The Story of Fathers

In this poem I tried to mimic the story-telling aspect of the poetry of Rebecca Grey (who writes very good poetry, by the way). I don't want to explain the poem away before you read it, but one day my mom told me that my dad's dad used to beat him with his belt. Not like bloody, manslaughter beatings, but 'leaving marks' beatings nonetheless. I was kind of shocked, and humbled, because my father has never beat me or left a mark on my body. This i saw as a miracle, for usually a child will mimic the actions of his or her parents. My father broke this cyclical wave. I am very thankful. I say all of this because I am not sure if it has come out enough in the poem; the re-mention of the "the story" in this poem is what I am referring to. I tried an editing method by Hemingway, where one cuts as much as possible down to the raw of the poem. He called it the "iceberg effect." If you have feedback feel free to criticize…



The Story of Fathers




my dad was upset
stomping through his house
angry at the Legos in his way


his eyes were hanging like sleeping bats



my mother told me the story
one day around the kitchen island
grandma told her the story
about how my father's father
left marks



I screamed
I hate you
in the garage
the whole neighborhood
could hear

my voice tearing


they could hear
the generations of fathers
struggling
to tell the story
of their fathers
who beat them
who left marks
mountains





W. K. Medlen

RE: Portfolio

When You Smoke Cigarettes (ii)





Ashy fingers crumble from my arm
over your body. We don't touch or combine.

An inhale exhale existence. The smoke is the cigarettes thoughts,
and my mind, smoke, dissipates as you walk through it.

You stir the dusty bones collecting on the panes of my soul.

my body, arthritic and old, begins fading into smoke ring
bruises, circular, burned sores. And she is an ember, a single,
          bloodshot eye,

a lifelong memory I can't exhale.













W. K. Medlen

portfolio, revisited

So I am currently applying for a bunch of different MFA programs across (generally) the south and northeast. It is ridiculous. The price for everything is insane… I haven't had money since I was about 16…You think they would understand that eh? anyway, I'm going through and editing my portfolio and here is an earlier poem that I wrote back in the day. It s a little dramatic, but I still like it.



When You Smoke Cigarettes




You inhale mouths, remembering other ashy figures lurking
in your mind, then, vomiting violent exhalations and smoke ring halos.

Don't talk to me with your eyes, un-cage your emotional abyss with raccoon
tailed eyebrows, watch me try and scale the crags of your forehead,

or, with your mouth, clutch my sand torso and unraveling heart
struggling to beat on its own in rivers of running mascara.

Like Michelangelo's God, your lonesome finger waded to me, combed
my soul. It was as big as a moose and scary as an antler. Now that definitions

have changed like a flight plan, what awaits me is a trail of clothes,
slithering through your house, drunken passed out linens.

I dread leaving through the hallway, blood red of dying light, grasped by hands,
seeping with fingered shadows where you hang your lovers.



(I can't quite get the formatting right without making the text teeny tiny. Each stanza is only supposed to be 2 lines)

For My Grandfather

So, I don't know why, but I have been itching to publish this post. Its been in the back of my mind for about a week now. Maybe its the holidays, maybe its the recent death of an aquaintance, I don't know. I wrote this when my grandfather died a little over 5 years ago. He was awesome. He died on a motorcycle, which, if you gotta go, is probably one of the best ways. He was funny, interesting, told great stories, and probably one of the smartest people that i knew. He reminds me of C. S. Lewis. I did not cry at his funeral. I don't know why I didn't, I guess I just knew that it was going to be O.K.
this is a finished poem.


For My Grandfather



    I remember when
dad called and told me he died. Everything
        melted out of


My hands, became an instant
    Puddle of memories rippling
And reflecting of him. I tried to
   Gather the mass with my hands,
But it leaked through

My fingers as liquid tends to do.

He wrote his life

down

    For his family that he
never met, or, only hugged once
        for a brief moment.


    It was spiral bound.
bound like the motorcycle that

took his life.

    I didn't cry over
his body, dry and sinking into the casket,
        despite my love

For him.

At Arlington
He received a 21 gun salute
And we were proud. Some of these


Memories solidify, become many
Sided, and can be turned and
Examined in the hands
    
                 Like a Rubik's Cube.

W. K. Medlen

I miss you.
            
             Inexorably,

I miss you,

like Adam and Eve missed God,
like they missed the bliss
      of not knowing shame.
I miss you
like an old body
      misses youth.



I want to pull out the reel
of time faster,

suddenly find myself
next to you again.

mountain road ride, sundown

I went on a bike ride at about sundown today with some friends. One of them pointed out the setting sun, which was a radiant pink that faded into peach and then into the ever-slowly darkening sky. I have paid attention to at least 20 sunsets in my life, and yet, it is breathtaking every time. Why? C. S. Lewis would argue, I think, that the longing one feels is actually part of a deeper longing for something else, that is, heaven. This is why even though a sunset happens every day, it still feels like a holiday, or an anniversary, or a surprise. If an everyday sunset can affect us like it does, and is only a taste… well then…





The sun, with rosy cheeks,
said goodnight,
and peeked one last time
over the horizon.

His countenance was soft,
yet fiery, and I could feel
his affectionate heat
disintegrating.

But I was not sad.

It made me long
for his sudden warmth that appears
in the morning, or unexpectedly,
like leaving shadows,

like weaving him into a window,
for behind the curtain, he is blind
to your interiors.

Sometimes you lose sight of how important a close loved one is until someone points it out.

Picture and Robert Frost

To reiterate entirely far too much about the already apparent meaning behind the picture and the name of the blog, I found this picture, for free, on the world wide inter-webs and thought that it was appropriate. This picture shows the exact point in which two tracks are converging onto one, much like two ideas coming together, or parts of ideas coming together forming, in a way, a new idea. This is in a way the reason I love the idea of a metaphor. I wanted to bring in Robert Frost, "Two roads diverged in a yellow wood / And sorry I could not travel both / And be one traveler" yada yada yada to sound smart but the themes don't really match.


So instead I wrote my own imitation of "The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost


Two tracks converged by an open field
And happy to hold hands and hug the other
To learn more about my one self. For a moment
I stood and turned my gaze to what my back knows

And then turned again to see how far the track goes.
I resolved to think that each track its own
Was just as important alone; both, worn
And full of knowledge, now came together

Into something new, shinier, and waiting
To be used and worn in.
I doubted if I should ever come back,
And knowing how way leads on to way,

I marked this day in my mind as special,
But knowing also that the future again
Shall converge, looked forward to something again special.
I shall be telling this with happiness,

And possibly a tinge of love, for the future
Beyond all life, tracks came together,
And came together again and again,
And continues to make all the difference.

Twilight… yes I saw the first one too

So, I have a girlfriend, which pretty much means I watched Twilight: New Moon this weekend. I won't get into "all that," except to say I think I may have ruined the movie for her. At least she knows that the movie is terrible, despite her fondness for it. I feel the same about Transformers. In all fairness, it wasn't as bad as the first. It's still bad. But I don't know whats worse, Twilight itself, or all of the new movies and shows that are riding its coattails? No matter, I'm too vindictive, judgmental, sarcastic, and critical. If you like the movie you should definitely see it. You should also read the books. It's not like Stephenie Meyer getting any more richer is going to matter. However, this is a poetry blog…so I wrote some off the cuff Haikus about the movie.



    Vampires. Werewolves.
They are enemies. Funny
    Face-making stand-off.


    Why so serious
Edward? On dramatic scene
    After another.


    How many pairs of
Shorts can one werewolf destroy
    In two point five hours?


    We know they can't act.
Weird diarrhea faces
    And lots of staring.


    The gasps, grunts, and sighs,
The in-between. If you like
    Twilight, good for you.

on writing

I see things
Like the way a train sees America
these empty, well worn tracks,
going new places on familiarity.


Hopefully we will know ourselves by these connections.


Like the apple,


except this time,
    the apple is green.
    Or, suddenly, it tastes like a strawberry.


Or, metaphorically and philosophically, it is the needed fruit for eventual forgiveness
and literal understanding.


       Or, it isn't even an apple at all.
            Maybe it's a swimming pool.


Floating on your back,
you see yourself in the stars
                               the moon

                   the beautiful blue-black night

that envelopes you.


That unknown night,
    waiting to be explored,
the strong-arm of love.

Some things have changed

Well, this is my blog. Due to my recent crazy adventures with UAHuntsville, and a little mental push from a good friend (thanks becca),I have decided to slightly alter my career path. I am going to try and pursue a career in the field of creative writing. The whole idea of a "career" in creative writing is a little funny to me, for, how does one gauge creativity? Can one base a pay scale on the quality of literature? Donald Miller says that writers without contracts make no money. No matter.

I have started this blog to show you guys what goes on in my daydreamy, and, at times, dysfunctional brain. Feedback is always and graciously welcomed; criticism as inspiration.
This brings me to the question of why we write. Why do we write? I tried to answer....