"After I'm dead I'd rather have people ask why I have no monument than why I have one" - Cato the Elder
We buried our dog Mason
in the backyard
under a bush of Rhododendron
below my bedroom window.
In the summer time,
I sometimes think
the rabbits are still afraid
of his barking.
We buried him with love.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Buck Knife
I will always remember
the first deer we dressed
in Nate's backyard
& how I could see
the fear in his eyes.
the first deer we dressed
in Nate's backyard
& how I could see
the fear in his eyes.
Let us be grateful to God
It is my birthday,
& there is a bouquet
of white Dogwood flowers
sitting in the sound hole
of Grandpa's old guitar.
I hear three chords strum,
the gentle breeze
rubbing the tree limbs
in Mom's front yard.
I watch my dog Turbo
howl at a gray squirrel
perched on a telephone wire
& I remember the smell
of Aunt Mary's funeral,
the blossoming daisies.
& there is a bouquet
of white Dogwood flowers
sitting in the sound hole
of Grandpa's old guitar.
I hear three chords strum,
the gentle breeze
rubbing the tree limbs
in Mom's front yard.
I watch my dog Turbo
howl at a gray squirrel
perched on a telephone wire
& I remember the smell
of Aunt Mary's funeral,
the blossoming daisies.
Caprimulgus vociferus
The whippoorwill is calling.
It is Why I Wake Up Early.
The whippoorwill is calling.
Walden is alive.
The whippoorwill is calling.
Dolly Parton is singing.
The whippoorwill is calling.
Appalachia is still poor.
The whippoorwill is calling.
Whip-poor-will. Whip-poor-will.
It is Why I Wake Up Early.
The whippoorwill is calling.
Walden is alive.
The whippoorwill is calling.
Dolly Parton is singing.
The whippoorwill is calling.
Appalachia is still poor.
The whippoorwill is calling.
Whip-poor-will. Whip-poor-will.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Coffee From A Canteen (Fair Trade)
Many poets carry
a small notebook & a pen
with them at all times,
so they can quickly photograph
the world in inked imagery
as they wait in roadside cafés
for their organic soy lattes.
I hate to write in front of people.
I prefer to be alone in the woods,
writing lines before anyone else
is awake, when the percolated coffee
is not yet ready.
a small notebook & a pen
with them at all times,
so they can quickly photograph
the world in inked imagery
as they wait in roadside cafés
for their organic soy lattes.
I hate to write in front of people.
I prefer to be alone in the woods,
writing lines before anyone else
is awake, when the percolated coffee
is not yet ready.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Birds, etc.
I am not a bird watcher.
I do not identify bird calls
or pay much mind
to what is flapping
in the brush.
This morning, though,
I saw a sole cardinal perched
on a branch – a brush stroke of red
against a green & brown backdrop;
a scene resembling a Rothko painting
if only he had spent some time camping.
I do not identify bird calls
or pay much mind
to what is flapping
in the brush.
This morning, though,
I saw a sole cardinal perched
on a branch – a brush stroke of red
against a green & brown backdrop;
a scene resembling a Rothko painting
if only he had spent some time camping.
Church (Satan, Your Kingdom Must Come Down)
It's raining. The fire will not stay.
It's cold. The wind will not stop.
I am in my nylon temple,
warm at the altar of goose down,
praying to god I am never found.
You will not take me from my sanctuary.
I will return from confession
when the stones stop falling.
It's cold. The wind will not stop.
I am in my nylon temple,
warm at the altar of goose down,
praying to god I am never found.
You will not take me from my sanctuary.
I will return from confession
when the stones stop falling.
After Reading the 10 Commandments (Slade, KY)
Perhaps a felt tip pen
in a small notebook
in the middle of a rainstorm
in Red River Gorge
is not the best place to start.
But I stopped listening
to you, sir, years ago.
in a small notebook
in the middle of a rainstorm
in Red River Gorge
is not the best place to start.
But I stopped listening
to you, sir, years ago.
Kentucky Writer
Recently, I went on a road trip to Wilmington, North Carolina, with my girlfriend Melanie and one goal in mind: fall in love with the city and leave Kentucky behind. And, it almost worked until I remembered something a girl I took to junior prom said to me some time afterwards. Nicole told me that I reminded her of a character played by Tom Hanks's son in a crappy movie (one I will not name simply not to cite it), a character who believes he should skip out on an opportunity to study writing at a prominent west coast university to stay home and write about his experiences in the OC. The kid is obviously disillusioned because he's 18 and compares himself to William Faulkner, but in the process, he declares that Faulkner would not have been able to write about the South so authentically if he had left Yoknapatawpha County (metaphorically, as thanks to Dr. Kathryn West I know not only how to spell Yoknapatawpha but also know it is not a real place). I always considered this idea, how do I put it lightly?, bullshit because I am certain Faulkner was able to be authoritative about anything he wrote, but during my amazing six days and five nights in beautiful Wilmington, North Carolina, I felt something I never thought I would: homesick. I missed Kentucky, and I know that I am not ready to live anywhere else (yet).
The problem with leaving Kentucky compounds itself when I begin to rationalize things, things such as the distance between myself and my niece would stretch nearly 700 miles and 10 plus hours in a car, things such as living in a state which houses museums to the confederacy, things such as being subjected to country bars that do not play rock music the way Louisville plays rock music (insanely loud), things such as having to come to terms with people actually being Duke fans. Obviously, these are important concerns, but the one that continues to interfere with my already fucked sleeping habits is that I would no longer be a Kentucky writer. And although I believe I have only lived a very short twenty-six years in Kentucky, it would devastate my psyche to forgo such a distinction. And while I trick myself into thinking I am above the need to categorize and label things (after all, ecocriticism tells us it is man who transforms "space" into "place" with those pesky "names"), I cannot overlook my obsessive desire to alphabetically arrange my bookshelf by genre and author, the careful selections of my DVD collection, or the unending desire to provide "genre" information to my unending digital music library. Nevertheless, a name is something we make our own.
I do not think of myself as an author (an author writes books and scholarly articles about 18th century Irish travel literature), and I certainly am hesitant to classify myself as a poet at this age (honestly, ever met someone at a party, introduced yourself as a poet, and had them respond, "oh I write poems too"? Those people are assholes.), but I do consider myself a Kentucky writer. It is the most basic yet informative banner I can happily carry. I live in Kentucky, and I write words. And throughout the years of growing up lower middle-class and white in Kentucky, I certainly endured plenty of identity crises (athlete, artist, punk, slacker, college student, drunkard, christian, etc.), but it took a long time to accept poetry as my fate. As a young child, I wrote haikus. In high school, I wrote horrendous rhyming song lyrics. In college, I wrote abominable love poems to girlfriends while simultaneously slouching through semi-autobiographical short stories (could I be more generic?). Now, though, I write poems, and most of the time they have a tree or a bird in them (and sometimes Mark Rothko but more often other people's song lyrics), and while I guess some people would consider what I do to be "nature writing," I do not. That is not to say I do not enjoy, glorify, or support the voice of nature in my work whenever I get the chance (I suffer from significant amounts of liberal guilt), but really the nature I discuss is the state of Kentucky. I want people to experience the magic still left in the bluegrass, and I want them to do it carefully, solemnly, and with as much reverence as possible, and that is why I want to be recognized as a Kentucky writier. Kentucky is beautiful in its landscapes, historic in its past, but also rife with injustice, poverty, racism, and tragedy. To me, leaving Kentucky would be to change jackets without finishing my shift, but to employ a tired trope, I am blue and not gray. I am as southern (I mix my corn and mashed potatoes) as I am a damned Yankee (I like Neil Young), but I am a Kentucky boy down to my complete distaste for "shoes." Fuck shoes (and Dane Cook, too).
My life is lived in a constant state of compromise and mediation between two polar opposites, much like the good Pixies songs, and I am constantly reminded of an episode of The West Wing where Donna (Janel Moloney) says something about compromise (obviously, it affected me deeply). However, I currently am watching an episode of Aaron Sorkin's shortlived masterpiece Sports Night when Jeremy (played by Joshua Malina who also played Will on The West Wing; I know, right?) states that the reason anyone (meaning “white male” in the socio-economic sense) wants to write in the first place is to impress women. I could not agree more. It always starts with a girl.
And for me, because it was a pretty girl, I certainly could not talk to her...
To be continued...
The problem with leaving Kentucky compounds itself when I begin to rationalize things, things such as the distance between myself and my niece would stretch nearly 700 miles and 10 plus hours in a car, things such as living in a state which houses museums to the confederacy, things such as being subjected to country bars that do not play rock music the way Louisville plays rock music (insanely loud), things such as having to come to terms with people actually being Duke fans. Obviously, these are important concerns, but the one that continues to interfere with my already fucked sleeping habits is that I would no longer be a Kentucky writer. And although I believe I have only lived a very short twenty-six years in Kentucky, it would devastate my psyche to forgo such a distinction. And while I trick myself into thinking I am above the need to categorize and label things (after all, ecocriticism tells us it is man who transforms "space" into "place" with those pesky "names"), I cannot overlook my obsessive desire to alphabetically arrange my bookshelf by genre and author, the careful selections of my DVD collection, or the unending desire to provide "genre" information to my unending digital music library. Nevertheless, a name is something we make our own.
I do not think of myself as an author (an author writes books and scholarly articles about 18th century Irish travel literature), and I certainly am hesitant to classify myself as a poet at this age (honestly, ever met someone at a party, introduced yourself as a poet, and had them respond, "oh I write poems too"? Those people are assholes.), but I do consider myself a Kentucky writer. It is the most basic yet informative banner I can happily carry. I live in Kentucky, and I write words. And throughout the years of growing up lower middle-class and white in Kentucky, I certainly endured plenty of identity crises (athlete, artist, punk, slacker, college student, drunkard, christian, etc.), but it took a long time to accept poetry as my fate. As a young child, I wrote haikus. In high school, I wrote horrendous rhyming song lyrics. In college, I wrote abominable love poems to girlfriends while simultaneously slouching through semi-autobiographical short stories (could I be more generic?). Now, though, I write poems, and most of the time they have a tree or a bird in them (and sometimes Mark Rothko but more often other people's song lyrics), and while I guess some people would consider what I do to be "nature writing," I do not. That is not to say I do not enjoy, glorify, or support the voice of nature in my work whenever I get the chance (I suffer from significant amounts of liberal guilt), but really the nature I discuss is the state of Kentucky. I want people to experience the magic still left in the bluegrass, and I want them to do it carefully, solemnly, and with as much reverence as possible, and that is why I want to be recognized as a Kentucky writier. Kentucky is beautiful in its landscapes, historic in its past, but also rife with injustice, poverty, racism, and tragedy. To me, leaving Kentucky would be to change jackets without finishing my shift, but to employ a tired trope, I am blue and not gray. I am as southern (I mix my corn and mashed potatoes) as I am a damned Yankee (I like Neil Young), but I am a Kentucky boy down to my complete distaste for "shoes." Fuck shoes (and Dane Cook, too).
My life is lived in a constant state of compromise and mediation between two polar opposites, much like the good Pixies songs, and I am constantly reminded of an episode of The West Wing where Donna (Janel Moloney) says something about compromise (obviously, it affected me deeply). However, I currently am watching an episode of Aaron Sorkin's shortlived masterpiece Sports Night when Jeremy (played by Joshua Malina who also played Will on The West Wing; I know, right?) states that the reason anyone (meaning “white male” in the socio-economic sense) wants to write in the first place is to impress women. I could not agree more. It always starts with a girl.
And for me, because it was a pretty girl, I certainly could not talk to her...
To be continued...
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Steven's Flag (Swift Camp Creek Trail)
After seven hard and difficult miles,
I walked out of the woods to find
a young pirate named Capt. Stevie storming
the muddy shores of Kentucky’s Red River
with a plastic sword & a prosthetic left leg.
His blue cape fluttered behind him.
I sat on the ground, leaning against my pack
& sipping warm white wine.
I watched him taunt the currents,
a flowing but calm mistress in August,
as he splashed in low-tide ponds
& chased darting sparrows.
After slicing his name into the sand
only to be washed over by cotton-touch waves,
Capt. Stevie would slash at the water
with his plastic sword,
hopping on his good leg,
& cursing in a child's whisper.
He then disappeared amongst the rocks,
& I did not see him again until I left.
Capt. Stevie crouched, carving
his name into a dead raccoon.
He smiled & I waved, looking
for his father in the parking lot.
I walked out of the woods to find
a young pirate named Capt. Stevie storming
the muddy shores of Kentucky’s Red River
with a plastic sword & a prosthetic left leg.
His blue cape fluttered behind him.
I sat on the ground, leaning against my pack
& sipping warm white wine.
I watched him taunt the currents,
a flowing but calm mistress in August,
as he splashed in low-tide ponds
& chased darting sparrows.
After slicing his name into the sand
only to be washed over by cotton-touch waves,
Capt. Stevie would slash at the water
with his plastic sword,
hopping on his good leg,
& cursing in a child's whisper.
He then disappeared amongst the rocks,
& I did not see him again until I left.
Capt. Stevie crouched, carving
his name into a dead raccoon.
He smiled & I waved, looking
for his father in the parking lot.
White Rabbits (Camp Smoke)
The camp smoke is thick
with the wet timber we collected.
It seeps into skin & clothes
& tent & food;
the fire's breath follows me
as I stoke the embers,
add crackling brush
to the flaming teepee—
this smoke so different from
the inhale/exhale of pale grey breath
filling the bowling alleys
& dive bars back in the city.
The birch bark & oak limbs crackle,
exhaling their own white clouds,
consuming my body,
filling my lungs.
Coughing, I turn my head
to the left & mutter:
"I hate white rabbits."
The mystical phrase of camp lore
guides the smoke against the breeze
& the flames are again my friends.
with the wet timber we collected.
It seeps into skin & clothes
& tent & food;
the fire's breath follows me
as I stoke the embers,
add crackling brush
to the flaming teepee—
this smoke so different from
the inhale/exhale of pale grey breath
filling the bowling alleys
& dive bars back in the city.
The birch bark & oak limbs crackle,
exhaling their own white clouds,
consuming my body,
filling my lungs.
Coughing, I turn my head
to the left & mutter:
"I hate white rabbits."
The mystical phrase of camp lore
guides the smoke against the breeze
& the flames are again my friends.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
6:41 AM (Sunrise)
I like to be the first one
awake at camp.
I make the fire,
hang the clothesline,
boil a cupful of water
from the nearby creek
& enjoy the first
fresh water of the day.
As the fire grows hot,
I pretend to prepare a kiln
& begin to roll the clay of creation
for the day’s holy work.
Here, in the woods,
we are not welcomed
in the arms of god;
instead, we must
become our own.
I am alone now.
It’s time to bring others to life.
awake at camp.
I make the fire,
hang the clothesline,
boil a cupful of water
from the nearby creek
& enjoy the first
fresh water of the day.
As the fire grows hot,
I pretend to prepare a kiln
& begin to roll the clay of creation
for the day’s holy work.
Here, in the woods,
we are not welcomed
in the arms of god;
instead, we must
become our own.
I am alone now.
It’s time to bring others to life.
Waking Up Outside
Hi. This is a poetry blog for my book in progress Waking Up Outside. I will post poems as they are written. Currently, I have 30 poems which I will post first. I hope to have over 40 when things are said and done. If I revise a poem, I will post new version so the two can be compared.
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