Category Archives: Poetry

Selected Poems by David J. Rogers

 

Hobos in a Clearing in Wyoming

We reached the crest of the hill at dusk.
Below us like the camps of infantry
Burned the scattered fires of forgotten men,
Each a separate picture.

They lived in the open or in
The opulence of tarpaper lean-tos against a tree
And migrated as punctually as geese.
They wore black–perhaps it was the soot of freight trains–
And squatted on their haunches like crickets
Beside the snapping flames.

Cicadas chirped in the grass.
Streams of smoke trailed off high into the trees.
Embers flickered and faded, flickered and faded
In the harsh bite and sparkle of a sudden wind
And glowed bronze on the men’s untroubled faces
Late into the night.

 

Bed

Danger in the air today.
Madeline woke to morning fear,
Passed into afternoon fear,
And came to evening fear.
Unspeakable really-
+++++She’s going to bed.

As always her friend
Called at noon.
If Madeline answered she was still alive.
Then Madeline was hungry
And went down to the kitchen
But didn’t have the strength
To make a peanut butter and jelly
Or ham and cheese sandwich
And heard voices in the walls so
She gave up and now
+++++She’s going to bed.

She tried especially hard today,
Did her best
As long as she could
As she promised
She would
And now
+++++She’s going to bed.

She is sorry
She let her friend down
(He cares so much)
But nevertheless
+++++Bed is where she’s going.

She’s left her friend a note
Because she has no one else
To write notes to before
+++++Going back to bed.

Danger inside Madeline too so
Bed is where you will find her.
Bed is where she will be.
+++++Bed is the place she is going.

 

Lady at the Fair

At the history museum in Chicago
I turned into a gallery and
I saw your life size photograph, you
Coming toward me
Holding a parasol in the rain
At the World’s Fair in 1893.

What I wonder
Do you mean to me now.
What do your long lace gloves
Flowing textured white dress
Plumed floral hat
Pleasing face
Parasol
And eyes meeting mine
Signify to me?
Why does the memory of
The image of you in that picture
Take hold of my heart?

Why do I feel
Affection for you
(I don’t know you)
And wish I too at that moment
Was turning that corner
Under those rain clouds
Onto the fairway
With you whoever you were
Close to me
That day a century
And a quarter ago?

 

Friendship

My dog and cats are dead now
But the squirrel who loved them
Comes every morning to sit on the fence
Awaiting their return

 

Morning Glories

Sitting on a window sill
Watching people
Exchanging stories
Over white and purple
Morning glories
On the flanks of the hill

 

Woman Sitting at a Table in China Town

I saw you
Looking at me
Knowing I had
Looked at you
No chance ever
To see you again
Or you to
Look at me again
With your dark eyes.

You, who had I
Known long ago,
I would have run
My finger over so carefully
Then cupped in my hand
Like an orchid.

 

Fish

Down on the docks of Puget Sound
The air is pervaded
By the smell of
…Fish.

The trawlers, the warehouses,
The cutting houses, the waves and wind–
Everything–
…Fish.

And all the people there,
Are the color of
…Fish.

After work this fish population
Assembles in schools
In restaurants along the water
Where they eat
…Fish.

And when you walk down the street
Afterward you realize,
Laughing, in high spirits, that
You too have become a
…Fish.

 

Wolves In The Rocky Mountains

We sat at a table in the inn and ordered coffee.  The utensils were gold. From the windows we watched through the falling snow eight stalking wolves winding down the mountain in single file, slowly, like liquid through the spruces and evergreens. It was getting late. We had stayed too long. We didn’t want to stay around until dark when at that elevation it would be really cold, and the wolves were on our mind. We paid and left.

Looking over our shoulders we saw the wolves streaking among the trees and circling and wheeling around and teasing and tormenting a young deer they had separated from a herd. We could hear the wolves and the deer breathing and see the wolves when they weren’t attacking the deer playfully burrowing their snouts in the snow. There was nothing we could do to save the deer. We didn’t want to watch.

 

Lovely Ambition

I think I will write a masterpiece
After lunch today.

My readers will no doubt sigh and say
“This poem’s well-nigh beautiful,
The play of language across the page,
A rage of genius.”

It will not be frivolous and light
As other poems I’ve read,
But of love, birth, and death,
The major topics so to speak.
But first I’ve an appointment to keep–
Laundry in the corner piled steep.

I will begin with the delicates
As I am prone to do,
Then pen my masterpiece
In the afternoon.

 

Waitress in a Café in Kayenta Arizona

Fingers like sausage links,
Face round as a tire,
Hips the breadth of a moving van,
Elaborate, beauty-shop hair,
Said her name was Anita Valaquez.

She said:
“Shove over handsome” and sat down.
She said: “I know you’re thinking just look at that woman,
She’s got an ass you could set a table on.
But that’s okay with me. You can’t argue with reality.”

Then she said: “Got a minute?
I want to tell you kids a story.”

 

Woman Suffering Badly In Diversey Parkway Apartment

Day by day, event by event,
Milestone to milestone–
New Year’s Day, Independence Day
Birthdays and anniversaries-
Year by year and slowly
Like jelly tumbling from a jar
Illness interminable
Pain unceasing
Friends departing
Lonely.
Watching her soul dying
She asks
“Can one return safely from hell?”

 

The Snow Fort

As a boy
I built a snow fort
Under my porch
Working all day
While others played
And hosed it down
So it would survive
And I was proud

It was a sturdy structure
But not sturdy enough
I suppose because
When I went to admire it
In the morning
It was shattered
By whom I would never know

I wondered and often have
Why someone
Would be so cruel
As to destroy
A snow fort like mine
And never built another

 

The Joys of Puttering in Closets

Old clothes
Are the best clothes–
Ketchup on sleeves,
Rips on knees,
Mustard on trousers
In the shape of flowers,
Frays where frays belong.
Ah, there is nothing wrong
With wearing old jeans
Tearing along the seams.

 

Woman in the Garden

We are all so complicated and sealed up
In the little disguises we wear
That we can truly know in one lifetime
Only a person or two, and they not always

But only in momentary bursts of understanding.
All the others we reduce to a few strokes:

That woman in the garden is lovely, has a lovely smile,
Owns a lovely dog.

 

Summer Scene

Monarch of the
clothes pin

servant of the
breeze;

white sheets
muttering,

white shirts
fluttering

on the
line.

Mother at her
dearest

on the gray -painted creaking
porch

on a sunfresh
afternoon.

 

The Lessons of Birds

One cannot help but suffer desolation
As dreary as the land itself
Standing alone in barren places

And feel the sincerest admiration
To see rising from a yellow hill
A large black bird whose wings open wide
And show a bright vermillion underside
That cries loudly with delight as it takes flight

To live most admirably it seems
One’s soul must be to desolation
And barren places
As a bird ascending joyfully
From yellow hills

 

Mom

She bends over
The washboard
Exuding love

Uneasy with words
She has no other way
Of expressing it
So she scrubs and scrubs

 

Old Man in Shorts In Wilmette Illinois

Odd to see
An old man
With knobby knees
In Bermuda shorts
Thumbing a ride
On a busy street
At three PM

 

Butterflies

Butterflies you and I
Fluttering over a garden–
Our little world–
Flower to flower
One person then another
In search of that one who is to us
Though perhaps to no one else
The loveliest

And when we find that flower
That is enough

 

Sister and I Impatiently Waiting for a Bus

Slush
On the street and sidewalk
Soft and hushed

Down the street
Before the red brick fire House
Clanking chains lashed
Around softly humming tires
Splash past

A warm Christmas Eve
End of day
Grandma and Grandpa on their way

 

Friday Calls

813-629-5162
813-629-5162
813-629-5162
Every Friday night
813-629-5162
But now my mother has died
And O, I’ll never hear her voice again from
813-629-5162

 

We say goodbye to life in increments

We say goodbye to life in increments
A daily departure
And others in our absence
Ask when and how we went

We can’t return
Even if we wished
All hope spurned
Plot finished

 

Hiking Along the Timeless River


“We felt we were above the world, above reality, in pure, pure ecstasy.”

Then the river in the forest was back with us, coursing in its channel from north to south, country to city, undulating, serene, immortal, as though on our return that night it would sweep us along in its steady current past what had ever been and was ever to be, immune from time.  Overhead the trees cast long, thin shadows that swayed on the moving surface like dancers.  Sweat flowed in streams down our backs and we were as optimistic and happy as the wind was hot.

My father took off his knapsack and rubbed his shoulders where it had cut into them and reared back and flung a twig into the air and far out into the river. Then we took off our shoes and socks and put our feet refreshingly into the ceaselessly passing water. Laughing, we splashed each other.

We felt we were above the world, above reality, in pure, pure ecstasy. We lounged back on the bank, contented, centered, listening to the river wind, and gazed up at the eternal sun displayed in the sky like a burnished coin while below it the timeless river flowed on, bearing Dad’s twig swiftly away to eternity.

 

© 2020 David J. Rogers

For my interview from the international teleconference with Ben Dean about Fighting to Win, click the following link:

Interview with David J. Rogers

 

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Filed under Personal Stories, Poetry

Extraordinary Creative Outliers

I think all creative people are extraordinary. You’re extraordinary. I’m extraordinary too. We’ve been extraordinary all our lives and one day at the age of six or eleven or twenty-one or fifty-seven something remarkable happened and we discovered we were, and then a corner was turned.

But a separate breed of outlier creator is so extraordinary and so driven and capable of such incredible creative feats and leads such an extreme existence of sacrifice that we wonder what there is about them that inspires them so. What sustains them and equips them so perfectly to produce such exceptional work? Theirs isn’t the only path to creative achievements—most creators lead more moderate lives. But it’s a path extraordinary creative outliers often choose.

Creative outliers are so absorbed in facing challenges and solving creative problems that they have almost no interest in anything else. Nobel Prize winner Saul Bellow—the premier American writer of the second half of the 20th century– said, “I have always put the requirements of what I was writing first—before jobs, before children, before any material or practical interest, and if I discover that anything interferes with what I’m doing, I chuck it. Perhaps this is foolish, but it has been the case with me.” He was married five times.

Novelist Jane Smiley wrote, “Even if my marriage is falling apart and my children are unhappy, there is still a part of me that says, ‘God! This is fascinating.’” Ernest Hemingway lived in poverty early in his career and sometimes stole food and said a writer’s perceptions are sharper when he’s “belly-empty, hollow hungry,” that “hunger is good discipline and you can ballerina-534356_640_copy2learn from it.” Before taking the literary world by storm late-blooming novelist/essayist Henry Miller lived in poverty too. He once said, “I have no money, no resources, no hope. I am the happiest man alive.” Emily Dickinson, the greatest American woman poet, author of 1,775 poems, said that if she felt physically as if the top of her head was taken off, she knew that was poetry. Ballerinas—artistes of artistes–may practice until their muscles scream and their feet bleed.

We look at these creative outliers and we marvel and are impressed or appalled or shocked, and often ask ourselves “Could I live an unusual life like sunflower-395026_640that? Am I willing to sacrifice so much for my art and suffer so much and risk so much?  Is that possible for me? How much of my normal life am I willing to give up? If I sacrificed more could I be great too?” And ordinarily decide it isn’t possible at all and we’re not willing to sacrifice in that way, nor suffer, nor risk all that. We couldn’t because a life like theirs asks too much. We draw a line and dare not cross it.

All creative people are obsessed to some extent or another, from mildly to ferociously, so much so that when we obsessed-but-less-obsessed creators hear about these outlier creators we have no problems understanding them since they’re only different from us in degree.

What humans in their craft can accomplish extraordinary outlier creators are willing to push themselves upward toward.  They have a genius.  They’re self-absorbed. They’re determined. They’re completely taken by a way that’s too demanding for the ordinary run of women and men. But for a select few like these outliers their craft becomes a way of life, a journey, a goal, an inevitable struggle of someone rare who’s capable of achieving the impossible.

Creative outliers pour themselves heart and soul and muscle and blood into their work. They work and they work and they work repetitively, and think bird-226700_640about their art or their writing, acting, or dancing continually, and have a monumental amount of confidence. Any time they’re not working they’re making plans for improvement because they know no matter how good you are and what you’ve accomplished you can always be better.

The fundamental role of all creators without exception is to create—to produce works–and they do with a vengeance. Pablo Picasso produced 50,000 works—1,885 paintings ,1,228 sculptures, 2,800 ceramics, 12,000 drawings, thousands of prints, and tapestries and rugs.

There wasn’t a moment of his waking day all his career that Nobel Prize dramatist Eugene O’Neill wasn’t thinking about writing.  He produced 35 full-length plays and 17 one act plays and revolutionized American theater. Writing  long hours, English novelist Charles Dickens—the most popular writer in the world at the time– would sometimes put his head into a bucket of cold water, dry his hair with a towel, and then go on writing.

Creative outliers learn—often at an early age–that they will achieve more if they concentrate their efforts in one area. They are aware only of the work before them, and let nothing divert them from it. French novelist Gustave Flaubert said that only writing mattered to him, and that he kept all his other passions locked up in a cage, visiting them now and then for diversion. He said too, “Sometimes I don’t understand why my arms don’t drop from my body with fatigue, why my brains don’t melt away. I am leading a stern existence, stripped of all external pleasure, and am sustained only by a kind of permanent rage, which sometimes makes me weep tears of impotence but which never abates.”

French novelist/poet/dramatist Victor Hugo started his day by handing his clothes to his servant with strict orders to return them only after Hugo had finished a day’s work of seven hours. Composer Igor Stravinsky and novelist Thomas Wolfe worked all their lives in a frenzy—Wolfe in a “wild ecstasy” at top speed, never hesitating for a word, as though he were taking dictation.

You can’t measure intensity and a person’s pure life force. But the energy pouring out of outliers like Vincent van Gogh would bowl you over. Van Gogh vincent-van-gogh-starry-night-1889worked  furiously at a fever pitch, gathering up the colors as though with a shovel, throwing them on canvas with rage, globs of paint covering the length of the paint brush, sticking to his fingers. Goethe called such super-charged outliers “demoniacs”–people with a super-abundance of vitality, “something that escapes analysis, reason, and comprehension.” Goethe was aware of this power in himself.

Russian Anton Chekhov wrote 10,000 pages of short stories, and also produced great plays like The Cherry Orchard, The Seagull, and Uncle Vanya, and was a practicing physician too. Noted architect and futurist Buckminster Fuller was often unable to stop working until he dropped from exhaustion. Isaac Asimov, author or editor of more than 500 books, said he wrote for the same reason he breathed—because if he didn’t, he would die.

Extraordinary creative outliers are guided by an ambition, a notion so bold that it’s almost outlandish:  that you’re born with a certain aptitude and with direction, discipline, and sacrifice you can transform yourself into something magnificent. Their focus is maniacal—all day long every day. When they’re away from their work they long for it.

Nobel novelist Toni Morrison said, “But the important thing is that I don’t do anything else. I avoid the social life normally associated with publishing. I Toni Morrisondon’t go to cocktail parties. I don’t give or go to dinner parties. I need that time in the evening because I can do a tremendous amount of work then. And I can concentrate.” Outlier novelist Philip Roth said, “My schedule is absolutely my own. Usually, I write all day but if I want to go back to the studio in the evening, after dinner, I don’t have to sit in the living room because someone else has been alone all day. I don’t have to sit there and be entertaining or amusing. I go back out and I work for two or three more hours.” American William Faulkner said jokingly, “If a writer has to rob his mother, he will not hesitate: the ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn’ is worth any number of old ladies.”

We live in a world where everyone is selling something. Everyone has an ulterior motive. They want to be a brand. But these outliers only want one goal: to reach the highest heights they can. That’s it. There’s nothing else.

You look at Picasso and Faulkner and say, “Oh, that’s why painting and writing were invented. As if the gods of the arts declared, ‘To show you others how it should be done we’re going to make a person to represent perfection’.”

They have bad days, difficulties, and setbacks, and still believe in themselves. Andre Gide said, “The great artist is one …for whom the obstacle is a springboard.”   They know that effort is more important than talent. And if you say to them, “You’re just so gifted” they’ll stop you and say, “No, I’m no more talented than anyone else, no more talented than you, but I work much harder” and tell you and me, “If you want to excel you’ll have to overcome the notion that it’s easy.”

They’re a psychologically phenomenal combination of purity of focus and energy-1101474_640purity of discipline and purity of energy. Their creative lives are both comfortable and disciplined.  Even when they’re miserable they’re happy. Age has little effect on their skills except to improve them. They’re never happier and more at ease than when under pressure. They have a sense of being destined for something that very few other people are fitted for. But they are and they know they are.

They have a supreme care about their craft, and they never forget their failures. Their craft is their sanctuary. They’re never better than when doing their craft.

Outlier playwright George Bernard Shaw said, “I am of the opinion that my life sparks-142486_640belongs to the whole community and as long as I live it is my privilege to do for it whatever I can. I want to be thoroughly used up when I die. For the harder I work the more I live. I rejoice in life for its own sake. Life is no brief candle to me. It’s a sort of splendid torch which I’ve got to hold up for the moment and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible…”

 

© 2016 David J. Rogers

For my interview from the international teleconference with Ben Dean about Fighting to Win, click on the following link:

www.mentorcoach.com/rogershttp://www.mentorcoach.com/positive-psychology-coaching/interviews/interview-david-j-rogers/

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Filed under Artistic Perfection, Artists, Becoming an Artist, Creativity Self-Improvement, Dancers, Developing Talent, Human Potential and Achievement, Emily Dickinson, Ernest Hemingway, Faulkner, George Bernard Shaw, Goals and Purposes, High Achievement, Literature, Motivation, Outliers, Picasso, Poetry, Preparation, Self-Confidence, Self-Direction, Stamina, Success, The Writer's Path, Thomas Wolfe, Vincent van Gogh, Work Production, Writers

Woman with a Broken Heart

This is different from the kind of posts I normally write, but I discovered it and I wanted you to see it.

George Voyajolu (2)

Storm By The Gulf by George Voyajolu

There are many reasons why this strange mesmerizing work has such a powerful effect on so many people. One is its economy—the writer’s rarely-achieved ideal of not a single unnecessary word. Others are its lyricism and its evocative imagery, its haunting non-metrical rhythms, and its repetitions and grammatical strangeness that lead at the poem’s end to an almost unbearable emotion.

The poem’s uniqueness is struck right away in the opening line by the mixed tenses—“It is” (present tense) is matched with “last night …was speaking of you” (past tense). The “correct” tenses would be far less effective in portraying the feelings of this woman.

It was written by an anonymous 8th-century Irish poet and translated into English by Lady Augusta Gregory (1852-1932). It’s titled “Donal Og,” “Young Donal.”

Read it out loud to yourself.

 

It is late last night the dog was speaking of you;
the snipe was speaking of you in her deep marsh.
It is you are the lonely bird through the woods;
and that you may be without a mate until you find me.

You promised me, and you said a lie to me,
that you would be before me where the sheep are flocked;
I gave a whistle and three hundred cries to you,
and I found nothing there but a bleating lamb.

You promised me a thing that was hard for you,
a ship of gold under a silver mast;
twelve towns with a market in all of them,
and a fine white court by the side of the sea.

You promised me a thing that is not possible,
that you would give me gloves of the skin of a fish;
that you would give me shoes of the skin of a bird;
and a suit of the dearest silk in Ireland.

When I go by myself to the Well of Loneliness,
I sit down and I go through my trouble;
when I see the world and do not see my boy,
he that has an amber shade in his hair.

It was on that Sunday I gave my love to you;
the Sunday that is last before Easter Sunday
and myself on my knees reading the Passion;
and my two eyes giving love to you forever.

My mother has said to me not to be talking with you today,
or tomorrow, or on the Sunday;
it was a bad time she took for telling me that;
it was shutting the door after the house was robbed.

My heart is as black as the blackness of the sloe,
or as the black coal that is on the smith’s forge;
or as the sole of a shoe left in white halls;
it was you put that darkness over my life.

You have taken the east from me, you have taken the west from me;
you have taken what is before me and what is behind me;
you have taken the moon, you have taken the sun from me;
and my fear is great that you have taken God from me.

 

The poem is rich in exotic descriptive detail along with great simplicity and lack of straining for effect—qualities of all true art. The imaginative phrases as well as the rustic setting blend with the lonely speaker’s sad lament, contributing to the reader’s compassion and the poem’s powerful effect.

 

© 2016 David J. Rogers

For my interview from the international teleconference with Ben Dean about Fighting to Win, click on the following link:

www.mentorcoach.com/rogershttp://www.mentorcoach.com/positive-psychology-coaching/interviews/interview-david-j-rogers/

Order Fighting to Win: Samurai Techniques for Your Work and Life eBook by David J. Rogers

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or

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Order Waging Business Warfare: Lessons From the Military Masters in Achieving Competitive Superiority

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Filed under Artistic Perfection, Artists, Donal Og, Irish poetry, Literature, Poetry, Writers