Welcome, readers, to the poetry of Bill Vernon, a teacher at Sinclair Community College in Dayton, Ohio. He writes the following about his poetry:
"Like teaching and golf, writing frustrates me. I started creating literary things during high school in the 1950s, but the frustrations didn't start until my goal became publication. Immediately there were problems, like how to handle rejection.
When you're as neurotic as I am, even publication doesn't satisfy as it should. I'm bedeviled by questions: Does an editor's approval actually mean the work accepted is good? Is it as finished as it should be? Will readers value and enjoy it? These are all complex considerations that, yes, too often depend on other people's reactions.
However, writing can be as cathartic as a long, hard jog. A few aches may result, but God, the endorphin-induced euphoria! The relaxation! The feeling of accomplishment! The sense of muscle-building! The increased enjoyment of common things like a good shower!
Also, occasionally, a la golf, there are the cracking songs of club hitting ball, the arching flight of white sphere through blue ether to green earth, one's self-absorbing dance with inner and outer nature. There are social rewards too: companionship and occasional accolades-"Beautiful shot!"
Further, the act of writing structures life. It's my work. It orders my day, and this effect goes deeper than the comforts of habit. Writing down what I think uncovers the truth, tends to clarify understanding, and this function positively implies that everything bears meaning if I can engage it with a receptive mind.
Creating makes me feel good. Through it, raw experience becomes something more. Done well, that created thing is beautiful, and since it concerns experience, it celebrates life, helping others celebrate and control the chaos that living often seems to be."
We hike from Uncle Buster's house,
find tall, close pines, then climbing, see,
from elevation, we're in human order,
spacing, lines so simple nature
couldn't be the source. This forest
made by poor men planting pride
and hope, CWA work 60 years
before detours us, needles muting
steps so shoes beat softly, thumping
down, suggesting rhythms, dance.
Wings flutter! Partridge? Grouse? Or
what? Cone-heavy limbs conceal it.
Resin scents the air. We search
and find abandoned nests, birth ohs,
hard circles imitating earth
and clutching limbs we brush aside.
GIFT-WRAPPING DEPARTMENT
That woman's fingers measured
paper, draped the box and
folded, taped the ends. Such
dancing, art--no wasted time
or motion. Speed, control
instead. She smiled,
"Thank you," returning
my purchase, gifting
me. I held her memory
and felt it warm my arm
and side down lilac-scented
aisle, through revolving door,
and reaching outside, being
stunned by brightness.
The parking lot burned.
Cars gleamed, reflecting sun,
and far above the sky domed
deeply blue. Green hills insisted
they surrounded me.
I squinted, altered vision.
Everything was wrapped
in tinsel, glittering.
CLEVELAND
Lake fog thick, demanding wipers.
My way's a vague impression ahead,
damp pavement and tail lights flashing,
buildings only outlines, ghostly trees.
Window rolled down helps, tires mumbling
and the squeaking clank of muffled
engines. I know every pot hole, turn,
every light, by heart, but it's so
changed, I strain, head outside, back
in, right foot a bird flitting, tapping
accelerator, brake, Ford slowly moving
onward though I'm not sure where. How
could I be lost? A thousand trips
have made this passage habit, bored me,
but something like terror lurks beyond
the thumping wipers, hovers in shapes
I glimpse, don't recognize, can't name.
A wild thing out there surrounds me,
hands tight on steering wheel, hard plastic
helm vibrating from uneven ground.
DOTTIE'S AMBITION
The top is at the bottom
of your thoughts. Sink to reach it.
Freeze fire with drink. Make shapes
in the air. Burn them into place
with ice. What you desire is just
what you don't need. The fertile green
of our valley springs from toxins
washed downstream. Blow the violin
and strum the bugle. Comb your hair
into a mess. Make friends and earn your
promotion through their interceding
power. Justice means the laws of nature
are equal for all. Go back to square zee.
The fact we are alive is nonsense.
Nothing else matters than feelings. Cheer
for the atom. Ride its energy.
CLASS
The one who hates me sits in front
to better hear my errors,
to demonstrate her loathing in
expressions no one else can see,
to raise her insults loud
enough for everyone to hear.
I ask for no responses for
she dominates discussions,
turning negative so fast,
the whole class laughs.
I've lost control except for power
of the grade. On that, she's veiled
her threats, but made revenge
the clear result should hers be
less than A. The B I gave her first
assignment jeopardized her
average, proved I failed to teach
her well. I've tried to reason,
asked for calm, but nothing works.
On biketrail as I jog, her
animosity's the wind. It shoves,
slaps, knocks me off stride. This
I cope with, fight, proceed.
HARRISON HILL, STRAITSVILLE
The yellow bricks help, angled so
inverted vees of edges ease
the strain of sliding back and
losing what you've gained. And yet
in rain, tires skid. In snow, forget
it. Give up. Park below. I do,
desiring what my childhood had,
the feel of land baked into rock
beneath my soles, the smell of place.
I crawl, a hungry babe breast-feeding,
thinking even further back, bent
forward, fingers dragging on
the slope ahead, a panting ape,
about inheritance: the chasms
on the sides, coal pits, sinkholes,
deep mines burning underneath me,
90 years since Sunday morning blew
up, scabs and managers at church,
the rank and file demanding, loading
tram with dynamite, exploded in
the heart of everyone, idling all
until strip mining started. That's
gone too. Trees canopy the earth,
and under limbs, honeysuckle throws
a white-gold cover, scenting stronger
than the reeking, yet-smoldering
veins. I find Grandma's leaning home
has not caved in. Aunt Betty's trailer
parks behind, above it. Dried-up
grapevines twist around the stanchions
flanking concrete path from gate.
The yard's turned into forest. Noise!
That humming takes a while to name:
bees buzzing, storing sweetness in
the hive the whole house has become.
(Copyright by Bill Vernon, 1998 - No reproduction without express permission from the author)