Three Deaths

I have died three deaths:
The flipping of a tractor down a steep hillside;
The whizz of a bullet fired too wide;
and now, sitting daily, fingers pricking at the keys
this death was promised freely, but billed with heavy fees.

 

This Horrible Care

I have been loved cruelly and hated gently;
have been struck and burnt and bled from affection and
have been kept free from harm by those who distrust me.
I have known a great few things
and none, ever, of any importance.

I have heard famous men speak of traits and characters-
the same spiel, it seems, touted by antique physiognomers –
and claiming these five traits,
these five ‘mental characteristics’
(slanting, sly noses; stubborn brows)
can tell all of a person.
These famous men are idiots;
lower even than I
who has never known anything of importance.

The Work of Sons

Walk the fields,
feel the earth
plunge deep into the soil
dig up the stones,
pluck up the weeds,
let pour your sweat and toil.
walk the fields,
feel the mud
seeping up between your toes,
Walk the fields,
and scatter seed,
wait,
and see what grows

Brackish

Some cups hold water and some cups hold wine
some cups are brackish; some brim with brine
some drinks keep you living and some keep you wild
and telling the difference heaps time on a child.

A Song Heard Backwards

My earliest memories are of a final note,
resolute, droning, crashing – rote,
an idiot’s drumming at an idiot’s whims,
and then, in my youth, the melody sprung in
the sweetest strings, so light, so airy,
the sounds of meadows where birdsongs vary
and the sound of snow on sledding hills,
then, I aged, and came the trills,
the sharp and painful trumpet blows
the epic highs –
the bastard lows
and now the song fills me with fear:
Before it starts
what will I hear?

A Year In-verse

Howdy everyone,

Yesterday’s post marked the culmination of a year-long project to write an original piece every single day. I’d like to talk a little bit about what I’ve learned (personally) from the process.

Don’t write a new piece every day if you’re expecting perfection. The old adage that writing every day is a good habit rings true, however, after about a month I realized that writing and posting so quickly eroded a lot of the stylistic flourishes that I really enjoy writing. More so, editing every day becomes a struggle when combined with daily obligations, work, etc. Leaving a bit of leeway with the daily output was the only way to stay sane.

Writing a unique poem everyday will alter your style. My poems towards the end of the year lacked the strict structures and alliteration that I really enjoy writing, but it was a chance to explore a lot of different patterns and styles and see what I liked.

It’s okay to write multiple poems about the same topic. I don’t know why this initially felt like a sticking point to me, but it was necessary to overcome. Look at how many love verses Shakespeare wrote without ever fully capturing the emotion – there is always something new to say, or a new way to say it.

All that being said, I don’t think I’m going to continue writing a fresh poem every day. I’ve decided that, personally, I enjoy sitting with my poems for a week or so and really tinkering with them line-by-line. Although I suspect this comes down to personal preference, I think the most beautiful lines emerge in the editing process.

Thanks for sticking with me,
Wolf.

 

act of love

no love for myself,
only vicious, stupid lust,
meeting myself in strange places and
hoping my wife doesn’t find me like this.

there is no love for myself
only the tearing of clothes,
the false promise of satisfaction and
a deep hunger for more.

there is no love for myself
and this story does not end well,
I refuse to learn any lessons from this,
I burn the wounds shut before they heal.