.

President James Polk

would rarely crack a joke.

But his friends say he was quick

with a limerick.

The Birthdays That Ate Gates

It was a birthday over a week ago, then the Good-Looking-One's this past week. The in-laws a are coming over today to mark both days - so another excuse to celebrate.

Here's the poem I scribbled for GLO's day:

They’re dancing down in Delhi,
And Frolicking in Fiji,
Singing out in Singapore,
And boogying in Bali,
Partying in Pago Pago,
And toasting in Timbuktu.
Yes, the whole world's wishing
A happy birthday to you!

Haiku - or is that "Carku"?

at the repair shop
waiting for wife to arrive -
gray skies

Speaking of my poetry (and Chesterton)

The latest Gilbert Magazine came in ... and there I was.

One of my clerihews showed up in the "Clerihew Corner":

Albert Einstein
had to pay a traffic fine
for trying to reach the speed of light
in his Packard one night.

The pleasures of seeing my name in print, and reading essays about Chesterton, as well of selections of his own wit and wisdom ...

Ahhh.

Something to chew on

I went to Mass this morning
sitting off to the side
in the back.

I looked down.

The kneeler was up.

Underneath the kneeler
was ...

... gum.

Not just one wad.
A gathering of gums.

White, peach, pink, red.

Gum on wood.
Gum on gum.
Gum on gum on gum.

I looked at the kneelers around me.
No gum.
Just this one.

Maybe this was the pew
a chewer
regularly occupied
slipping in
suddenly realizing she (or he?)
was still chewing
and not wanting to swallow
before Communion
discarded it here.

Maybe it was a kid
who thought it was cool
to stick it
to the Holy Man.

Maybe one chewer did it first
and with the taboo broken
subsequent chewers
just stuck with the practice.

Maybe they figured
that by sticking it there
they were hiding their transgressions.

Maybe there was no thought involved at all.

It crossed my mind that maybe
they should have used a tissue or paper
and not the bottom of the kneeler
and should have shown more respect
for God's house.

I could have been angry or upset
but today my mind
got stuck
on something else.

Being a chewer
of matters metaphorical
I thought of how many times
we come to Mass
chewing on
angers
resentments
jealousies
and suddenly remembering
Whom
we are about to receive
we try to discard
those things
to make us ready.

At the right time
I put the kneeler down
and knelt
on the padded top
knowing that beneath
was a foundation of things
someone hoped that someone else would not notice.

But the Janitor will notice.

Ah
another metaphor
to chew on.

Clerihew Published In Gilbert Magazine

I got a pleasant surprise today.

The latest issue of Gilbert Magazine, the magazine of the American Chesterton Society, arrived, and one of my clerihews was published in it.

A clerihew is "a humorous, biographical verse of four short lines - two closed couplets - with the first rhyme a play on the name of the subject." (The definition in Gilbert.)

My humble contribution:

When Siddhartha Gautama
Was seeking Nirvana
He refused to settle
For any old heavy metal.

Two Haiku: Hiroshima and Nagasaki

walk in the woods
noticing the mushrooms –
August 6

a break in the clouds
gave way to sunrise –
Nagasaki

I have posted these before, but we are marking the anniversaries again.

Dear Lord,
let not the light of Your love
of Your sacrifice
be lost
in the fires of destruction
and fear
and hate

100 Days

President Barack Obama
should not be confused with Osama,
but his anti-life ways
lead to more deaths these days.

(I actually posted this last week over at Chesterton and Friends, but in honor of President Obama's first 100 days I'm posting it here as well.)

John Paul II - A Haiku

April morning

cardinals in conclave

at the bird feeder

Today is the anniversary of Pope John Paul II's death. I wrote the above haiku back then inspired by the events of that April.

Maggie's Dreaming

Maggie’s dreaming
of chasing rabbits
or of frolicking with Mollie long gone
or of playing Dog and Master tag.

Maggie’s dreaming
of patrolling the yard to protect us from
bird-feeder-marauding squirrels
or garden-munching wood chucks
or bird-prowling neighbor’s cat

Maggie’s dreaming
of barking full and loud at
strangers at the door
relatives at the door
the mailman at the mailbox
anyone walking by

Maggie’s dreaming
of leaping high to catch snowballs
or of tug of wars with rope or a rubber chicken
or of madly dashing through the yard
leaping into the swimming pool
and then madly dashing about again
and again … and again …

Maggie’s dreaming
of long pre-dawn walks
sniffing everything that needs to sniffed
or of sitting proudly in the back seat
her hair and lips rippling in the open window wind

Maggie’s dreaming
of her joints being flexible
again
or of her haunches being firm and full of spring
again
or of her eyes clear and sharp
again
or of her ears and nose keen
again.

Maggie’s dreaming
what may be her final dreams
and I watch her dreaming
wishing
this was
all a

dream

cler(cummings)ihew

e (cummings) e
tYpog(plays)raphy
(poet)surpri(ic)sinG imagery,paren
theses—(gam)w or d sb ro (es) k en

Curse the darkness

Early for Mass
I sat in a back pew
(as I usually do)
next to a statue of Jesus
and rows of votive candles.

As I was praying
a man came in
put money in the coin box behind me
and clicked on a candle.

The candle’s flame
flickered and danced
electric flame
an electric candle.

Electric faith.

The man silently stood before the statue of Jesus
head bowed.
I watched the electric flames
and
wistfully
thought about the smell of a struck match
the scent of wax
the trail of smoke rising like incense
and wondered if some day
there will be electric incense.

But

sometimes a candle that is not a candle is a candle
just like a prayer that is not a prayer is a prayer.

The man sat in a pew
Mass began
the statue of Jesus stood
the electric candles flickered beside me
inside me
and
I swear
I smelled wax.

Jump

When I was a kid
a group of we kids
decided
that if you put a blanket on the ground
under a tree
you could jump from the tree
onto the blanket
and not get hurt.

We put a blanket on the ground
under a tree in Raymond's back yard.
We climbed the tree
and jumped
and climbed higher
and jumped
and climbed higher
and jumped.

And Raymond broke his arm.

We watched as Raymond ran screaming to his house.
We picked up the blanket
and went home.

Sometimes
love is like that.

Stinking thinking

I used to go to A.A. meetings.

Not because I am an alcoholic
though I have my addictions -
coffee
chocolate
books
thinking
this computer
sarcasm.

But because I was surrounded by alcoholics -
ancestors
loved ones
friends
coworkers
bosses
associates.

Heck, if not for alcoholism
I might not be here.

The Lord moves in mysterious ways.

I went to the meetings
because a lost soul
I loved
was convinced I was an alcoholic
and being a lost soul
in love with a lost soul
I wondered
and doubted
so I went.

I went to the non-smoking meetings
(not an addiction I had)
where they served coffee (aha).
People said the usual:
Name, addiction, story.
I knew some of them
from the news
and from life (avoiding eye contact).
I got to know them better
even as I avoided eye contact
comfortable in confidentiality
and familiarity
and routine.

The coffee helped.

This went on for a while.
So did group counseling.
Then I realized
and my counselors realized
and the group realized
this was not my issue
this was someone else's issue
and the fiction of me being an alcoholic
was one way to avoid
facing that issue
just as my accepting the idea that I might be an alcoholic
was a way to avoid my issues
including the one issue
I most wanted to avoid.

Revelation time.

The loved one quit the counseling
and me.

I finished the counseling.
There was a celebration.
Hugs all around.
And coffee.

It's been years.
My life now is filled with poetry
and not fiction.

I still drink coffee
still eat chocolate
still collect books
still think too much
still sit at this computer
still say and write sarcastic things

I am mostly comfortable.

But
sometimes
late at night
when it's easy
to think that what's not real is real
I wonder
if I had been an alcoholic
if things would have ended differently.

Stinking thinking.

New Year's haiku

New Year's Eve -
scattering resolutions
like confetti

Early poems of a "minor poet" wannabe

I'm in the process of compiling all my poems in a blog.

I'm starting with my earliest ones, working forward.

Right now I'm up to 1990 - 62 poems compiled.

I'm doing this in part to get a count - I think I may have some 200-300, of which about 30 have been published. I also want to have them all in one spot.

The quality varies - from wretched to publishable. Maybe by the time I go home I will, by sheer volume, have enough poems to qualify as a Minor Poet!

The first poem that I wrote (that I can find) is from 1968 - when I was 12/13 -

A leaf tumbled
to the ground.
Don't ask me why:
It just did.

Ah, even then puzzled by the world.

Catholic poets

The Author's Motto
(Richard Crashaw)

Live Jesus, Live, and let it be
My life to die, for love of thee.

Metaphysical poet Richard Crashaw converted to Catholicism late in life.

He is one of many convert poets. That list is a long one - G. K. Chesterton, Denise Levertov, Gerard Many Hopkins, Thomas Merton, Oscar Wilde, Paul Claudel, George Mackay Brown, Dunstan Thompson, Roy Campbell, Edith Sitwell, Siegfried Sassoon, Alfred Noyes, Maurice Baring, Robert Benson, Cardinal John Henry Newman, John Dryden, and many more.

Some of these folks are better known for other works and other genres, but they did write verse. Some are better poets than others.

I suspect there are many other convert - and cradle Catholic - poets today.

Poetry is a flexible tool. It can be used to explore the mind and the soul. It can be used to entertain and to educate. It can be used to express deep emotions and profound thoughts.

Like any art form, it can also be misused and poorly done.

I don't denigrate the amateurs - as Chesterton noted, "If a thing is worth doing, it is worth doing badly." I read some people who are considered "light," trite, awkward. I look at myself as one of them! Folk/self-taught poets: Why not? I just make sure I also read poets who are more skilled and polished, and I try to improve my own poetry.

I also don't necessarily dismiss those who "misuse" poetry if they are sincere. You just have to be careful with such verses - you need a solid ethical/moral/aesthetic base before reading them.

And some poets simply should not be read by children from 6 to 60 and beyond.

I remember reading a highly respected and moderately popular contemporary poet. I borrowed several of his books from the library and dove in. His style was appealing and he had some interesting insights. But the more I read, the more my unease grew. His world view was so dark, so cynical, so amoral that I could feel it seeping into my mind and soul. I stopped reading.

I might use some of his techniques, but reject his world view.

I also read secular poets, and poets of other faiths. I don't dismiss them. There is much out there that is beautiful and moving. I just apply the same standards to those poets that I do to Catholic and Christian poets: Does reading their poetry make me a better, more insightful person?

But one of my points with this blog is to promote Catholic poets.

I have posted some of my own poems. As part of my Catholic Culture campaign, I plan to feature poems by other poets as well. You might see a verse by a classic poet, poetry from more obscure contemporary and historical poets, or poems from other blogs and sites.

The poems will not necessarily be religious. The might be about nature. They might be about dogs. They might be about love and family. They might be humorous.

I hope that these poems will inspire you in your own faith life, and to perhaps write your own poetry. At the least, I hope you will find them worth reading, and will do some exploring and reading of your own.

The pause of Claus

After Epiphany Santa Claus

will take a pause.

But believers have no need to fear:

He'll be back next year.

A Christmas Poem

Oh, to have been a shepherd or a king
and to have heard those angels sing
or to have seen that star so bright
upon that holy Christmas night.

But Christmas transcends both time and place
and we can share in that night’s grace
when like those humble ones back then
we heed God’s call and proclaim, “Amen.”

(For those who received a Christmas card from me, I hope you won't mind seeing the poem again.)

A note between poems

In a book of poetry
from the library
between pages 152 and 153
between Sleep and Death
and a Cat and an Argument
a torn slip of paper
with “Brown Sugar”
written on one side
in neat script
and
“Not”
printed on the other.

Brown Sugar?
Sweetness to mark Sleep? Death?
The Cat? The Argument?

Or Not?

Did one poem resonate?
This one? That one?
Was this just as far
as the reader could go?

Was this a reminder forgotten?
A reminder filled?
A recipe requirement?
Simple indifference?

Or Not?

And who?
And when?
And?

I will return the book
with the torn paper
between pages 152 and 153
with no answers.