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    Hourglass and Other Poems
    Hourglass and Other Poems
    Hourglass and Other Poems
    Ebook249 pages1 hour

    Hourglass and Other Poems

    By James L. Clark

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    About this ebook

    The poems in this collection have to do with the passing of time-its relentlessness, speed and events-and people facing sadness, humor, joy, social upheavals such as wars, inequities, corruption, goodness, apprehensions about life and death, love, hatred, dreams, disappointments, fears, injustices, blessings, sacrifice, sloth, industriousness, physical impairments/strengths, spirituality, God, worry, specific battles in various wars, elation, jealousy, greed, generosity, meanness, aging-in short, the everyday happenings/abstractions that, totaled, simply make life what it is for everyone, both individually and collectively. While the book includes both free verse and traditional poetry as defined consensually, most of the poems feature rhythm and rhyme, not the sing-song type of thing, but serious and consistent style presenting subjects in a manner conducive to reading them aloud and remembering. Though this is a departure from the styles mostly in vogue today, it features form that has withstood the testing of time while demanding more of the creator, just as in the case of classical music-perhaps an interesting change of pace for the reader.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisheriUniverse
    Release dateJul 20, 2003
    ISBN9781469745282
    Hourglass and Other Poems
    Author

    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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      Book preview

      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

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