Thursday, May 31, 2012

A Preview with 4 Days to Go

So, Ars Golgothica goes up for purchase on Amazon in 4 days, and I know you all are just chomping at the bit for this little bundle of poetry. So, to further stir up interest, or keep you on the hook, I've got a gift for you all.

I sincerely appreciate your support, encouragement and investment, and so I have an audio recording of one of the poems contained in Ars Golgothica to share with you. A bit of gift-wrapped spoken word is always a good thing, right? You can find this thank you present, a recording of "A Letter to the Dance Pole," here.

If you enjoy it, awesome. The book has plenty more to offer you; if that poem wasn't your cup o' tea, then worry not! The book is painted with a broad brush, I promise.

Monday, May 28, 2012

'Ars Golgothica: A Collection of Poems', Coming June 4

I know it's been quiet around here lately, but I promise you I've been toiling secretly behind the scenes. And here's the proof:


Yup. My first published collection of poetry, Ars Golgothica, is here and coming out June 4th.

I've been putting this together for several months, picking some of my best poetry for a book Christian at heart, but universal in body (and yes, that makes sense. I think.). It opens with the C.S. Lewis quote, "My eyes are not enough for me; I will see through those of others," and that is exactly what you can expect to get from the array of poems contained in Ars Golgothica.

If you've enjoyed any of what I've been turning out around here over the past couple NaPoWriMos, you'll want to get this book in hand. Quite a few of the poems I've shared here are included in Ars Golgothica, but at approximately 100 pages, there is plenty of fresh material to fill your literary bellies.

Leading up to the release, I'll be posting various promo videos and viral goodies, so don't go anywhere. Really. Just glue your face to the monitor now, 'cause you won't want to miss this stuff.

Oh, and for those who by now are ready to kick me for dropping a Latin/gibberish title like Ars Golgothica and not explaining it...tough typeface. No explanation for you.

But seriously, Ars Golgothica is a play on the poetic term ars poetica, which means 'art of poetry'. So, while referencing that poetic staple, Ars Golgothica means 'art of Golgotha and Gothicism'...a confluence of my two primary literary elements: Christianity and a dark romanticism.

Hopefully that served to whet your appetites and not send them fleeing for the hills.

So, Ars Golgothica...June 4th. Stick around.

Sunday, May 13, 2012

My Son (a mother's day poem)

My Son

Christ,
bread and wine
on an upright platter,
slaughter often left for eyes
of Levites and the Lord,
the sin-necessitated
Christ. To countless ere and after:
Christ,
but she knew Him as Jesus.
With eyes like Van Gogh’s paintbrush,
all of Golgotha grown blurry and wet
as she strained to see
her son, she knew Him as
Jesus.

Between the marks
of Pilate’s appeasement
and rainbow-varied welts,
there was little there
for Mary’s melting eyes to recognize, but…
there, just above feet
she still remembered as silk,
a scar across his ankle
more memory than sight, the cloth
she dabbed on that stinging boyishness
still dripping in
her hands.

His knees,
two buckled roses,
his abdomen and chest, a horror
the angel did not prepare her for
when dispensing El Shaddai’s blessing.
In that lurid shadow,
did her heart threaten to fail her?
Through agonizing hours
learning precisely why it was that
Pharaoh needed no further coercion
as he wept in Egypt’s darkness.
My son…

The first fingers
to ever curl around hers,
to bring her bouquets in fists
filthy with innocence,
two wings now splayed at obscene angles,
nails freeing fingers from tendons.
She forgot nothing
as she saw her son become
the Son of Man
with Calvary underfoot
and thorns on
his head.

His head, his face,
where had her son gone?
A mosaic of refigured features, but…
there, his unblinking sidelong gaze,
the eyes that pierced her heart
thirty-three years before.
Her lips still feeling the down
of his hair, his newborn crown
while he set her heart alight.
My son…

He hung
a slumped messiah,
Christ
to countless ere and after,
but Mary,
a pillar of lachrymose salt,
she knew Him as
Jesus.

Tuesday, May 8, 2012

Kyrie, Eleison

Been reading through Job in the Bible lately, and just been astounded by how grim it is. Not my first time through, but its depressing tone and extremely "doom metal" ambience still left me reeling. I had to write something on that.

Kyrie, Eleison

Dawn saw the fleets of fleeing shadows
leave her this heap of flesh.
She quailed to claim it with daylight.
Even the sun shudders from its arc,
wishes to lid its molten eye
with drifting, laden blindfolds.

This canker dressed in ashes.
This blight of corroding tissue.
This living maggot banquet;
Job, losing himself by the mouthful,
more wont of necropolitan haunts
and the denizens they house.

An earthenware edge,
boasting the guillotine’s bark,
dribbling its skimmings of blood and skin
between fingers scabbed with resolve.
And into the sky this abscessed effigy
coughs such accosted plumes
as to darken its azure temperament,
verbalizing the vista-spied cries transcribed
in Dante’s scrawling.

The arrows of the Almighty
are in me;
my spirit drinks their poison,
                                             he howls into the wind,
                                    the blood of ten buried children
                               peeking through two grief-gnawn lips.
My life is a breath;
my eye will never again see good.
                                                       He wears the dust like carrion.
I loathe my life.
                                                       Dusk casts him in isolation.
Oh, that I might have my request—
                                                          Sand vies with hungry larvae
                                                          for position in his sores,
and that God would fulfill my hope—
                                                           crusting vermilion sap
                                              on a flesh-dredging shard,
that it would please God—
                                            inscribing his laments
                                            between the craquelure of old palms,
to crush me and cut me off!
                                             a gravitational woe
                                    pins him languid and prostrate,
                               a man-skin rug sundered
                           by a holy void that smote Christ on His cross,
I loathe my life…

and yet,
in the bowels of despair,
his eyes still tilt two sky-filled wells,
plumbing Heaven for the God
he loves, knows, and trusts.