Poetic Waxings

In the last month or so, I've blogged at least once a week, but it's been several weeks since I did a Sunday School post, which is a shame because I missed some good stories in that stretch, like David and Goliath, and Bathsheba, and Samuel hewing Agag in pieces. Hopefully I can get back on track starting this week. On Sunday we're covering Psalms (yep, the whole book), so to mark the occasion I thought I'd share some poetry I wrote for my creative writing class last Fall.

I posted a few of these poems last year, but I'm fond enough them that I figure they deserve to be read again. We'll start with my favorite, which I came up with when our assignment was to write a prayer. In addition to being a fun jab at the mingling of commercialism with religion at Christmas time, if you look closely you'll see that I count down the 12 days of Christmas in an unusually clever way.

FOR CHRISTMAS, YOU CAN COUNT ON ME

Dear Santa, I can't sleep. The clock on my nightstand shows a pair of twelves.

It's Christmas Day. Noel. Even now you're speeding home to your wife and your elves,

But you see all, you know all, and I ask that you listen to my prayer.

You've been in every house tonight, but when I go downstairs I fear I'll find no presents there.

If that's the case, I beg you to change your course, make your sleigh turn around

And come back. Let Christmas Eve now get a redo, and with it a profound

Change in your philosophy. Let "naughty and nice" become six of one,

Half a dozen of the other. For if I've learned anything in my short span

On this earth, it's that mercy should be the hallmark of our species, not justice.

Win souls with reexamined doctrine--we ought to receive gifts at Christmas

Not by works, but by belief. Some say faith without works is dead, but don't listen

To that. I believe in you, Santa. So...can I get an iPhone? Amen.

(As I pointed out the first time I shared this on my blog, I was shocked to find that none of my classmates had ever heard the expression "six of one, half a dozen of the other." Crazy.)

THE FINAL BELL: TO EDNA FROM SEYMOUR

[The assignment: write an accentual poem (each line has the same number of accents). I actually blew that a little bit, but I did still come up with this tribute to Edna Krabappel, shortly after the death of actress Marcia Wallace, who voiced Edna for over 20 years on The Simpsons.]

Oh, Edna. I can't believe you're gone.

A sub stands at the chalkboard in your class

But you can never be replaced. Never

Again will I see your trusty green sweater,

Or hear your trademark "Ha!" I've loved you

Since our first moment of intimacy

In Martin's playhouse. I could have had you forever,

Could have married you, but I got cold feet.

Since then, I watched you with other men--

Comic Book Guy, Ned Flanders, even

The drummer from Aerosmith. Each new beau

Shattered my hopes anew. Yet I still hoped

For a reunion, and I believed I had

All the time in the world. Time operates

Differently in Springfield. You seemed ageless,

As if you'd been teaching Bart Simpson

For decades. I thought you'd always be here

But now you're gone forever. Oh, Edna,

I can't handle Mother being the only

Woman in my life again. Please come back

To me. Take a field trip from heaven.

I'm sure God will sign the permission slip.

JUST WHAT THE DOCTOR ORDERED

[The assignment: write a poem in which at least 75% of the lines are enjambed. Also, we were given the choice of a few lines from famous poems as a jumping off point; I selected the "etherized upon the table" line from "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," one of my all-time favorites.]

The slab of beef lies cold on the countertop

Like a patient etherized

Upon a table. I poke it, prod it, and with my scalpel

Trim away the fat.

Each incision makes my patient

A little healthier. I take spices—my medicines—

And apply them to the lifeless meat. I rub them in

Knowing that they will help enliven the slab, make it dance

On taste buds.

Next comes the mallet. Some may call my methods

Unorthodox, but by smashing the meat, breaking it down, I know

I'm helping it reach its full potential, like a sculptor

Hammering at a mass of marble. Any wounds caused by the tenderization

Will be cauterized by the heat, the flames

Of the oven, and my patient will emerge

Unscathed, like the three Hebrew children

In the Babylonian furnace. Like them, the slab

Was not only unharmed, but it smells

Better than ever too.

Post-op, the patient is taken

To a countertop recovery room to rest.

The loved ones have arrived, anxious to know

If the operation was a success. Meanwhile, they nurse

Their drinks. In neighboring wings

The coroner wraps cor'ned beef

In plastic to send it home with families,

Newborns are bottle-fed in the veal ward,

And billing agents calculate amounts due

By the pound. But the real meat and potatoes

Of this facility is where I ply my skills.

I scrub up, change

Out of my red-stained smock, and announce

To the visitors that the patient's temperature

Has stabilized. The meat has been fully

Cured. Health and happiness are more rare

Than we would like, but in this case the job was

Well-done.

(There was even a bonus Old Testament reference in that one!)

INQUIRING MINDS

[The assignment: write a poem that rhymes. No other instructions, as it was the first assignment of our poetry unit. This is the revised version I turned in with my final portfolio; the original, shorter version is included in the post I link to above. I'm not sure which version I prefer.]

It shouldn't be this big a deal,

Considering how long we've dated.

But she says "You know how I feel;

Putting labels on things is overrated."

At times she’ll let me steal

A kiss, and when that happens I’m elated.

I’m tempted to buy a ring and kneel

But I worry that she’s just too jaded

To say yes. So we’re just spinning wheels

While our "coupling" remains unconsummated.

I make my eloquent appeals,

And yet she says "It's best we waited."

I cannot wait. Though I know that she'll

Be beyond annoyed--oh, she will hate it--

I have this impulse to reveal

Something; it won't subside, it must be sated.

If it's not on Facebook it's not real--

My relationship status? "It's complicated."

STOP THE PRESSES

[The assignment: write an 8-line poem. The astute among you will notice that this poem is longer than 8 lines; again, this is a revised version I turned in as part of my final portfolio. The original work is almost identical to the first two stanzas shown here.]

Did you hear? The guy from Maroon 5

And The Voice--yeah, Adam Levine--

Is now the sexiest man alive?

At least, so says People Magazine.

Somehow they managed to overlook me

Yet again. I don't mean to nag or

Complain, but if they'd watch me they'd see

He's not the only one with moves like Jagger.

Can't fret too much, though, there's still the TIME

"Person of the Year." I like my chances.

Hold on, what's this? A greater crime--

They've given the title to Pope Francis!

Beat out by a rockstar and a pope

These editors are bent on japes.

But I'm not beat yet, there's still hope--

Is there a mag devoted to sour grapes?

ALL-NIGHTER

[The assignment: write an aubade.]

Traces of natural light sift through the blinds, mingling

With the artificial glow of the laptop monitor.

The mixture is sufficient to rouse me

From my unplanned power nap. I raise

My head from the keyboard and look

At the screen--b bnvnhjnhj bn jnhhhhhhhhh. Darn.

No infinite simian Shakespeare magic

Working in my favor tonight. My conscious mind

Is a better writer than my unconscious--but just

Barely. Still only on page four of ten.

I sip my blood-red Mountain Dew, and realize

My lifestyle has become sub-vampiric--

They at least get to retire when the sun rises.

I sink my teeth back into my writing,

This English term paper that seems as if

It will never reach a terminus. I crank out

Sentence after sentence, yet the end

Remains in shadows, and I wonder

If Frost was also a procrastinating college student,

For dawn has come and yet it feels like

I still have miles to go before I sleep.

(The gibberish in line 6 is the result I got by actually smashing the keyboard with my head. I'm all about authenticity.)

I think the last two pieces are tied for 2nd place in my mind, though I like them all at least a little. Which is your favorite? (Or least favorite, I suppose, if you want to be that way.) After you let me know in the comments, get to work on reading those Psalms. You only need to read 25 Psalms for each of the poems I included here to complete the book!