Versions of Chai

During a recent visit to Half Price Books, I discovered one of the treasures I had been searching for:  The Wolfpen Poems by James Still.  For those unfamiliar with his work, James Still was an Appalachian author and a part of the Southern literary renaissance that began during the Great Depression.  He is most well-known for his novel, River of Earth , which has been classed with Steinbeck's Grapes of Wrath as one of the best representations of Depression-era life.  However, he was also an exceptional poet.  When I was in Junior High, he visited my school and shared some of his work.  His presentation made an impression on me and may very well have been one of the influences that sparked my own interest in writing poetry. In reading his poems, I feel such a kinship with him.  His words echo some of the cries of my heart, yet in a richness that I could never express.  It is difficult to choose my favorites from among his poems, but at the mome...

Only in the darkroom is the promise of color in the negative fulfilled. Yet, we resist development preferring the negative state tucked in the protective sleeve of muted possibilities.

Anyone with a dream will have at least one critic in their lives--one voice that always has something negative to say.  Those who have aspirations in the creative arts will usually have more than one, maybe even many.  Although critics can sometimes be constructive, this poem is about a destructive one.  I wrote this poem a few years ago and those who read my original blog on My Space may remember it.  It is not autobiographical, just an expansion on a theme.  As of yet, I haven't experienced criticism to this magnitude. Unless I include myself, for I am my own worst critic. The Critic So quiet at the end I thought you dead. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw your mouth curve into smirk and knew words would soon follow, bruising self respect. Deceived I was to imagine you passive while I relished in success, forgetting the scent of accomplishment would resurrect in an instant your critic soul. So now I quail under your scrutiny and br...

Today is Memorial Day and in a little while I will be arranging flowers on my daughter's grave. It's rather late in the season for white tulips so instead, I bought some tiny, white chrysanthemums. Last year, finding white tulips was sheer luck. They were languishing in a crowded barrel--a sad little bunch with the leaves already turning brown. But the waxy, white flowers seemed to speak to me in a way that the other, more brightly-colored choices did not. Perhaps this is because our lives are like canvases colored by the things we experience and my daughter's life ended before her canvas could be fully formed--when it was still a waxy whiteness without the color and messiness of life. Although they are not waxy, this year's chrysanthemums are a comparable substitute. They are not the full explosions of chrysanthemums we will see in the fall, but mere buds with the centers still green and a hint of white petals around the edges.

Since I am in the process of revising my chapbook to submit to a contest sponsored by Finishing Line Press, I have decided not to post the remaining 5 poems. For my faithful blog readers, I want to save a few surprises as I hope Fertility Rites will eventually be published. So far the revision is going well. This is mostly due to a valuable critique from my friend, Julie Hensley, who has a poetry chapbook coming out in July through Finishing Line entitled The Language of Horses . To pre-order a copy go to http://www.finishinglinepress.com/NewReleasesandForthcomingTitles.htm. However, it would be a shame not to post a poem so by special request I am re-posting the one for which my blog is named. It all began a few years ago at Live Wire coffeehouse when three friends each ordered different versions of chai....... Versions of Chai Cup in hand, I contemplate the versions of chai while the musician plays my request, the one about the girl and the poem-- her smooth facade. My version is ho...

Just like the Fates, Demeter and Persephone also hail from Greek mythology. Demeter is the goddess of the harvest and Persephone, her daughter represents spring. Persephone was very beautiful and her beauty attracted Hades, the god of the underworld. After a series of events involving abduction and a few pomegranate seeds, Persephone is doomed to spend half a year in the underworld. During the six months that Persephone is gone, Demeter mourns her daughter's absence and the earth experiences fall and winter. This poem is about that absence and how Demeter feels when her daughter is away. It is written in the form of a sonnet using a Spenserian rhyming scheme and iambic tetrameter instead of the more traditional pentameter.

This is another poem that I feel needs some work. In fact, I wish I could skip it, but I am committed to posting each poem in its unrevised glory. The poem is based on the idea that the way to immortality, to the fountain of youth, is through having children. Of course, I don't think I am the first person to suggest this connection. I think the concept here is good, but the poem needs to be whittled down and sweetened.