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Wordplay

I would say that my serious interest in poetry as a writer began in July of 2001. For this is when I embarked upon putting together a seven part poem consisting of terzanelles, which I titled “Fragments”. After this, I decided that I would dedicate the rest of my life to poetry, and after some casting about for ideas on how to get going, I decided I would begin by studying the ghazal for at least two years. This was just shy of twelve years ago now.

And what have I learned about poetry since then, in all this time? Well, for one thing I’ve learned that it is hard—very hard—to write what could objectively be considered “good” poetry. In fact, the more I learned about this art, the higher I raised my own standards, and the harder it got. Once in awhile I find myself reflecting on where I was 12 years ago and where I am today. I find myself wondering just what poetry is and how it could be defined, and what it is to me specifically. The specifics change on this regard, hopefully evolving, but there is a sort of vague and abstract definition of poetry that floats through my mind like an ever shifting cloud. One that dissipates into nothing whenever I try to use words to express it. That’s alright; this unsettled definition is for my own uses anyway.

But, I have at least developed a sense of what a poem is not, and for the first time in a while I found myself revisiting this notion.

Wordplay

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.

This is my 6th Petrarchan sonnet.

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Stumble

This is written for someone who stumbled some years ago. The fall was severe enough that there was the very real possibility of never being able to recover and live a normal life. This is not the sort of fall that involves scraped hands and knees, but the kind that involves a severe lapse in judgment—A psycho-spiritual fall. But, over time, this person has shown everyone a willingness to grow that is beyond anyone’s wildest expectations. A new chapter now begins for this being, and we are all filled with hope and wish the absolute best.

Stumble

For someone with potential

A shadow stirred within the hollows of your heart
  and writhed amid the shallows of your mind;
  it fell across your visage—left you blind
to choices that would raise you up from out the dark
and set you on a course to apprehend rewards
  reserved for those whose spirits are aligned
  with empathy and wisdom intertwined—
And blinded thus you faltered, fell, and landed hard.

    But it takes light to cast the blackest shadow,
  and this is light that you have learned to see.
You’ve gotten up again despite the grief and shame
    and found you have a bright new path to follow.
  You’re wiser now and touched with empathy,
so you should never fail and fall so hard again.

This is my 5th Petrarchan sonnet.

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Falter

When I play with a poetic form that I want get to know for its own sake and hopefully gain some insights from, I’ll often first explore the form in its strictest expression, following its “rules” exactly. Then after I’ve done this a few times, I’ll begin to deviate and explore variations on its structural theme. The ten Shakespearean, or English, sonnets I’ve written are all in strict iambic pentameters, but now that I’m moving through the ten Petrarchan, or Italian, sonnets that I want to write, I’m experimenting much more broadly. I have for a long time not considered rhyme essential to a form’s success, often opting instead to explore various alternatives. Instead of rhyme, this poem uses partial reverse rhyme, assonance, and alliteration in place of the end-line rhyme pattern used by the Petrarchan sonnet.

Falter

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.

This is my 4th Petrarchan sonnet.

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The Chant

Last year during Advent I joined my wife at mass several mornings in a row at Saint Thomas Aquinas Cathedral—downtown Reno—before taking her to work. She is a deeply spiritual and faith-driven person, and Catholicism is one of the main ways her faith and spirituality find expression. As a non-religious person, I enjoy listening to and analyzing the homilies from a cultural standpoint. Then begins the long and often beautiful ritual of communion, at this location usually cantillated.

The Chant

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.
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The Boulder Climber

My “shift partner”, as they’re called where I now work, is an avid boulder climber. Now, these aren’t the boulders that might jump to mind when you mouth the word in your thoughts. Oh no, we’re not talking those waist-high gray things that might roll out onto the highway in the rain or those head-high bits of granite you might find near a stream bed. No—By “boulder” these particular climbers mean these great big lumps of stone that loom up over your head by as much as 50 feet.

Since my shift partner talks so much about boulder climbing during the wee hours of the night, I thought I’d try my hand at molding the little-known sport to a metaphor and see how that goes.

The Boulder Climber

She is the first to climb this route through life,
  to feel her way through all its nuances
  to where the summit slopes and vanishes
away from view above the concave cliff.
The way ahead is sheer—without relief;
  she reaches, probes, and feels for blemishes
  within the rock to serve as purchases
from which to make her way through bruise and chafe.

Patience is the key above all else
    to moving gracefully from hold to hold;
  she contemplates an overhang, then leaps
  to grab a ledge beyond her body’s reach;
    her feet swing free, but then she hooks a heel
and muscles past the crux to higher realms.

This is my 2nd Petrarchan sonnet. My first was part III of “Coming Together”, which was also a synthetic ode.

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Stirrings

The first four lines came to me in a flash the same day I learned of the terrible destruction and loss of life wrought in Japan on March 11, 2011 by one of the strongest earthquakes ever recorded and its subsequent tsunami. Then nothing. Perhaps I was just stunned by the magnitude of it all, even from the relative comfort of 5000 plus miles away. But I’m trying to wrap up old ideas right now, so I figured it was time to do something with those four lines, for better or worse.

And so here we are, my 9th Shakespearean sonnet.

Stirrings

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.

Nai No Kami is the name of the Japanese god (kami) of the earthquake, or at least one of them. Watatsumi, respectfully referred to as Ōwatatsumi, is one of the great kami of the sea.

There are actually four more seed lines inspired by this same tragic event. I was later able to flush them out into another sonnet form poem, which I titled “Aftermath”.

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Lady of the Snows

Our Lady of the Snows is one of the oldest representations, or titles, for the Virgin Mary. There is a rather stunning stained-glass portrayal of her in the Saint Thomas Aquinas Cathedral here in Reno. I’ve tried to capture some aspect of it here in this tanka.

Lady of the Snows

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.
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Morning Novena

At Saint Thomas Aquinas Cathedral here in Reno, there is a morning novena held most days of the week at 7am. Once in awhile my wife will ask me to take her so that she may participate.

Morning Novena

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.

Not always, but sometimes I’ll go in and sit next to her as she prays the novena and, out of respect for others present, I’ll repeat the motions, but while observing as well. It’s not the same as attending mass. At novena there are much fewer people, mostly women, who carry with them that unmistakable air of purity and faith that only a life-time of spiritual devotion can instill. I much prefer to attend novena with my wife, actually, than mass, for at novena I can almost smell the spirit of faith wafting through the air, a sort of acceptance and trust that almost vibrates through the tall open space. For some reason this appeals to my animistic sense in a way that I can really enjoy and relate to.

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The Offering

I find mass and communion to be a very interesting thing. Not being religious myself, I find myself observing and analyzing with great curiosity when I attend with my wife. There is a certain beauty to the proceedings that is difficult to put into words. Perhaps tanka are ideally suited to the attempt because they allow one to isolate and portray poignant bits and pieces thereof. Years ago I would have considered myself religious, but this was slowly supplanted by an ever-growing and broadening animistic view of my surroundings, life experiences, and the world and universe at large—An animism I have only recently struck a sort of peaceful equilibrium with.

The Offering

art deco saints stand
in stained-glass archways over
rows of tilted heads
in the muralled alcove arms
lift up a golden chalice

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Communion

Not being religious, I just observe during communion when I join my wife at church. Winter has finally arrived here in Reno. I noticed during services that just about everyone had their jacket or sweater on, some plaid, some checkered. All colors present very much reflected the season—Reds, dark yellows, deep oranges, shades of brown.

Communion

faint waves of heat curl
from small yellow flames like stars
at the altar’s edge
autumn colors sift through pews
to water the bread of life

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Water of Life

I found myself today appreciating the large, apparently copper, mountain facade that rises up behind the alter at my wife’s church. A stream is depicted coming down from the hills, very much the color of copper rust, which connects with a tiled depiction of a stream that runs across the altar and the length of the nave to the baptismal font which is situated just in front the main entrance.

Water of Life

copper mountains rise
behind deep green gesturing robes
a teal river rusts
from the hills and tiles past pews
to the caged baptismal font