This blog is not just about me and WoW (though I wish I played a little bit more now-a-days to actually talk about WoW some more). It's about me and life too. So if you came here looking for my thoughts on maybe the new T8 stuff (which I probably won't see), I'm sorry.
For some reason, this week I got back into the habit of doing what I hope will be my profession in the future: writing. Specifically writing poetry. It started when I went back to my alma mater. That makes it sound like I took a cross-country visit to some college, but not really. It's kinda on the way home from work so I stopped by one day (also note, I only graduated a few months ago... I just like saying that I have an alma mater). I stopped by Lamar University to pick up the most recent issue of our literary magazine where I have two award-winning poems published. I got some money for them, and they were the best! (out of the 100 or so English majors that actually submitted poetry at the school).
Without much further ado, I'd like to present those two poems, plus the one that I wrote after talking to a few of my professors while I was there. =] Enjoy.
First, winner of the Eleanor Poetry Award. Which is the category for the best overall undergraduate poem.
An Address to My Father
The first time I saw you cry was the day your father died.
I was outside playing when you drove up.
You hugged me then told me the news,
and that he wasn't coming back.
At first I couldn't understand, but seeing you fall apart,
sad that you had forever lost that piece of your life,
told me that this was death,
and I wept with you.
The second time I saw you cry was the day that
I explained that I always felt different.
You turned away and didn't talk to me for weeks.
A month later you drove me out to the cemetary,
where your father lies, and held me close
while tears ran down your face,
sad that you had forever lost some piece of your son.
And I wept with you.
This next one won the Barnes Poetry Award, which is the award for best structured poetry. It's a sonnet, to be specific, and I was told by both of the professors at the university (who are both well-established poets) and by Morri Creech (who was a visiting and even more well-established poet) that it was one of the finest sonnets they'd ever seen. =] I had a big head for a little while.
On Shelley's "Ozymandias"
A traveler from an ancient land once said
that kings and kingdoms all to rubble fall.
But common people suffer too. They dread
the graveside mourning and the ghostly pall.
For when the peasant piece is gone and dead,
a whispered letter in the poem of man,
no soul remembers all that came before;
no soul believes the lightness of the span.
So on my stone--it's owner, friend of sod:
"My name is Garry, son of workers poor.
Look on my grave and feel despair, ye gods.
All men and kings live only for decay."
And so amount to nothing but foul clods,
until their time when they are washed away.
This last one is one that I just recently wrote, and if anyone actually reads these, I would *more* than appreciate any comments (good, but especially bad) that you have. =] Thanks.
Sex is most profound in those moments
just before two people first make love.
It’s in the way two people, almost unsure,
almost scared, touch and look
and feel each other in those
vulnerable seconds before their
It’s the way his breath washes
over you like cinnamon,
sweet and hot and bitter.
It’s the way, just before things
get heavy, my pulse speeds,
my breathing deepens.
But only when the act was over
and we fell asleep looking
into each other’s eyes,
I realized that a moment
had slipped away,
and I’d never get it back.