3rd Annual Poetry Challenge, #7

"The time has come," the Walrus said, "to talk of other things!" I don't know why Lewis Carrol is running through my head at the moment, but I suspect is has something to do with looking down the rabbit hole that is bike racing this morning. It sorta makes you feel like Alice, in a way, with all of the strangeness that surrounds a bike race.

But regardless of all that, it's time for a poem, so let's get started, shall we?


I sing the Body eclectic,
a fascinating rhythm of different parts
all working in congress,
a fluidity of tumbling-blocks,
turning over each other again and again -
a cacophanous melody.

One aim in many directions,
many paths, all chosen,
all traveled, all explored -
the creation of one picture,
as though a stained glass of many colors.

Such is this I recall,
that of many, there shall be one,
and that one shall be true,
free,
constant,
sincere,
Good.

And until it becomes that way,
I will sing all the more loudly.


Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid

3rd Annual Poetry Challenge #6

Well, well - day 6, and you thought I forgot because it's after 10PM, didn't ya? HA! Fooled you!

Today, for those who somehow might not be aware, is Good Friday, or, the day that Christianity celebrates the sacrifice we believe Jesus made for us by accepting death on a cross. It's a solemn occasion, a day for prayer and reflection. It sets my mind to thinking, usually, and today is no exception. One of the things many of us Catholics do, however, is what we call the Veneration of the Cross. It may seem foolish to many, but there is something about it that makes it much more concrete when you get to touch the wood of a cross. It's tangible, it forms a real, physical interaction, and for that, it can be quite beautiful. So tonight's poem is somewhat related to that experience today.


I know it isn't the actual thing,
a representation only.
The wood looks used, I can see where someone drilled into it once.
At least I can see they used a half-lap joint.
Not bad.
They put some effort into it.
Did it properly.
Good. It deserves proper treatment.
We stand in line, everyone gets a chance,
at last, my turn.
I've been considering - how best to treat this?

Genuflect, lean, kiss the wood.

It feels rough on my lips,
a million tiny splinters all poking into me.
it leaves a faint impression that disappears in moments,
except for on my mind and heart.

A simple thing, two pieces of wood
that impact so many people.


Thanks for reading,

The Fat Kid

3rd Annual Poetry Challenge, #5

Ahhh, a day off, and it takes me this long to get to the poem of the day? Well, better a tiny bit later in the day than making all you petry fans wait for a double-up tomorrow, right? After all, I know how much you all look forward to my daily dose of drivel! Some encouraging comments thus far, and for them, I thank you all!

Ladders

So tricky-

reaching out away from the body
both hands needed
the saw moves unsteadily,

back and forth
the blade cutting through the branch
back and forth.

It nears the end and I know the
branch is about to give way.

My perch still secure for a moment longer,

what if it kicks?

I hope no children are watching this.
Do as I say, not as I do.

Always use two hands on the ladder.
Never lean out.
Never turn around backwards.
Never use a saw this way.
Never.

Never.

Never.

I reach and cut the next branch.

Leaning out away from the safety of the rungs.

Thanks for reading,

The Fat Kid

3rd Annual Poetry Challenge #4

It's a beautiful day for poetry! I've had two people participate with me thus far this year; one writes riddles and the other is trying her hand at writing poems - something she's not used to doing. She asked me the other day "How do you end the poem?" She's having a tough time coming to the end of her works, it seems. My approach to it thus:
It's the end of the idea - whatever it may be in the poem. Sometimes, it poses a question to the reader, and other times, it's meant for enjoyment, not thought. It depends on what feeling I want the reader to have at the end. For example, in yesterday's offering, I wanted the reader to get a sense of accomplishment and contentedness on the part of the speaker, but I wanted it to tie in with the main subject of planting tobacco and gardening in general. To that end, having the speaker sit back and smoke a cigar at the end of a day of work evokes those images, and brings some of that to mind. Well, at least that's what I was trying to do!! I'm sure better poets than I would look at it and call it too obvious. But to my friend I will say this: Remember that poetry is, above all things, honest. As long as you remain honest, there's really no "formula" for the ending. Simply finish the thought (idea).

Well - that's my take on it. But let's have another poem, because we're only four days into this thing, and I'm just getting warmed up!

Waltz

Here we are
at this place,
No one is watching us,
Take my hand
turn and bend,
Simple dancing duo.

Once again
time is ours,
here for the taking, now,
dancing pair,
whether we're
forever or less so.

Holding close
stepping light,
time for a crescendo -
Lightly now,
curtsy, bow,
the Waltz.

Thanks for reading,

The Fat Kid

3rd Annual Poetry Challenge, #3

OK, so my father likes my writing. I don't know what it is about it that he likes so much, but he gets a kick out of it and supports it (clue to all you parents out there whose kids like strange things: SUPPORT THEM, appropriately, of course). So, he asked me last week if I take "guest bloggers." Naturally, I said yes. Then, Dad did something which he will likely regret: he sent me an email and in it, wrote,

"OK here it is. see attached word file. this is just one of those little things that get stuck in your head and you can't get it out until you put it down on paper. so thats what I did. use at your discrtion."

Now, I told a couple of my buddies about this, and they both answered with the same thing: "Ummm, he KNOWS that's a mistake, right?" I figure I shall get one of three reactions: "That's NOT how I intended it to be used!", "I suppose I should ahve known better, but I'm glad you had your fun (grumble, grumble).", OR "Well, I figured you'd do something with it, but I wasn't expecting THAT."

But there's something else at play here: my dad basically just told me that he trusts me with something very near and dear to him. For that, Dad, I thank you. So, completely unedited, unaltered - my father's words:

Today, I planted peppers.

It’s a simple process. Prepare the soil with spade and rake or other suitable tools. Apply lime and fertilizer. Mark a straight row with string. Dig a small hole with a trowel. Place the little baby pepper plant in the hole, cover the roots with fine soil, firm the soil gently around the plant. Water it well. It’s easy.

I was not yet eight years old when I first did this in the big field behind Grandpa’s house on a sunny spring day. We were planting the field to tobacco, and there was a marvelous machine called a tobacco setter to help with the work. The setter moved down the field at a pace no faster than a man out for a leisurely walk, pulled by the red tractor Grandpa was driving. The machine opened a furrow in the fine, sandy soil. Then, thanks to a wonderful mechanism of chains and gears and valves and tubes, it would release a spurt of water into the furrow at just the right interval for planting tobacco. My uncles, Bill and Norm, rode the machine, sitting close to the ground. Each time a spurt of water issued forth, they would set a young tobacco seedling in the furrow, and a pair of rubber wheels would press the furrow closed around the roots. The result was a long, straight row of evenly spaced plants marching down the field.

My job was setting skips. Sometimes Bill or Norm would fail to set a plant in the furrow when the spurt of water came, so there was a plant missing in the orderly spacing down the row. I followed behind with a basket of plants and a trowel and a watering can. I had been carefully instructed to spot each skip, dig a hole with the trowel, set the plant in the hole, cover the roots with soil, and water it well. So the gaps in the neatly spaced row were filled. I suspect Bill or Norm would sometimes miss a plant on purpose, just to keep the small boy busy.

But that was sixty years ago and a thousand miles from here.

Today, I planted peppers.

Thanks for sharing this, Pop.

BUUUUUUUUUUUUT It just wouldn't be me if I left it completely alone, so today's poem is inspired from my father's memories of planting tobacco.

Today, I planted peppers.
A simple thing,
Dig, fill, water, tamp.
It repeats.
It's boring.
Sixty years, and nothing's changed.
I've been digging a long time.
Watch it grow, from seed to bloom to fruiting,
My rows aren't as straight as I remember -
the machine was precise, I am close enough.
Filling the gaps.
But we were working for the Farm.
Tabac was sold at market.
Today, I sat when my work was done
smoking a cigar with the Connecticut wrapper.
Because today, I planted peppers.

Thanks for the inspiration, Dad.


Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid

3rd Annual Poetry Challenge, #2

A treat for you all today. I was recently out and about and found a poem I simply adored. In many ways, it is a perfect poem. I won't go into the reasons I like it so much, but I simply MUST share it with you all.

Fallen Leaves by A.W. Robertson (1951)

The fallen leaf is but reborn
a gayer, freer thing.
Without stem anchor it courts the wind
and flies with it.
No longer coy and branch-bound
Its green dress gone it wears a rainbow,
A wingless bird of paradise.
In its new life it speaks
with gustful rustle.
At last it joins the restless myriads
on the ground.
They chorus an invitation
to heavy feet and troubled mind-
Come walk ankle-deep and forget the years.
Come walk in leaves and find youth's dream.

To me, this poem is really just awesome. There is so much in it to examine, so much going on all at once - I look at my own offerings and feel humbled and in awe. I've searched, and I can't find much of anything on A.W. Robertson - in fact, not much other than the poem cited above. Pity. I'd love to read more.

But there's only one way to get better, and that's to practice. Who knows, maybe someday, someone will find a word or two that I've written to inspire them the way Robertson's words have struck a note with me. If I don't write, that's not possible.

With that note: today's offering is a variation on a theme. Robert Frost wrote about "Stopping by the woods on a snowy evening..." - well, mine is slightly different!


I don't know why and never will-
my feet trod that hilly ground.
Clear and warm, a spring day, the leaves not yet budding,
the bone-trees click-a-clacking in the breeze.
But walk along that path I did,
amidst the fading brown of winter.
The ground, dotted here and there, the green of wild onion-grasses
the first to see the springing sun.
Soon, the vacant landscape will be a memory,
a safe haven in the woods born anew.
When my eyes are old the whys of that moment may be answered,
For now, "because" is all I can understand.
It is enough to know I was there.

Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid

3rd Annual Poetry Challenge #1

Oh it's finally here! Yep, the third year of the Poetry Challenge is ON like Donkey Kong!!!!! Hey, for those not familiar, It's nationahl poetry month, and that means I take up the challenge of writing a new, original poem each day for 30 days. Neat, huh? OK, now, if you want to play along at home, then feel free. Write some poetry. It can be good poetry or bad poetry, or something you don't even think is a poem. BUT, you have the control over it. Send me requests for poems, send me your poems and I'll post them here - whatever. It can be one a week, one a day, or just one in the month. I don't care - the point is to explore writing poetry.

So, without further ado, here's this year's kickoff:

There is a place I go where nothing can harm me,
a safe and secret home, apart from the world.
No one can go there but me,
No one knows it's there.
It beckons to me,
Calls me home.
Hides me in the comfortable embrace
of quiet.
There it is where my true home lies,
In solitude and peaceful reverie.
The world washes away,
Ashen cinders that blow away with just a whispering breeze,
For they cannot touch me any more.



OK, you may like it, you may not - frankly, I don't care! I do this for me and invite you to come along. I hoipe you enjoy the journey!

Thanks for Reading,

The Fat Kid