I wrote my first poem at the age of about six. It was published, with
minor editorial changes, in the children’s magazine Wee Wisdom. Except
for one other juvenile effort that I can’t remember if I ever finished and a poem
inspired by a biology test, I
wrote no more poetry for more than thirty years. I don’t know why I broke that
streak, but I have been writing poems ever since—not frequently, but regularly.
Whether
or not my efforts allow me to be called a poet, I don’t know. Identifying
myself as a poet certainly seems an alien idea. I’m not an avid reader of poetry,
nor even a great lover of it generally. My favorite poems are ones I’ve run into by
accident or I’ve been
forced to read in school—“Paul
Revere’s Ride” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “The
Tyger” by William Blake, “L’Allegro”
and “Il
Penseroso” by John Milton, “John
Brown’s Body” by Stephen Vincent Benét, “The
Walrus and the Carpenter” by Lewis Carroll, various hymn texts, and just
about anything by Ogden
Nash. Ogden Nash is probably the only poet I’ve read systematically. I wish
I had whatever Nash did that allowed him to turn out the kind of amusing
and surprising poems that were his hallmark!
My poetry
is as diverse as my taste. Some poems rhyme, some don’t; some are metrical,
others not; some are funny, but others are deadly serious. Most poems are
somehow autobiographical (for example, “Frustration”
and “Basketball”
but not “Where Were You?”
or (especially) “Be”). Probably because of my
mathematical background, I like to play with structure. This explains the haiku
(“Haiku Meditations on the Church Year,” “More Haiku,” “Columbia Homecoming,”
and others) and rhyme-scheme experiments like “Sunday Afternoon”
and “Thanksgiving.”
Despite
the diversity, however, my poetry remains largely concrete and rational—it is inspired
by my experience, observation, and reflection, rather than by my emotional
state or by free association. This is not to say that my poetry is devoid of emotional content,
but it tends to avoid the solipsistic, self-indulgent, and obscure. I seek, if not universality, at least relevance to others.
In fact, I feel compelled to explain my poems to avoid any hint of obscurity. Of
course, I may simply lack imagination and the true poetic gift! (See “A
Critique of Modern Poetry” for further discussion on this topic.)
As
with children, it’s hard to pick favorite poems. I am especially pleased with “Musashi’s
Odyssey.” Like it, “The Quecreek Mine Disaster”
also tells a real-life story with, I hope, some success. Perhaps
my latest favorite is “It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas.”
I have
written many poems that reflect on current events, either in the political
sphere or within the Anglican Communion and Episcopal Church. These poems are
challenging to write, as I am constrained by facts I cannot change. They are
special in another way—readers’ reactions to them come not only from the
poems themselves, but also from their perceptions and feelings about
the events that inspired them. Opinions of these poems are not always positive, but they are often
strong, and, therefore, interesting. This group of poems includes “Accokeek,”
“11 September 2001” and “Falling from the
Sky,” “Airplanes II,” and “Waiting
for the Lambeth Commission Report.”
I probably had most fun writing “Haiku Meditations on the Church Year.”
I also like “O Lord the Invisible.” I have
always wanted to write a hymn text, and this was my first effort. My second
effort, “Authorities,” is perhaps more
imaginative.
I have
avoided classifying my poems here, partly because so many incompatible
organizations are possible. I apologize if this seems unhelpful and
forces you to read poems with little warning of what you will find. I
hope you have some pleasant surprises. Find your own favorites and let me know what they are and why.
I have also
included an untitled poem by my son Geoffrey.
He is not a frequent writer of poetry, but he does a great job performing this
particular work. We have shared many useful conversations about the craft of
writing poetry.
Whether
or not my efforts allow me to be called a poet, I don’t know. Identifying
myself as a poet certainly seems an alien idea. I’m not an avid reader of poetry,
nor even a great lover of it generally. My favorite poems are ones I’ve run into by
accident or I’ve been
forced to read in school—“
