Tuesday, September 16, 2014

The Lincoln-Logan Line

The Lincoln-Logan Line

I was born in West Virginia
in the spring of ‘49
I grew up a bare-foot boy there
on the Lincoln-Logan Line

Could have lived in West Virginia
But they closed the Big Creek mine
moved away from Broad Branch holler
and the Lincoln-Logan Line

I was born in West Virginia
on the Lincoln-Logan Line
when I die take me back there
leave the flatlands far behind

Blast a hole inside the mountain
tell my friends I’m doing fine
drop me down inside the bedrock
on the Lincoln-Logan Line
         
Let me lie inside the mountain
tell the Lord that I decline
I have found my piece of heaven
on the Lincoln-Logan Line

Sunday, September 14, 2014

The Last Standing Anarchist

The Last Standing Anarchist


When it first came out, there were lots of nonbelievers. Nevertheless, it quickly spread across the state, then the country, then to the hinder most parts of the world. It wasn’t long before everyone was on board except one man. The fool. It really worked. No question about that. Yeah, there have been snake oil peddlers for as long as there’s been sickness and lame people limping around or being carried around in beds by their friends and breaking through roof tops. But only one true healer ever lived. So, naturally, when a small pharmaceutical company came up with the so-called miracle tonic, there was lots of skepticism. But then it spread like wild fire. Overnight, the FDA became outdated, insignificant. Screw the FDA. Everyone was drinking the stuff, and it worked. If a dead man could drink it, maybe it would have raised him from the grave. Lots of people tried, don’t worry about that. They sloshed it down the loved one’s throat and jiggled it around like CPR, but not one soul was raised from the dead that way. No one questioned what was in the medicinal tonic. That’s not the point. It was cheap to produce. Think about it, the creators could have made a killing. But, that wasn’t the point. The point was, well let me put it this way, if you had a quick and painless cure for everything, wouldn’t you share it with the world for the healing of the nations? So, they did.

Can you imagine? All diseases eradicated overnight. Amazing. No downside that could be imagined. Except maybe people didn’t need to pray as much. But that wasn’t a problem because their prayers turned to praise. So, that wasn’t a problem. No break down on the spiritual side of things whatsoever. Also, since large populations were free from pain and suffering and other distractions that the flesh has when it’s being tormented, people could focus on spiritual things even more clearly, and the arts.

Saturday, September 13, 2014

King Lear

An important theme in the play King Lear is the relative influence of “nature” vs. “nurture” in determining an individual’s personality and character.  Which is more influential heredity or environment?  Even today sociologist and psychologist cannot agree.  King Lear, predictably, does not settle the question definitively.  The play seems to support both sides of the argument. Nevertheless, it will be entertaining and worthwhile to explore this theme as it appears in the play King Lear.
         
To help narrow the focus we need to ask a fundamental question: “Was King Lear a good father?”  And also, “Was Gloucester a good father?”  This is the nurture side of the coin of fate. Since for many nurture-brained individuals the answer to this question is directly related to how the children turned out, it provides a systematic approach for discussing this theme which can be accomplished simply by examining the children of King Lear and Gloucester.   The nature side of the coin will be juxtaposed against the nurture side and will be examined also.  Getting back to the question of whether or not King Lear was a good father and whether or not Gloucester was a good father, we will quickly see that this question cannot be answered either by deductive or inductive reasoning.   That is to say, some of the off-spring turned out bad and some turned out good.  Nevertheless, it is fun to speculate why this happened and explore the possibility that Lear and Gloucester  probably  influenced their children’s character and personalities.  Therefore, the rest of the discussion will focus on the daughters of Lear: Goneril, Regan, and Cordelia; and the sons of Gloucester: Edgar and Edmund.

Monday, September 8, 2014

Birches

When I was a boy growing up in West Virginia we would often spend the entire day exploring the beautiful green hills and playing tree-tag.  A pack of dare-devil boys would find a grove of sapling trees and commence climbing those beleaguered trees to the top and then “ride em out," landing softly on the ground.  The imagery in “Birches” is very familiar to me, as well as a pleasant remembrance.  It seems to me that Frost must have recalled the gleeful experience of swinging in birch trees and initially that was the primary impetus for the poem.  Thus the title of the poem is “Birches” rather than “yin and yang.”  Perhaps it began that way, but rather quickly, “Truth broke in” and Frost uses birches as a vehicle to help compare and contrast gleeful spirited living to merely surviving mundanely in a painful world.
         
The first two lines of the poem contrast birches to the other trees:  “I see  birches bend to left and right across the lines of straighter darker trees” (1-2).  This describes the variety in life that the birches represent contrasted with the conventionalism represented by the other trees.  Then Frost briefly introduces the gleeful image of boys swinging in the birch trees (line 3).  However, at this point (line 4) “Truth” breaks in and the poet begins describing an ice-storm.  The ice-storm is a beautiful metaphor for life’s trials and tribulation.  However, contrasted to the gleeful play of boys, it is destructive as shown in the following lines:  “But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay/ As ice-storms do” (4-5).  Nevertheless, in life, troubles do pass as shown in the following lines:  “Soon the sun’s warmth makes them shed crystal shells/ Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust/ Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away/ You’d think the inner dome of heaven had fallen” (10-13).  However, troubles can sometimes be so devastating that it does feel like heaven has fallen on one’s head.  In which case, mere humans, though they be incredibly resilient, they do not completely recover:  “And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed/ So low for long, they never right themselves” (15-16).  At this point in the poem (line 21) there is a natural break and Frost gets back to describing the more carefree form of tree bending.
         
The ice-storm represents the conventional lives that most people live.  It is the matter-of-fact troubles and tragedies people must endure routinely (22).  However, Frost prefers the gleeful spirited living:  “But I was going to say when Truth broke in/ With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm,/ I should prefer to have some boy bend them” (21-23).  Frost continues comparing and contrasting the conventional to the unconventional in lines 25-26:  “Some boy too far from town to learn baseball (conventional)/ Whose only play was what he found himself” (unconventional).  The next several lines of the poem describes the fact that even the exuberant non-conventional boy still has to live life practically and pragmatically.  He “subdues” and “conquers” his father’s trees, until, “not one was left/ For him to conquer” (31-32).  Certainly these lines refer to the boy learning to farm, learning to provide for his family, and learning to live in society.  I think the term “father’s trees” should be considered in the broader context as referring to society and civilization, as well as the specific reference of a boy learning how to live life from his own father.  For example, the boy learns to be prudent and not to be rash:  “He learned all there was / To learn about not launching out too soon/ And so not carry the tree away/ Clear to the ground” (33-35).  He matures and exercises self-control:  “He always kept his poise/ To the top branches, climbing carefully” (36-37).  However, and quite happily, Frost returns to gleeful, youthful exuberance and re-establishes the yin/yang theme of the poem:  “Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish, / Kicking his way down through the air to the ground” (39-40).  Line 41 is another natural break in the poem and it is where Frost inserts himself into the poem and begins to nostalgically reminisce.
         
When Robert Frost wrote the poem “Birches” he was forty-two years old.  Undoubtedly, by that time he had suffered many of the hardships life has to offer.  Beginning in line 41 of the poem Frost recalls his boyhood exuberance and he longs to go back:  “So was I once myself a swinger of birches./ And so I dream of going back to be” (41-42).  Like so many adults in mid-life, he has become “weary of considerations” (43).  In line 44 he says that, “life is too much like a pathless wood.”  He compares life to being down on the forest floor struggling along through a wood thicket:  “Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs/ Broken across it, and one eye is weeping/ From a twig’s having lashed across it open” (45-47).  He longs to be high in the tree tops where perhaps he can survey the forest floor and discern the right path and maybe get back on track:  “I’d like to get away from earth awhile/ And then come back to it and begin over” (48-49).  Nevertheless, because “Earth’s the right place for love” (52) he does not want to die.  It is clear that he loves life.  The earth is a sensuous place.  He does not know if heaven will hold these pleasures:  “I don’t know where it’s likely to go better” (53).  Perhaps Frost was familiar with the following biblical passage which seems to imply that heaven is not primarily a sensuous place:

Jesus answered and said unto them,
ye do err, not knowing the scriptures,
nor the power of God.

For in the resurrection they
neither marry, nor are given in
marriage, but are like the angels
of God in heaven.

But as touching the resurrection
of the dead, have ye not read
that which was spoken unto you
by God, say,

I am the God of Abraham, and
the God of Isaac, and the God
of Jacob?  God is not the God
of the dead, but of the living.
(Matthew 22:29-32)

         
Coming to the conclusion of the poem Frost continues his allusion to death in the following lines: 

I’d like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk,
Toward(sic) heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.  (54-57)
        
The “black branches” represent the doctrine of universal sin, and the fact that one’s actions may not always be pure.  We all sin.  However, the “snow-white trunk” represents the concept that motives can be pure.  Nevertheless, though one strives “toward” heaven, no one is good enough to climb to heaven on the black branches of impurity, which is shown in lines 56 and 57.  Frost may have had a passage from the Book of Job when he wrote lines 55-57:

If I wash myself with snow,
and make my hands never so clean;

Yet shalt thou plunge me in the ditch,
and mine own clothes shall abhor me.

For he is not a man, as I am,
that I should answer him, and we
should come together in judgment

Neither is there any daysman
between us, that might lay his hand
upon us both.  (Job 9:30-34)

        
Even though Frost seems to imply that attempting to reach heaven through one’s own efforts is doomed to failure, i.e. “set me down again,” the attempt still has merit because it helps define and sustain civilization.  Furthermore, though an imperfect path, it is superior to thrashing around in a “pathless wood.”

Wednesday, July 30, 2014

Stones

Stones

Heavy, smooth, egg shaped
the size of an apple
thrust to the temple
Am I my brother’s keeper?


Five water worn stones
from the Jordan River
one for Goliath
four for his four brothers

Keep Your Chin Up

Keep Your Chin Up


When Raymond came home and told his wife he’d been fired from yet another menial job, that was the last straw. After eleven years of marriage, Elizabeth finally gave up. She decided to take their two boys, Sam and Mark, and go to Bridgeport and stay with her mother for a while. She threw a few things in a suitcase and told the boys to get in the car. Raymond followed her out and hung onto the driver’s door.

“It won’t happen again,” he said. “I’ll get help. I promise.”

Elizabeth turned the key, started the ten-year-old Buick, and drove away, trailing a cloud of blue exhaust smoke down the drive. The boys waved goodbye through the back window.

Elizabeth settled in at her mother’s place and got a job at Wal-Mart. In a couple of weeks, her old boyfriend from high school telephoned. She didn’t want to talk to him, even though he coached youth basketball and had a good paying job at the windshield glass factory.

Asparagus and Raccoons

Asparagus and Raccoons


I had to dig a hole for the coon my dad shot today. We’re sitting in the family room after a big Sunday dinner and he says, “Let’s go up to the chicken house.”

Naturally, I figure he wants to talk privately, perhaps concerning a grave subject.

We set out for the chicken house. He’s wearing his dark blue Dickie work pants and light blue short sleeve Dickie work shirt, tan suspenders and hat. He takes short steps, since his heart attack three years ago slowed him down. So, we meander up that way through the lush spring grass. He stops at the tool shed, fumbles around in the cobwebs for a while and comes out with a five foot shovel, hands the shovel to me without a word, grabs his hands behind his back like my papaw used to do, and we continue walking past the garden and toward the chicken house. I’m distracted, enjoying the warm spring day. Then it hits me, he wants me to dig a hole for a varmint he’s killed! I figured it out, but it’s way too late.

Compulsion


Compulsion

Every morning before daybreak
it's the same routine
me driving to work
down the gravel driveway
a slip of cold white smoke
that falls out of the woods
curving along the fog banked creek
to the distant highway

Sunday, July 27, 2014

Killing People

Killing People


It all began the first time when my wife and I were leaving a popular eatery. We walked by a large lady sitting off by herself, and I had this incredible compulsion to help her. The table top was covered with appetizers, two or three entrĂ©e, diet colas, and salads loaded with cheese and walnuts and low-calorie dressings. I had to stop and tell her; something came over me. I shouldn’t have been staring at her. I should have been minding my own business. I walked directly over to her big round table and stood there shaking my head, watching her chomp. She sensed my presence and looked up at me

“Give it up. Get up from that table and walk out of here. Leave it all behind.”

The music in the restaurant seemed to stop for a heartbeat. She looked at me at first curiously, then astonished, then a mixture of shame and deep gratitude on her chubby red face.

“Okay,” she said. “Thank you.”

Right then and there, she got up and walked out the door. That’s the way it started.

My wife said, “What in heaven’s name are you doing?”

“I don’ know,” I said. “I don’t have a clue.”

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

Chickens in the rain

Chickens in the rain


chickens in the rain
running in a fenced lot

under a dark sky
digging in the dirt

fighting for a piece of corn
pecking at sparkles

waiting for the grim farmer
with the sharp ax

Tuesday, July 22, 2014

Red Tail Hawk

Red Tail Hawk


He sits like a king
on the other side of the lake
on a high limb
of a leafless sycamore tree
brown body, white bark
facing west, gray chest puffed out
soaking in the warmth
of the low afternoon sun

I have seen him three times
the first time flying low level
seeking solitude beneath the canopy
dodging tree trunks, hickory and oak
clutching a baby crow
chased by a great flock of wailing black birds
He flew over my head just out of reach
a forlorn look on his face

Smoke

Smoke


I wish you were fifty again
and we could go to Ellie’s diner
before work and we could eat
breakfast and you could smoke
two or three cigarettes and drink
two cups of scalding hot coffee and dip
your toast wedge into the yellow egg yolk

We wouldn’t talk about the plans
for the day
and the current on-the-job Admin idiocy
(since we’d left off fire fighting)
But we’d talk about that fire we had
on Mooberry Street and laugh about
John getting stuck in the closet
and the time Chief Cline
(the best officer we ever had)
ran into Plank’s Bier Garten
through a wall of black smoke
to pull the engine crew out
just before the roof fell in

Saddle Soap

Saddle Soap


"You have to take care of leather," he said.
"Saddle soap and the right temperature.
Body heat dries it out, cracks it,
breaks it like chicken bones."

His black hands, like leather, pulled at the
plastic armchair.

"Leather is expensive goods, it lives and breathes.
Not like this vinyl."

Little Boy

Little Boy


My first memory of a bird
was the time a stork lost its way
and landed atop the cherry blossom tree
down the road from our pagoda
just past the garden and the bend in the river

I was seven
a schoolboy dressed in white and blue
playing in the schoolyard with other boys and girls

Tone

Tone

For sometime now I have been wondering about the “essence” of a good poem.  What is the fundamental vehicle that the poem rides on?  I think this question came up while I was trying to discover the origin of a poem.  What was the impetus for the poem?  Usually for me it has been brewing for a while.  So what is it that finally surfaces from that brewing process?  I am coming to realize that more than anything else, the thing that really inspires a poem is tone.  It is my discovery about my innermost attitude toward a subject.

This is Poetry

This is poetry
(on a warm summer night Morgantown, West Virginia)


When I heard the learn'd poet
(author of many books, much acclaimed by the
literary world)
when I heard him with melodrama
and eloquence project his poetry
out over the auditorium
over the heads of the fawning MFA
candidates along with real live poets
and workshop leaders
(also, me, sitting alone at a table off to the side
observing literary scholarship firsthand)

When I heard him put van Gogh, Cicero, Themistocles,
and Dante's contrapasso in one stanza
and oft alluded to what I took to be various Greek gods
using complex imagery and gratuitous obscenities
while plunging headlong into the metaphysical

Gathering Poems

Gathering Poems
(A tribute to Robert Frost)


When you said,
“I shan’t be gone long.”
I knew better
it was time to gather
poems

You left in the morning
and in the morning glow
to pick spear shaped flowers
in a saturated meadow
to pick where none could miss
a thousand orchises