Hourglass and Other Poems
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About this ebook
James L. Clark
Kentuckian James L. Clark writes novels, short stories and poetry, and has been a newspaper columnist and online editor. He has served in the military and been a radio announcer, public-school teacher, church musician/educator, railroad locomotive engineer, and currently has two other novels and a short-story collection in print. http://www.clarkscorner.org/
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Hourglass and Other Poems - James L. Clark
HOURGLASS and OTHER,
POEMS
James L. Clark
iUniverse, Inc.
New York Lincoln Shanghai
HOURGLASS and OTHER POEMS
All Rights Reserved © 2003 by James L. Clark
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.
iUniverse, Inc.
For information address:
iUniverse, Inc.
2021 Pine Lake Road, Suite 100
Lincoln, NE 68512
www.iuniverse.com
ISBN: 0-595-28820-0 (pbk)
ISBN: 0-595-65879-2 (cloth)
ISBN: 978-1-469-74528-2 (ebook)
for
Lillian, John and Kim,
My triumvirate to
Love and respect.
Contents
FOREWORD
HOURGLASS
ACCEPT
ACTUALLY, NO THING IS LEFT
alley rat
ANZIO
AT MARCH
BASTOGNE
[Isaiah 1:18]
BATAAN
BLISS
BLOOD
BORROWED TIME?
BRIDE
CERTIFIED
CHURCH?
CITY
CODGER
COMMONWEAL
CONTROL
CREATOR?
CRICKET
DEALER
DECAY
ENGINEER, retired
ENIGMA
ESCAPE
FATHERS’ DAY
FORGIVE MY DEBTS?
FIREFLY
forty
FREEDOM?
GETTYSBURG
GRANDPA
GRANDPARENTS
GRANITE THE MARKERS
GRAVE-DIGGER
HALF-CENTURY
Hang With Me, Man
(prayer of the cool…orfool?)
HEARTACHE
HEARTBREAK
HERE
HE STEPPED OUT TODAY
HIE!
Hillbilly (Coalminer) Prayer
HOLDEN BEACH
HOLLOWAY
HOT ROD
HOTEL WARDS
HURTGEN FOREST
I GATHERED YOU THIS AFTERNOON
I Heard Your Voice Again Today
I LEFT THERE, TOO
IMPALED
IN EXCHANGE
INFIRMITY
IN HIS SHOES
ISABEL
IT IS THE MUSIC
IT SNAGGED UPON THE CHOIR-LOFT STAIR
I WATCHED YOU DIE THIS AFTERNOON
I WATCHED YOU DIE THIS MORNING, LATE
I Went There Again
I WOULD RIDE HIGH, WIDE
JEFF
JOURNEY’S END
JUDGMENT
juris PRUDENCE
JUST DREAMS?
JUSTICE
LAMENT
LEGISLATOR
LIFE (Solomon’s take?)
LITTLE DOVE
LOSS
MARKERS
MEANING AND WAY
MIGHT HAVE BEEN
MODERN CHURCH
MORE THAN ONE ACT
MOTHER
MOUSETRAP
MYLAI
MYSTERY
NEVERMORE
NORMANDY
NOT A TRACE, NOT A SOUND
NO TRACKS
NURSING HOME
O MY GOD
ODE TO DEATH
OLD AGE
ONA SUNDAY
OPERATOR
OUR DAILY DREAD
OUT OF SEASON
PAIN
PARADOX
PEACE
PEASANT’S PEASANT
POLITICIAN
PREACHER
PROFESSOR van SMILEY
PUNK
reaper
REFUGEE
RETIRED
REVIVAL
ROLE MODEL
ROSE
SCAVENGER
SEVENTY-SEVEN
SHE WHISPERED
SIXER
SLOCUM
SNOWMAN
SOCIALISM
SOLITARY ROSE
SOLITARY TREE
SONG
SONG OF END
SONG OF PAIN
STATUS
STOCKYARD
STRENGTH TO MY DAYS
STUPOR
SUICIDE
SWITCHMAN
SYMPHONY
THE CELLO
THE COURAGE
THE DAY OF MEMORY
THE FIX
THE FRAME
THE OTHER SIDE
THE OXEN’S STALL
THE REV. BOJANGLES
THE THEN
THE TRENCHES OF THE DEAD
THE WASTED CHANCE
THIEF ODES
THROUGH ALL THE YEARS
THERE WAS THAT LIGHT
TILL WHEN…THEN
TIME AND TIDE
TODAY I RETURN
TOIL AND TOLL
TO NOT BE
fTWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS
TYRANNY
UNTIL
VAPOR
VETERAN
we went there again
WHEN GRAVES AGAIN ARE FILLED
WHEN, THEN
WHY
WINO
You Have the Upper Hand Today
YOUNG BENEATH THE SOD
FOREWORD
According to Merriam Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary (tenth edition), the two definitions of poetry are: metrical writing: VERSE; and, writing that formulates a concentrated imaginative awareness of experience in language chosen and arranged to create a specific emotional response through meaning, sound and rhythm. The definition of metrical: of, relating to, or composed in meter. The definition of meter: systematically arranged and measured rhythm in verse; rhythm that continuously repeats a single basic pattern.
Significantly in both definitions of poetry, meter or rhythm is a required component. Rhyme is not required, but the use of rhyme, defined as correspondence in terminal sounds of units of composition or utter- ance or correspondence other than terminal sounds, such as alliteration, greatly enhances a poem, giving it yet another element to differentiate poetry from prose, another element to enhance it as an art form entirely different from any other form. The point can be recognized in the fact that memorization of lines written as poetry is easy to accomplish and not unusual, whereas memorization of unstructured writing undisciplined by form is just the opposite.
The rage in poetry through most of the twentieth century until the present time has been the writing of free verse, defined as verse whose meter is irregular in some respect or whose rhythm is not metrical. Supposedly, this type of writing frees the artist from the constraints necessary to box in
unjustly/inaccurately his/her thoughts as the writer makes the effort to sat- isfy the requirements noted above for writing poetry. The magic term for current style is imagery-collage and the magic method generally is the
chopping up
of prose pieces into line-by-line fragments with or without punctuation. The in
poets often dare anyone to attempt to understand anything they write, if, indeed, they actually mean to deal with substance at all. Twentieth-century serious music reflects this approach. Whereas most serious music of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, usually remarked by recognizable forms, was popular in its day, most contempo- rary works are eminently forgettable, experiments in formlessness and cacophony. This is not a blanket condemnation of twentieth-century poetry or music. Much of the irregular, metrically deficient writing is good verse; though there is a considerable amount of good, poignant prose disguised as poetry, actually short essays of a type. With respect to modern free verse, it certainly should be rejected as poetry when it consists of straightforward sentences chopped up into lines or other patterns, with or without punctuation or other grammatical instruments. Only the most gifted writers can produce free verse as poetry, but the results of those who can are well worth the reading. Admittedly, as in the instance of most undertakings, the same old same old
can be boring, so each approach has its place.
The following pieces fall into both categories—poetry, free verse—but the vast preponderance incorporate strict rhythm and rhyme. Though they are meant to be read aloud, they are not sing-song if read properly, and are designed to make a point or at least provoke thought, the anti the- sis of purposeful obfuscation. In a recent communication, a poetry pub- lisher concluded that a poem’s assertion or point of view is not of as much interest as that of how it is expressed. In his view, substance was secondary to form, often better defined by this writer as gimmickry. He asserted that sincerity is less important than authenticity. However, sincerity is not less important than anything. A poet purveying only a whimsical—or even calculated—combination of words for the sake of something called authenticity does not serve his craft well, unless he writes only for enter- tainment.
A poem is never finished, only abandoned,
said Paul Valery, the French poet/philosopher (1871-1945). These have been abandoned…for now.
HOURGLASS
Flowing persistence through opening small,
Zero resistance to each grain’s swift fall,
The weight of the force complete at the top—
That force in due course then killed by full stop.
The thrust of the sand not up toward the light,
Not out toward new land, not geared for free flight,
The stuff of the grains condemned to the fall,
With all its remains entombed by the wall.
And all of the time in transparency,
Its rhythm and rhyme for all men to see,
Each grain quick to pass…to useless demise
In worthless clear glass…for men of no eyes.
ACCEPT
Confronting now finality,
But dodging its reality,
He dreams afflictions non-extant,
And schemes afflictions pro-recant.
The stark reminders of his state
He shuns as being out of date,
And thinks of years long since passed by—
Of years that held no what or why.
Until…until, that twinge of pain
Reminding him of mortal bane,
That pain of no overt design—
But pain long known that screams Resign.
Resign from what? Resign from life?
Resign from all the endless strife?
Not yet, not yet…to quit just so
Means suicide as final blow;
But not that suicide is wrong,
Except, perhaps, by one still strong.
Resign, perhaps, resign in mind—
And just become one age-defined;
But, no, much too much to decree,
For that would mean brain-atrophy;
And that would mean no action now,
Since action waits for mental vow.
Yes, resignation from the mind
Would introduce a plodding grind.
Perhaps resign
is not the word.
Indeed, resign
is…well…absurd.
But with that twinge, what should he do?
What should he fear must yet ensue?
Perhaps he simply should accept.
That he must now simply accept.
ACTUALLY, NO THING IS LEFT
Actually, no thing is left
That I can say I own,
Of what I have I am bereft
When final breath has flown.
Yes, I could claim I own some things,
But owning means control,
My ownership no longer brings
Control. in final role.
And I might claim that time is mine,
Except that for some years,
Just borrowed does my time define—
With frame of patched-up gears.
This line, of course, is incorrect,
Since time is only burned,
The borrowed thing
one must reject.
Time cannot be returned.
So, things I think just mine alone—
No matter seen or not—
Have never been just mine alone
To grasp or to allot.
All ownership must I then find
Throughout God’s panoply
Within Creator’s cosmic mind,
And merely shown to me.
alley rat
bright-eyed, cocky, and all of
ten! a deck of fags in his
shirt pocket and one on
the lip. the hands-in-pocket
swagger and the condescending
wink to a lesser peer with
a quick four-letter-word
collection mouthed loudly
enough for all to hear.
beginning in twilight the
back-alley journeys in
that familiar world of
scavenging, grasping, plucking,
fighting, peeking, and
cheat-trading. occasionally
stepping into the neon
glare of the main streets
to gaze furtively…and longingly.
into windows of affluence.
and temptation.
dragging home finally to the
hovel-home or mortar-prison
where the beginners of it all
hardly notice the entrance,
perhaps too steeped in the
reality of unfulfilled dreams
to care anymore. or perhaps
too bent upon sensual sensation
to have the mind for knowing.
but his tomorrow.
or next years?
who knows…or cares?
ANZIO
Its bayonet stuck in the ground,
An M-1 standing erect
Alone now atop the low mound
Wears the helmet…weird the effect.
No time had there been for a prayer,
No Mass…or not even last rites,
No eulogy. No time to spare.
No time when a squad grimly fights.
That morning with M-1 in hand,
And helmet so firmly strapped on,
He talked of the future he planned—
By nightfall that future was gone.
It happened that this was his war,
Another, his father had fought—
That war that would mean war no more—
But war…again…young life had bought.
His grandfathers tramped through war’s hell,
Had taken up arms through the years;
They bled…or…they