“The arts are not a way to make a living” -Kurt Vonnegut

“The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven’s sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something.” -Kurt Vonnegut

Seasons Change—A poem from my adolescence

[The melting of the snow reminded me of a poem I wrote in middle school.  I decided to dig it up.]

Seasons Change

Mother Nature’s grand gift
I see is truly alive
New trees do bud
Flowers born
In tears
In fog

The earth flourishes in sun
It has only just begun
Trees are deep green
Bring fruit
And nuts
In sun

It is now a time to slow down
Time to show beauty in age
As once we were green
Now must die red
And yellow
Orange

Now comes the cold soft white rain
Trees only hibernate in ice
They are not truly dead
They are just waiting
And now comes
New life…

Mother Nature’s grand gift
Is alive once again

Mining for Ore: A Poem Inspired by The Hobbit

Mining For Ore

In the depths, diamonds and demons:
Mine at your own risk.

Chisel and plumb and plunder
As does the prisoner
To light and breath.

Touch nothing,
But look on.

Something hums and burns beneath.

Lift up your candle and call out,
For it has broken through.
Pray that you pried loose
What you can bear to see—
Bear it up alone
And alone you will sink.

Let the eye that opens be yours,
For in the deepest of halls
No headlamp or torch can discern
Sovereigns from scales.

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Bonsack–A Poem for my child

Bonsack

It was not the petting zoo my son was enthralled with
Out at the farm in Bonsack
It was not the piglets, not the goats
Nor the bunnies nor the cows
Only a moment he spent
In the kernel pit before wanting out
Or in the pumpkin patch before nursing
And though he has a love for tractors
Sitting focused at the wheel
Mastering the gears and levers at sixteen months
Though he rode with us on the hay wagon
With eyes wide for the pasture
It was in the corn maze that he screamed for his daddy
Not with fear
But with blooming vigor for the continual rush of life!
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Down in the Hemlocks—A Summer Poem

[This week we’ll be saying goodbye to summer with three summer-themed poems I wrote during the summer.  This untitled poem I wrote last summer, shortly after the birth of my son.]

Down in the hemlocks
I brought my young baby
My boy in a blanket
And swaddled him there
Under the hemlocks
Down by the river
The cold stony river
Under the shade

.
[For Noah]

The Rime of the Anglyng Touryst—A Summer Poem

[This week we’ll be saying goodbye to summer with three summer-themed poems I wrote during the summer.  This first number, based on my fishing trip, is a parody of “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.]

The Rime of the Anglyng Touryst
by Caleb Coy

It is an angling Tourist,
And he renteth a cheap rod.
“I’ve cut my shrimp in quarters.
Will I catch me a cod?”

Optimistic as the rising sun,
He casts out with a wink
(Because it’s all in the wrist,
Or so he’s been told to think).

He feels a little wiggle
He feels a little pull
“I think I’ve got a live one!
I’ve yanked him from the shoal!”

Alas, on pillars snagged—
It appears that when he cast
A wave brought his line inward
To the pier the hook held fast!

He gives a friendly wave
To a stranger down the pier,
Who knows what he is doing—
(That’s why he fishes here).

Then comes another tug—
“This time it is for real!”
A big knot he untangles,
But soon he’ll have his meal.

Perched above, a pelican—
Patiently it stares,
Chin tucked with the posture
Of a fasting saint in prayer.
[Dedicated to Charley Gwaltney]

Modeling “Incident” Poems for Students

As part of a mini-unit on the Harlem Rennaisance, I had students encounter the poem Incident by Countee Cullen, in which the author remembers a seemingly minor incident in his childhood that impacts him for the rest of his life.

As part of our study, we discuss the theme of being deeply impacted by a small incident, and as part of the lesson, I asked students to write their own “incident” poem.

Now, whenever possible teachers should try to model composition for their students for various reasons, among them being the viewing of the process, the example from an adult they know, and the assurance that their teacher is in on the “adventure” with them.

So here’s a little something I came up with, a poem about a time when my family was on vacation in Arizona.  One day I waited in the car to look at the desert while my family went inside a store.  A very small, insignificant event happened, but for some reason I still remember it.

Arizona Day

I sat in the car and waited
Admiring the day
An odd old man approached me
He had something to say
He gave a friendly greeting
And asked about the day
I spoke of all the weather
For I knew not what to say
He spoke also of weather
And of the coming day
And soon enough we finished
With nothing left to say
At once my dad returned
To drive us round all day
I told him of the lonely man
And all that we did say
I said it was nothing much
He said I might have made his day
And when this thought occurred to me
I knew not what to say