A lot of artists burn or in some other way destroy work they did when they were young. This seems to me to be a shame. It's like destroying all the photos one's parents took of you because the gawky child which stares up from the picture is an embarrassment to the adult. Even Dickens who loved and cared about children did this.
Well I'm going to let you see my old yearbook photos. Hope you enjoy.
Lament Over a Swinging Door to the Boys' Locker Room1
In all my years it's been my fate,
There's only one door I really hate.
It's its location which bothers me.
It's that stupid locker door you see.
To and fro: it has no key,
and takes away one's mystery/
Even though no gal has spied,
each time it's opened
I've almost died.
All the guys in my gym class
would join with me in a great alas!
For we would even pay a fee,
to have it sealed for eternity!
Back in ninth or tenth grade I originally entitled this "Ballad to a Swinging Door," but my English teacher at East Rockaway High correctly reminded me that a ballad form is very specific and I am actually doing iambic pentameter. So my new title is for you Mrs. Howard. [Return]
Here I Sit Alone2
Here I sit alone
under this gnarled old tree.
My friends have all paired off
with pleasant company.
The evening will be filled
with their whispered calls of love,
while I am left to sit on earth
with just the stars above.
Then my father gently comes
and softly speaks to me:
"My child I made those stars above
that tree and even thee.
"And do you think I made all this
for you to waste away?"
"Rise up and go and sing my praise
and enter into my day."
This is my "teen angst" poem. Everyone had days like this. "Nobody loves me; everybody hates me; guess I'll go outside and eat me some worms!" I wrote this at Camp Taconic, the Nazarene, New York District Camp when it seemed that everyone had a date except me. I tried to put a positive spin on it, although I confess God's repose is not especially useful except that it point from passive whining to actively finding an alternative concentration. [Return]
Who Knows the Stars Who Are to Come?3
Through the spot light called "public eye"
come the performers of our land.
Their life is but an hourglass
and they are but the sand.
The upper half are those to come
in time they'll put their dent.
The lower are those who've passed
their time has not been spent.
The middle is the public eye:
there's only room for few.
Each particle will have his chance
to make her great debut.
But then he's covered by his brothers;
in time she'll no more stir.
Who know the stars who are to come?
Who remembers those that were?
A major event at East Rockaway High School is "Rock Rivalry" in which the four major classes [freshmen, sophomore, junior, and senior] compete with one another. While hardly the fairest competition in the world--14 year olds competing on equal footing with 18 year olds--it is still a major instigator of artistic, athletic and school spirit activity. For the most part I enjoyed being a part of it.
In the years I attended East Rockaway High, I worked hard on three art projects for RR. Two were accepted and used in the competitions [a flashing, mechanical diorama my Freshman year and Dracula fighting Frankenstein in white pointillism on a black background my Senior year], one project, however, was not.
This poem was part of the one that wasn't. My class in my junior year was putting together a program called "Broadway Blues." Looking back I realize that what they wanted was a sort of celebratory art work done in the mode of "Gotta Sing! Gotta Dance!" Mine was a far darker vision of the performing arts.
I still think the poem as some value and the pastel drawing attached to it has a dream-like, nightmarish quality. It was a tough rejection, but it was also probably one of my first realizations that while artists must be truthful to themselves, they must also take into account what their audiences will bear if they wish to be exposed. [I suppose the fact that I also was turned down for a drivers license on the same day this work was rejected didn't help. My dad, in his typical, pseudo-western stance, called it a "bad day at black rock." [Return]
Savages Before a Stone4
Savages before a stone
raising up their pleas:
"Give us peace and happiness!"
"Let us live in ease."
"To appease your hungry
spirit, sir, we will maim and kill."
"We'll mutilate our bodies, Lord."
"And make our brothers still."
Modern man before his gods:
Money, drugs, and lust.
Asking more than these can give,
groveling in the dust.
How different both these two do seem,
how different yet so same.
While the Lord who loves them both
looks down on Earth in pain.
We, the teens, sing out to all:
"God loves you and he cares.
He knows of hopes, of aches and tears.
Your head He knows the hairs."
"And if you give your hearts to Him,
as the mission voice proclaims,
he'll grant you peace and happiness
while working for His aims."
Years ago I was the teen representative to the New York Missions Conference. I received a note that during the conference they wanted each of us to say a "little poem." Once again, I didn't quite get the message of what they wanted. They were looking for silly little rhymes each introducing themselves. I right the thing you see above. But this time I wasn't rejected, I was just placed in a different part of the conference and allowed to read this. It's straight forward, but I still like it. [Return]