Slowest Common Denominator, by Wil Hough

Fast cohabits with slow never
averaged of desire, but rather
as a single lane trafficked
by trucks and school bus stops,
tormenting my sporty ride, or like

shared meals of Chinese orientation
amidst limited tastes flailing away
at shared diversity – settling
on the inoffensive: Canton being
safer than Schezuan. So,

with egg foo young imagination,
we all settle for Pee See and chop
suey frustration.


That’s what our country has become and those of us entrusted with enlightening the huddled masses are as much to blame for this as anyone else—maybe even more so. Why is this? Are we all that blind to what is going on around us? Have we bought into the sales pitched at us by those who have the most to gain from keeping the citizenry ignorant? Or, is it that we are afraid to stand up and be noticed?

As I have previously mentioned, my own wife wants none of this going on in her house. It would be so easy to just give in and make nice. But I just cannot. If stuck behind the metaphorical truck traffic, I will make a blind turn and drive fifty miles out of my way just to avoid the jam-up. When joining friends for Chinese, I am the one to try the oysters in black bean sauce or, at least, the seven treasure duck. Anyone got a problem with that?

That’s the other thing. If you are going to buck the current and point out the truth about the emperor’s new clothes, don’t apologize when the spit hits the fan. Count on it and plan for it and turn it around with, a predetermined challenge of your own. Whatever, if you are interested in becoming an effective writer, when the traffic jams up pass on the left or pass on the right or blast your way up the middle with your metaphorical horn a-blowin’. Just don’t line up behind the lowing flock like a good little lamb.

Next; how I became the happy heretic I’yam.


Wil Hough, a senior editor and founding member of The Rose & Thorn,spends his happiest moments butting down the fences of presumption wherever he may find them.

Under the Cover of Darkness, by Wil Hough

“Why do you have to write about that?” she complained once again. “Can’t you ever come up with something nice—something I could show the grandkids or my friends?”

“But, dear,” I whined, “I’m not writing tracts for the local church. That’s the sort of thing that sells.”

“Well,” she answered, “I’m not sure I feel comfortable being married to someone who could write something like that.”

Have you ever heard that from your mate? I remember when I first began writing and thought I’d be able to share those deepest of inner thoughts and ideas with my soulmate. Hah! What a lesson! She recoiled like a vampire before a cross wielded by a true believer. Unfortunately, that is what it takes. As a result, writing is often a solitary endeavor. Even when writing during normal working hours, we ply our trade under the cover of a self-imposed darkness.

For myself, however, that darkness is both literal and metaphorical lest I receive the ultimate cease and desist order. “You are not submitting that. I am not going to go on living in fear of having my house bombed!” It is a fact that controversy sells. That it sells best when authored by unknown sources futher lends itself to the game. Therefore,

I slip my cable, leaving
her comfortable berth with care, negotiating
a minefield of loose and creaky floorboards
till, at last, the warm glow of my monitor
welcomes the caress of fingertips
upon her keyboard. Quickly

I work, time has no meaning beyond
the present—any moment the call
may sound; “Honey,
Where are you?” Jesus,

saves and so do I, flushing
the handy toilet as I pass, maintaining
my cover.

Write On!


Wil Hough (a psuedonym for obvious reasons) is a founding member and senior editor of The Rose & Thorn, writes under the cover of darkeness from an undisclosed location known only to those who have read his previous postings—but, don't tell anyone.

All That Is Not Given Is Lost by Greg Kuzma

The Backwaters Press, 2007

Reviewed by Yu-Han Chao

Greg Kuzma’s long, slender poems stretch along pages so effortlessly it is like reading one long story of memories, traveling from significant moment to significant moment, occasionally focusing on meaningful objects and glimpsing the silhouettes of characters from the past.

In “The Arrangement,” Kuzma recalls nights from his childhood when he waited for his younger brother, Jeff, to fall asleep in his crib so he could sneak downstairs to watch television with his parents.

I with my wild plan,
could lie there half the night
holding my breath. And then,
gently, as if almost in time
with my breathing, I would draw
back the covers and slip out.

As adults we often forget the appeal of the very simple yet forbidden—for example, stolen time and special allowance from parents to watch late-night television. Something as small as a TV show could mean everything in the world to a young child. But one night, little Jeff found out his older brother’s betrayal:

He had only
to catch me once, downstairs,
in the living room, to puncture
the myth [...] And so
it came to pass that Father
installed a lid on Jeff's crib.

The surprising development of a wooden lid tied on with rawhide to Jeff’s crib shocks the reader, yet Kuzma states it simply, as if this were the King James Bible and God had just wiped out a sinful town or two: “and so it came to pass that…”

This unusual scene takes on further poignancy when Kuzma shifts decades forward to the present and reveals how Jeff’s story ends:

Jeff died. At twenty-five.
It's fifteen years now since
his death. He lies on his back
in a cemetery a few miles from
our house. If he cries out,
no one can hear.

This poem and its narrative leave readers with the eerie parallelism between Jeff’s lidded crib and his coffin, and also juxtapose the haunting image of him crying out as a small child, and perhaps also crying in a dark cemetery after his death.

Intricate layers of images and meaning are what make Kuzma’s poems, written in an unassumingly plain style, stick in the reader’s mind for a very long time.

About the Author: Greg Kuzma has published several dozen books, including Good News (Viking Press). His poetry has appeared in The New Yorker, Poetry, New York Quarterly, North American Review and numerous other quarterlies and journals. He currently teaches at The University of Nebraska.

Yu-Han Chao is blog manager at the Rose & Thorn. She has a poetry book and a short story collection forthcoming. Visit her writing and artwork at her website.

The Amputee's Guide to Sex by Jillian Weise

Soft Skull Press, 2007

Reviewed by Yu-Han Chao

The first poem in The Amputee's Guide to Sex tackles the heart of the matter with a particular brand of humor: “To create an uninhibited environment for your partner, track their hands like game pieces on a board. For leg amputees, keep arms on upper body. For arm amputees, keep arms on lower body.”

The familiar, leisurely metaphor of a board game draws readers in immediately, yet in the second part of the first sentence Weise surprises us with the idea of hands and body parts as game pieces to keep track of, as if this were a morbid game with disembodied limbs as pieces. A hint of darkness here provides a link to Weise’s other poems in the collection which describe inner feelings and deeper moments, such as in the poem “I Want You to Know This,” which describes what takes place in a car when Weise is fifteen and a boy, Daniel Hazard, finds out her secret:

I have an artificial leg. He doesn't know
that and when his hand rubs against me

and I'm not real, he stops and says,
"What the hell?" like I've offended him.

Weise concludes this poem with these poignant words, possibly addressed to all of her readers:

I want you to know this, because maybe you
wondered about people with fake legs; maybe

you wanted to hold their hand but you didn't
because you thought you might trip.

Weise points out that people are often afraid of the unfamiliar, and it's not the person with the fake leg who is awkward—it's the other people who treat them differently, afraid of “tripping” themselves, that ultimately leads to the awkwardness.

Another incident of ignorant responses to the unfamiliar occurs in the poem “Nikita’s Indian Restaurant,” when an extremely rude man stares at Weise and comments on her appearance:

In the back booth on your birthday,
my treat, a man smokes and stares
and speaks, Why does she sit on
a child’s stool? Why is she so short?
Then the man says, Tell her to stand.
I want to see her body.

You do not take my hand. You do not
meet his glance, spout, slap, or spit.
This is how you fail us.

If a person is paying for her friend’s birthday meal, and the friend cannot even stand up for her in any small way, not by responding or even staring back at the rude assailant, he truly fails her (as well as “them,” as Weise points out). Yet Weise does not cuss this friend out, tell him he fails as a human being, that he should have told the man to shut up; she merely says, “This is how you fail us.” These words are subtle yet sufficient here because the scene, described in a few sparse lines, tells the rest.

Direct, vivid scenes like this conveyed with simple syntax hit the reader smack in the face in Weise’s poems, helping us to better see the world through the eyes of an “other,” and remind ourselves to not “fail” our friends or even ourselves when we are an “other”—whether this “otherness” comes in the form of ethnicity, sexuality, gender, religion, or physical appearance.

In The Amputee's Guide to Sex, readers will find beautiful and powerful prose, peppered with poignant, haunting moments and Weise's unique, wry sense of humor. The fishnet stockings on the cover promises evocative and provocative words and images, and that is a promise Weise’s poems in this slim volume fulfill.

Yu-Han Chao is blog manager at the Rose & Thorn. She has a poetry book and a short story collection forthcoming. Visit her writing and artwork at her website.

Bloggers Unite Post*: Better Read, by Wil Hough

Better Read

"Better dead than red," Fred's cry rose up in force. "Better dead than red," provoked the corporate course. Projections of a sea of red to sweep them from their rock, shook them to their very core, "We must protect our stock! It's time for us to go to war!" the actuary crazed. "Tear down the walls of private thought, with all their varied ways, and stick those left in cubicles, our prophets will a maze, "To obfuscate our predatory sacrificial ways." And as for time that's wasted by commuting workers, please turn any free will over to the corporate entities. There's just no cents to home apart that's not a part of Work, in our virtual family's workhouse, halo fiscal life - that's real. To compete, and win, to compete, again; there's just no time for feel."

Then wizened founder Uncle Ned, rose from his exile's plot; and called a halt with monkee wrench, "This ain't what life's about. There's more to this than profits, Fred, they're not worth killing for. And I control most of the stock, so kindly yield the floor. I've spent the last ten years or so, in study over this, and discovered Marx was really right. I've become a Cooperatist. True change works best when from the top, where sleeps the power to cure; it's time the parasite fed the host, conspicuous comp. stops here."


Ned ripped the rats' maze with its roots, and opened windows where the stench of yellowed atrophy was cleansed by common care. He then bought up the crashing shares, and shared them without fear. The galley slaves, now free to shine, could nest their profit's share. They pulled together, vollied time, with motivation hot. Inspired by pirates Macintosh, their uplook outward shot. See, more is seldom better, but better's always more. So,"Better Red Than Dead" was not a slogan to abhor; for freedom's only free when not enslaved by "Give me more!" Old Ned was better read than Fred, that's why he was so sure.


*Today Roses & Thorns is departing from its purely writing-related format to participate in BlogCatalog’s Blogger’s Unite with Amnesty International. We hope you will visit the Blog Catalog site for a list of other participating blogs.

Wil Hough is a Senior Editor at The Rose and Thorn. Before that, he was poetry editor and retains a love of verse, though this "Seuss-like" rhyming story/poem is uncharacteristic of his usual bebop free verse style

hough,hough,hough
Cooperatist not Communist

Poetic Perceptions of History by Sheri Whitlock

I’ve been reading a wonderful book on Rosslyn Chapel, of The DaVinci Code fame, called Rosslyn and the Grail, by Mark Oxbrow and Ian Robertson. I’ve been interested in Rosslyn Chapel since long before Dan Brown made it such a tourist attraction, but have to admit that with the attention it has been receiving I have lost patience with hearing about it. There is so much out there trying to prove or disprove a work of fiction that I’m no longer amused.

I have my husband to thank for this book. He saw it at the library and decided I’d like it. I was a bit dismayed when I saw it, but as soon as I began reading I found I was actually delighting in what was written. It’s not only a book about Rosslyn and it’s real history, but it's also a treasure trove of Scottish lore!

In the fourth chapter, there are excerpts of poems written about one of the pillars in the chapel, and it got me to thinking about perception and how we, as writers, each have our own unique ways of saying the same thing. I didn’t ponder it for very long, because I was swept onward to chapter five, but my thoughts went back to it when I was reading a booklet that came in Saturday’s The Scotsman newspaper about the Battle of Bannockburn.

The Scots are well known for their bardic tradition, and in this booklet they actually had two separate poems telling about how Robert the Bruce fought in single combat with Henry de Bohun (pronounced BOON), nephew of The Earl of Hereford, on the first day of the battle. They serve very well to illustrate my thoughts on how individual writers speak differently to convey the same information. I’ll use the same examples here to illustrate for you.

From Lord of the Isles
By Sir Walter Scott

Of Hereford's high blood he came, A race renown'd for knightly fame. He burned before his Monarch's eye To do some deed of chivalry. He spurr'd his steed, he couched his lance, He darted on The Bruce at once. As motionless as rocks, that bide The wrath of the advancing tide, The Bruce stood fast. - Each breast beat high, And dazzled was each gazing eye - The heart had hardly time to think, The eyelid scarce had time to wink, While on the King, like flash of flame, Spurr'd to full speed the war-horse came! The partridge may the falcon mock, If that slight palfrey stand the shock - But, swerving from the knight's career, Just as they met, Bruce shunn'd the spear, Onward the baffled warrior bore His course - but soon his course was o'er! - High in his stirrups stood the King, And gave his battle-axe the swing. Right on De Boune, the whiles he pass'd, Fell that stern dint - the first - the last! - Such strength upon the blow was put, The helmet crash'd like hazel-nut; The axe-shaft, with its brazen clasp, Was shiver'd to the gauntlet grasp. Springs from the blow the startled horse, Drops to the plain the lifeless corse; - First of that fatal field, how soon, How sudden, fell the fierce De Boune!

And then by John Barbour, who might be a bit difficult for some to understand.

The Brus
Book 12
[The king kills Henry de Bohun]

25 And quhen Glosyster and Herfurd wer
With thar bataill approchand ner
Befor thaim all thar come ridand
With helm on heid and sper in hand
Schyr Henry the Boune the worthi,
30 That was a wycht knycht and a hardy
And to the erle off Herfurd cusyne,
Armyt in armys gud and fyne
Come on a sted a bow-schote ner
Befor all other that thar wer,
35 And knew the king for that he saw
Him sua rang his men on raw
And by the croune that wes set
Alsua apon his bassynet,
And towart him he went in hy.
40 And quhen the king sua apertly
Saw him cum forouth all his feris
In hy till him the hors he steris.
And quhen Schyr Henry saw the king
Cum on foroutyn abaysing
45 Till him he raid in full gret hy,
He thocht that he suld weill lychtly
Wyn him and haf him at his will
Sen he him horsyt saw sa ill.
Sprent thai samyn intill a ling,
50 Schyr Hanry myssit the noble king
And he that in his sterapys stud
With the ax that wes hard and gud
With sua gret mayne raucht him a dynt
That nother hat na helm mycht stynt
55 The hevy dusche that he him gave
That ner the heid till the harnys clave.
The hand-ax schaft fruschit in twa,
And he doune to the erd gan ga
All flatlynys for him faillyt mycht.
60 This wes the fryst strak off the fycht

Aside from Barbour’s spelling and grammar, there are obvious differences in their versions, though both tell of the same event. Both have their own very obvious styles, which each have their own appeal, as does this final bit of poetry that tells of the same event in yet another way. This final version is very simple and has no known author. It’s been passed down as a nursery rhyme.

Bruce and De Boon
Were fightin for the croon
Bruce took his battle-axe
An knocked De Boon doon!

URL for John Barbour
http://www.poemhunter.com/john-barbour/

URL for Sir Walter Scott
http://www.online-literature.com/walter_scott/

URL for Battle of Bannockburn
http://www.britainexpress.com/History/battles/bannockburn.htm

URL for Rosslyn Chapel
http://www.rosslynchapel.org.uk/


Sheri Whitlock is a published poet and essayist. She lives in Scotland, where she is doing historical research in preparation for her first novel.

A Place for Rhyme by Wil Hough

In case you haven’t noticed already, I’ve split the Poetry Forum at The Rose Thorn Community Forum in two: The Poetry Cyber Café for shared readings with light commentary, and Poems In Process for deeper critiques upon request. I have done so because of recent comments by users, one of whom wanted to post poetry without having to worry about surviving a critique session. Another was concerned about our reaction to rhymed poetry. It is true that The Rose & Thorn seldom publishes rhyme-based poetry, but that doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with it. Properly done, rhyme can enhance the poetic experience. Beyond having its place in song and children’s rhyme, this form has been made use of liberally by Virgil, Homer, Shakespeare, and many others.

We, however, have tended to be overly severe in our criticism of the form. Yes, the repetitive end-rhyme quatrain can be off-putting, however even that has its place in the scheme of things. I include here a few lines I received from a potential poster who was nervous over posting a first poem.

… I like rhyming poetry, something that doesn't appear popular here. I've discovered I don't have much talent for free-verse. For some reason, it is the rhyme that helps me find the words to build the image I am seeking. For me writing this poem was more like working a puzzle until the right words were found to fit within a designated framework of syllable count and rhyme. I believe here you refer to it as "forcing". Yet, it was only through forcing that the images came.

Do you remember your first efforts? I remember mine. Were yours done in rhyme? Mine were – and I was quite proud of the accomplishment. I actually had constructed something that made a point, while maintaining a form. I even remember receiving Post of the Week honors over in the old AOL Writers Block on two poems – both of which used extensive rhyme. One was a villanelle, another form often scorned by us masters of Free Verse. As in the writer’s comment above, I found that working within the context of form helped me focus on the imagery. And as I grew in capability, I began to work more often with free verse. But even then I loved to drive home a point or accentuate my imagery with surprise rhyme. Then, when a Mistress of Propriety stated that I was not a true poet UNLESS I could also write in a strict rhyming format, I was able to trump her accusation with a villanelle or two as well as a sonnet. I think the growth curve involved in rhyme is something we have neglected.

My poster finished by asking the following:

Before mustering the bravery to post my first poem, I thought I'd ask your opinion. Is this the right place for me? Or I should I be seeking one of those huge writing/poetry sites populated with beginning poets that seem more cliquish than helpful? Honesty appreciated as to what is best suited to posting here.

I assume I am free to answer for the majority of us with a resounding YES, please do! I also promise to include a rhyme or two of my own, some simple, some complex, including the aforementioned villanelle. Take note of how rhyme does not have to be predictable. It can have the effect of a splash of water to the face, a prod to the butt, or a draught of home brew.

No Rain; No Gain

With all this rain just pourin' down
unlike our kids who'd be depressed
we both can smile instead of frown.

Carpe' diem, don't race around
like children who require no rest
with all this rain just pourin' down.

Since special treat now wets the ground
dilutes this game of time compressed
we both can smile instead of frown

Where once we'd up and do the town
we'd really rather stay undressed
with all this rain just pourin' down.

So time once lost can now be found
slow down, stay in, be less aggressed
we both can smile instead of frown.

Come close my love, slip off that gown
lets cuddle close, enjoy our nest
with all this rain just pourin' down
we both can smile instead of frown.

*******
Not a Noun; a Verb

It's a given, that's
the problem: How we want
it need it, crave it
will do anything to get
it; that's the problem; it’s

a given, not
a taken.

****
In 'r Outing

Chiseled stone, Daddy drives white knuckled
in chrome success, or maybe not,
his container of overdrive outings.

Mom's inverted , eyes averted, 2.3 agendi
in back like statues of empty immersed
in plenty, a marque paraded past. How,

passionately, youth wastes vitality:
once googoo sighs, now lizard eyes,
Mazeratti fouled in traffic; but,
before the gauntlet was run,
her lips, his words; his eyes, her hopes
dichotomy in harmony was song.

The chrome moves on with the green,
Love turns, repossesses its dream.

*******
Souls a’Schnitzen

Schnitchen, that's
the poets' sacred role.
To lift the nations' conscience,
in a lyric
finger pointin'
whistle blowin'
eyeball op'nin'
goal. And

to cry out with such style,
is why the poet does it best;
to raise a song amongst the people,
and ride the wave upon its crest. Just

don't seek remuneration,
when you Muse your worthy cause,
for in the League of Souls a' Schnitzen,
we don't do this for applause.

*****
Who Am I, Really?

Decided on a pen name
didn't really have much choice
the wife and kids were worried
by the things which I might voice
were afraid they'd be embarrassed
and I 'spose that they were right
I find I cause discomfort
by just being me at night
Now I find I'm even weirder
than I EVER thought I'd be
I suppose that it's the freedom
of not knowing that I'm me
Oh, this strangely altered ego
who can say things without fear
can behave in ways outrageous
and not worry who is near
But it causes me a problem
when I speaks me heart so free
am I now my altered ego
or is it he that's really me?

OK, the game’s afoot.


Wil Hough is a Senior Editor at The Rose & Thorn where, among other things, he is creator/supervisor of The Rose & Thorn Community Forum. He formerly managed the Poetry Pit Stop, among other forums, in The Writers Block of The Amazing Instant Writer site on AOL before they lost their minds, followed closely by their subscribers.

On Poetry by Sheri Whitlock Hunter

Rhyming poetry isn’t as popular as it once was, which many may consider a good thing, but which I find unfortunate because those masters of rhyme provided a certain sense of awe to their readers. They provided cadence and kept a piece flowing in a way that unrhymed poetry often doesn’t.

There is no doubt that it is easier to pen unrhymed poetry, but with that ease comes larger responsibility. Poets are expected to share more of themselves because they aren’t bound by finding words which rhyme. They must strive for excellence by exposing their innermost selves, and must have a unique style in order to be noticed in a world where poetry is often treated as being of no importance.

The lack of desire for poetry is something which puzzles me because there are so many people writing poetry. Maybe that is the problem: with so much of it out there, could it be that the majority of people just can’t be bothered because they feel overwhelmed? Or is it, perhaps, the fact that poetry makes them experience emotion, and that is something so many try not to feel these days? Most people, at some point in their life, have picked up pen and paper and tried to write a poem. It’s an assignment which comes around several times in our school careers, and we draw on that later in life when we want to convey something in a particular way. What is it, then, that makes people not bother to read the efforts of others who have written poetry?

The most common answer given when someone is asked why they don’t read poetry is that it doesn’t make any sense to them. It may seem like a bunch of flowery words, but when you relax and let the words flow over and through you, it’s not hard to understand something of what the poet meant, at least in my experience.

Poetry has been given a bad name through the years. The word “poem” often brings to mind those overly sweet and romantic greeting cards we buy for Valentine’s Day or for anniversaries. How can serious poets compete with the stereotype these greeting cards have created? How can we get people interested enough to find out that poetry isn’t all about being cute and cuddly in front of a fire with that special someone?

Poetry is a song sung by the soul to paint a picture of emotion. Poetry is about feeling, even if it’s a poem about a cow pasture or a wrecked car. We feel so many more things than love and romance. We feel anger, resentment, disappointment, confusion, happiness, gladness, sadness and everything in between. Poets want to take the reader to the moment, to feel what they feel and see what they see, even if it isn’t pretty.

Even knowing that poetry is a tough way to get published and read doesn’t stop me from writing it. Some may say it’s easy to write a poem, but that isn’t really the case. Sure, a poet isn’t bound by the laws which govern other areas of literature, but it’s not easy. Poets lay bare a portion of their souls, which is sometimes like standing naked in front of 2,000 people who are laughing and pointing. Even though they don’t have to create characters and dialog, they do have to be sure their words properly paint the picture they want to convey and that the piece flows properly from one word to the next, as well as from one line to the next.

I’ve often found myself deleting whole sections of poetry because the flow is incorrect. Personal style comes into play when this happens. It’s very important to convey the idea, but also have it fit properly into the structure you’ve devised. It’s also possible that personal style might be developed by changing the flow of the piece at some point, whether by accident or by design. A break in the flow should be used to emphasise a certain change in emotion or a new idea.

Poets often find that the words which come to mind don’t fit the flow of the piece they have written or are writing. This is where the need to have a full vocabulary comes in. A poet, more than any other kind of writer, needs a thesaurus on hand. If it is essential that the flow of the poem not change at any particular point, it’s often down to a choice between which word with the same, or nearly the same meaning, will fit more appropriately into the poem. This often ends in bitten nails and pulled hair because of the frustration this situation can cause. Sometimes it’s almost better to choose an entirely different approach to reaching the line in question, rather than compromise your vision of what the piece is supposed to say or mean.

It isn’t unusual for poets to go back and completely rewrite a poem or add to it later, either to refine it or to expand on the idea. I think a good example of a poet not being satisfied with something he’s written is Walt Whitman. The first edition of Leaves of Grass was published in 1855 and he continued adding to it until 1891, for a total of seven editions before his death. For each edition, he revised some of the poems and also added new ones.

The poets who have made a mark on our history have had something important to say about the human condition, and their own way of saying it. Walt Whitman is one of my favourites. Anyone who has watched the movie Dead Poets Society has been lucky enough to hear his words. Movies like that often draw viewers because of the stars acting in them; in this instance, it was Robin Williams. That’s okay by me, because viewers who wouldn’t ordinarily be interested in poetry are given a bit of it, anyway! Even if they don’t want to be moved by the words, they often find that they are in spite of themselves. I hope it’s then that they realize what an intricate part of life poetry really is.

Everything I have said so far about poetry pales in comparison to the fact that it also teaches us about ourselves and the world around us. On your own, you can feel emotion so deep that you didn’t know it could be felt, but never stop to realize what it says about you as a person. It’s the poets who try to make you feel those profound emotions and at the same time think about why you’re feeling them. For this fact alone, poets deserve more credit than they receive these days.

For those of you who write poetry, I hope I’ve encouraged you to continue. There are those who do appreciate your words. As for those of you who don’t bother with poetry, I hope I’ve convinced you perhaps to make an exception once in awhile. You may find you like it. If not, perhaps you can appreciate the effort that went into those words and the fact that someone was brave enough to write them.

To A Certain Cantarice

Here, take this gift,
I was reserving it for some hero, speaker, or general,
One who should serve the good old cause, the great idea, the prog-
ress and freedom of the race,
Some brave confronter of despots, some daring rebel;
But I see that what I was reserving belongs to you just as much as
to any.

-Walt Whitman


Sheri Whitlock Hunter is a published poet and essayist. She lives in Scotland, where she is doing historical research in preparation of her first novel.

Are Contemporary Poets Dated?: Guest Blog* by Michael Meyerhofer

Today, I was revisiting the work of three of my favorite contemporary poets--George Bilgere, Bob Hicok, and Tony Hoagland. As I read through some of their works, I got to thinking about how certain elements in these books--like popular references to songs, electric razors, jets, and of course the war in Iraq--might cause some critics to label these poems as "dated". By that, I mean that the imagery and subject matter of these poems (and to some degree, probably the syntax and style too) are invariably tied to the poets’ social background and politics. However, since these are fluid elements, there’s a substantial risk here because future generations will not be able to view these poems in context as well as modern readers. Put another way, would we all be safer only writing poems about trees?

I think the answer is an obvious, resounding no. Personally, the poets whose work I consider the most vibrant, the most viserally, politically, and socially relevant, are also the poets who take big risks by tying their subject matter to a context that future generations may or may not understand. For example, Bob Hicok’s wonderful poem, "O My Pa-pa", gains enormous power and relevance when one places it in the context of our post-confessional era, when poems about one’s parents abound. Thus Hicok’s poem takes on his trademarked tone of tongue-in-cheek humor culminating in heart-wrenching vulnerability.

Certainly, family is likely to continue playing a significant role in poetry for as long as poetry is written, but what if trends shift dramatically away from confessional elements? Hicok’s poem might very well go unappreciated or even--the horror!--taken literally as a narrative of fathers who "have formed a poetry workshop" and genuinely "sit in a circle of disappointment" over their sons’ fastballs and wives.

If one entertains the possibility that contemporary poems with less reliance on social context might have a longer academic shelf life, it seems to me that the bravest poems are those in which poets write not with the goal of detaching themselves from the impermanence around them, but rather, with the goal of entertaining and (dare I say it?) perhaps even enlightening the readers around them.

Michael Meyerhofer’s first book, Leaving Iowa, won the Liam Rector First Book Award. He has also published four chapbooks: Cardboard Urn (winner of the Copperdome Chapbook Contest), The Right Madness of Beggars (winner of the Uccelli Press Chapbook Competition), Real Courage (winner of the Terminus Magazine and Jeanne Duval Editions Poetry Chapbook Prize), and The Clay-Shaper’s Husband (winner of the Codhill Press Chapbook Award). He received the James Wright Poetry Award from Mid-American Review, and both the Laureate and Annie Finch Prizes for Poetry from National Poetry Review. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in River Styx, Arts & Letters, North American Review, Green Mountains Review, Verse Daily, and others. He enjoys sleeping, boxing, and naming pets after J.D. Salinger characters.

* The Guest Blog Series at Roses & Thorns features occasional tips and tidbits by literary notables, among them past contributors of The Rose & Thorn.

The Poetic Moment by Wil Hough

Nothing has been so effective in turning students away from the study of poetry than the manner in which it is taught. All that bother over form and iambs and such – and just what the hell does the metaphor of a "girl on a swing" have to do with her being pregnant? Even my attitude was, “Get me outta here.” It wasn’t until I turned fifty and my mother died that I began spitting out verse.

Maybe it was the Irish muse of m’dear departed Ma. Or maybe it was the burning need deep within me to express how I felt at the frustration of not being free to rush to her side, and then at the hordes of busy bodies in my way when finally I did – much too late, as it turned out. It was the moment a second slow freight train took up the tag team match with the last cars of the first, when I received a call that I needn’t hurry to the hospital. I began to search madly for a way to express how I felt. My primordial words are long lost to memory, but the moment lives on.

I first heard of the poetic moment while attending a lecture at our local poetry club meeting. It was the only thing of value that I took away with me, but the understanding of that moment has informed my verse ever since. It is the first thing I look for when evaluating a submission. Simply put, it is the pivot point about which the entire construction should revolve.

Back during the golden age of AOL, and the Amazing Instant Writer, I critiqued poetry as NOVL Papa. An occasional poster would insist that the great mousses had delivered their sacred verse verbatim. To change anything would be sacrilege. Bull twaddle; no Moose communicates in English – or Latin or Gaelic for that matter. Such inspiration arrives in visions, emotions, and the like. It is our burden to translate those images into words that not only express them, but invite the readers into sharing the moment – the Poetic Moment. It can be a beautiful sunset, the elation of new love, anger at being jilted, or simply sorrow at the condition of mankind. None of these, or the multitude of other issues, is unique to any of us. How we share them is unique, however, determining whether the moment will be easily accessible to others.

Some few will pout, insisting they do not care – that they write for their private catharsis. Fine; but don’t bother posting it for us to read. Just ask for the toilet paper. If, however, you are interested in sharing, choose words that others can use to access and open the door to your moment. Make us feel it even though we may not see it exactly as you do. We may, in fact, come away with an entirely different perspective on things. If so, be assured you have created a true poem – a work open to interpretation rather than an essay in verse which tells the reader what to think. Such is the basis of powerful prose, as well. To put your readers behind the eyes of your characters is key to providing the kind of compelling identities that will keep readers coming back for more. The ability to unlock that Poetic Moment to others is the most important issue in writing. So remember, it is not the words your Moose has gifted you with; it is the moment. The words are yours to arrange as you choose.

Consider as an example the Psalm known as the Lord's Prayer. Though written in an ancient language, it has been translated over and over through the ages without losing its meaning or power. Just why might that be? I will focus on that in my next blog. Until then, picture the following:

Expressions in a Pictured Vision

Monet flakes of floral sound reflect
on liquid phrase; lines
of gaunt require an ear
cut out for
Van Gogh panes. No

full face Gothic still life here, just
wisp of stroke
to lip and curl, through
hint of point, one eye will do
directed word to
Miro you.

No stroke is lavish,
Impression scripts: Each jot,
each
slavish countenance,
each
cherished image overwrought,
is keystroke coldly
sentenced.

Let critics ponder
discuss
debate, what is
she saying, why did
he paint. This
is no photo, so plain
it ain't; we prate
the shadows, you interpret. So

pen that canvas with
pastel graze
or broad stroke word scene cafe days
in similes of mime shaped ways
and knowing smiles
of Impression's phrase.

As NOVL Papa, Senior Editor Wil Hough spent a decade managing the Poetry Pit Stop and Poetry Body Shop at the Writers Block site on AOL. Wil now serves at The Rose & Thorn Literary Ezine, where you can still access his perspectives by posting poems and stories on The Rose & Thorn Bulletin Boards.