The Old Red Barn

 

After a lengthy hiatus due to the responsibilities of adulthood, we return with a poetry post. I've been feeling worn down by the daily grind of life lately, and in an effort to spur my creativity, decided to take a stab at the occasional poem whenever the mood struck. 

One evening a few weeks ago, I was playing with my dog in the backyard and enjoying the cooler weather, when I glanced at the neighbors' dilapidated shed and was struck at how worn down things can become in life and yet still remain standing, serving their purpose and fulfilling their function. I believe the same is true of us humans, and I was lifted by the thought. Determining our purpose or function may be a touch more difficult, but that's a post for another time.

The poem is unstructured and free verse.

→The Old Red Barn

We stand in the shadow of the old red barn. It’s decrepit, no, that’s too mean. It’s withered. 

The ages have taken their toll on it as they do on all things. But still it stands, sometimes quavering in the wind, sometimes sagging in the snow, but upright. 

One day soon it may collapse, I don’t know. Perhaps when the wood has rotted completely from the inside the paint will hold it together still. 

Are we not also just patchworks, held together through the years by our accumulated experiences? Someday soon we will fall, but the old red barn’s time has not yet come. 

A Cherished Moment at Sunset

 

Basílica de San Francisco El Grande, Madrid, Spain

I find myself in a time of reflection. It's been approximately 2.5 years since I visited Spain with my girlfriend, and nearly 2.5 years since the world recognized the onset of the Covid-19 pandemic. It was February of 2020, and though there was news of the virus spreading in East Asia, there were no more than a handful of cases in Europe at the time, and global sentiment was that the virus would still be contained before it could become a major outbreak. We had booked the trip months in advance, and countries wouldn't begin to close their doors for another six weeks. What a long 2.5 years it's been since then. 

The trip, though, was incredible. We experienced the beautiful evening light streaming through the stained glass of La Sagrada Família; cooked paella as part of a class in Barcelona; wandered the Gothic Quarter; visited bars both inspired by and – in some cases – frequented by Hemingway; hiked Mount Tibidabo; enjoyed a wonderfully intimate dinner at a restaurant called Blavís; experienced the wonder that is the Spanish AVE high-speed train; visited the parks and museums of Madrid; enjoyed drinks at Spanish jazz bars; ate nearly our fill of tapas; toured the Spanish Placio Real (Royal Palace); and rented an attic apartment in central Madrid that nearly convinced us to drop our lives back home and become expats living in Spain.

And yet, dredged up from among all these grand experiences, I am reminded of a simple, tender moment. We were wandering Madrid after a full day and came across the Basílica de San Francisco El Grande. The 18th century basilica was beautiful from the exterior, especially in the evening light, if a little rundown. Graffiti marked the planter boxes, the dome showed signs of rust, and the façade cried out for a fresh coat of paint. Nevertheless, the basilica was situated on a high hill overlooking west parts of Madrid, and offered a wonderful vista to watch the sun set. 

As we sat enjoying the moment, a young woman wandered up to a bench nearby and checked her phone. Several minutes later, she was joined by a young man in a striped, hooded sweatshirt. They sat and talked for awhile, just as we did, separated from us by only a planter box or two. While they were in conversation, I took a moment to snap a quick photo of the basilica – lit as it was by the golden hour light – and incidentally caught them in the frame, as well. 

In hindsight, it's one of my favorite photos that I've taken. It's a study in contrasts: the decaying appearance of the basilica and dormant trees of February set against their budding relationship – and my own with my girlfriend, behind the camera. It's a moment I cherish and a photo I cherish, both embedded in my memory and set against the backdrop of a pretty wonderful Spanish vacation before the world completely changed.

The Writer's Mind

https://unsplash.com/photos/0gkw_9fy0eQ

I struggled at first to come up with an image to accompany this poem. What sort of image is best to encompass dreams, imagination, thought? Initially, I browsed images of space and mountains and oceans, before I realized that that was the wrong direction. Imagination doesn't have to encompass grandeur, it simply has to be representative of the act of creation. With that in mind, I settled on a simple typewriter, and the romantic vision all writers harbor at one time or another of themselves sitting down to its formidable keys.

What appears on the white blank page is a pure act of creation. Now we can argue about influences and style and sources of inspiration, but the bottom line is that the page begins empty and ends filled. There is no shortcut around that, though it's rarely a linear process. Iterations have occurred through the ages via crossed out words, erased phrases, whited out punctuation marks, and, finally, the backspace key. Nonetheless, something is written. 

In this case, the something that was written was a poem I penned back in 2016. I was reading Walden at the time, and it is clear that I had Thoreau and transcendentalism on my mind. One may even say he was a source of inspiration for this poem, though the words flowed through my pen. I write poetry only occasionally, and rarely do I do so in a structured manner. However, I wrote this poem as a Sonnet, which if you don't recall from tenth grade English, has 10 syllables per line and is written in iambic pentameter with an A-B-A-B, C-D-C-D, E-F-E-F rhyme style for the first three verses, followed by a G-G finish. In traditional spiritual fashion, imposing a little bit of structure seemed to bring out words that I would not have otherwise expected. 

→The Writer's Mind

A bit of a walking contradiction; 

He aimed to be so grounded, but instead

Filled his head with fantasies and fiction,

Dreaming bigger with each book that he read.

Witty and charming, though shy to a fault,

He craved the wilderness and solitude;

Which once attained, his mind ran without halt,

Longing for company he had eschewed.

He did not seek those familiar to him,

No, he sought those known only by his mind,

As if in a story of his own whim

Free to envision life as he inclined.

Still it left him adrift, wanting for more,

So again to his thoughts, worlds to explore.

Sonnet 73, or The Onset of Autumn

Bryce Canyon, Utah

The autumn season officially begins today. For some, that means falling leaves and changing colors, as in my photo above from Bryce Canyon one October a few years back. For others, it means the onset of football, the re-emergence of pumpkin spice-themed beverages, and a return to school. For others, it means a cooling of the weather and a long-awaited (or dreaded) return to cozy coats and sweaters. For others, it's merely a scientific recognition of the earth's changing position as it revolves around the sun.

And for still others, autumn marks a time of reflection. It's a well-worn trope, but for good reason. Autumn reminds us of the end of all things. It reminds us that there will come a day when we are no longer youthful, and all that we have to look back upon are our memories of what once was. This feeling is captured splendidly in William Shakespeare's famous Sonnet 73, which is reproduced below.

That time of year thou mayst in me behold

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

In me thou see'st the twilight of such day

As after sunset fadeth in the west,

Which by and by black night doth take away,

Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.

In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire

That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,

As the death-bed whereon it must expire,

Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by.

This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,

To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

The imagery is resplendent, as the reader can practically feel the chill wind upon their face and watch the final yellow leaf fall gently to the earth. It takes the reader and puts them firmly in a memory of their own. For Shakespeare, and for many of us in the mid-latitudes of the northern hemisphere, autumn also marks a return to crisp mornings, chilly evenings, and even a bit of frost upon the ground. 

Autumn does eventually lead to a time of slumber in winter followed by renewal in spring. But in autumn, let's pretend that we do not know what awaits. All that we have to guide us is a slowing down that can be felt. The days shorten – as Shakespeare eloquently captures in his description of the setting sun – the weather cools, and the air simply has a feeling about it. It is calm and relaxed. 

Autumn invites us, too, to slow down, to take a break from our ceaseless pursuit of productivity (more on this in a future post). Shakespeare even warns of such pursuits, warning us that we – which is to say, life – will inevitably be "Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by." The Bible likewise instructs us that things will one day come to an end: "The end of all things is near. Therefore be alert and of sober mind so that you may pray" (1 Peter 4:7). Whether you are inclined to pray or not, I read this as a call to reflection. Slow down and be of sober mind, so that you may reflect on life and its many blessings, as well as its many hardships. Nonetheless the implication is clear: slow down. 

Shakespeare ends by imploring us "To love that well which thou must leave ere long." This is a concept which is preached in nearly every philosophical and religious tradition: be present. Do not let your mind dwell on that which is not in front of you, lest your time slip away and you not even notice. As Ecclesiastes 3 reminds us, there is a time and a season for everything. Autumn is the time and the season for rest and reflection. Be not wearied, rather, cozy up and take time to listen for the "Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds [sing]." Listen well, and you may find that you hear more than just birdsong. 

Mount Timpanogos on the Horizon

 

Mount Timpanogos, Utah

As the winter season draws to a close here in Utah and we find ourselves firmly in mid-spring, I thought it would be fun to revisit a photo of Mount Timpanogos (11,749') that I took in early April 2018. I had trudged through the deep spring snow up to the top of White Baldy (11,321') in Little Cottonwood Canyon. Still relatively new to the area at the time, I knew that vast vistas awaited me at the top, but I didn't quite know what the views would hold. I was not disappointed.

Timpanogos, or Timp as it is affectionately known by locals, is the second tallest mountain in the Wasatch Range, second only to Mount Nebo (11,928'), which is just visible in the above photo in the distance on the right hand side. It wouldn't be until October 2019 that I would summit Timp itself – perhaps more on that in a future post.

The climb up White Baldy begins at the White Pine trailhead, the starting point for many of my favorite hikes in the central Wasatch. Eventually the trail diverges in the wood (I couldn't help myself), and the hiker can choose between the White Pine or Red Pine trails. I took the left-hand trail and continued up White Pine. (I know, that's a lot of Pines.) 

The snow was still deep, but soft. It was early spring and the snow was beginning to melt in the afternoons. I had begun in the early morning, but would find myself post-holing a route through the waist deep snow at certain points later in the climb. My thighs screamed bloody murder, and I had to scramble on all fours to reach the ridge that would carry me to the summit, but it was worth it just for the sheer beauty. (Make sure to take proper gear, precautions, and safety measures. Snow can be finnicky and is not to be underestimated on steep slopes.)

Nothing quite prepares you for the stillness and silence that can be experienced in a snow-covered forest. And as I made my way above the tree line and the sun made its way over the ridge to touch the north slope, the entire landscape before me began to sparkle with a brilliance unmatched by man-made displays. In those moments, nothing else mattered but the next step that I took. The serenity even silenced the typically incessant thoughts in my head. 

Then I reached the top. And the view that awaited me is what you see at the top of this post. Shimmering, sparkling, brilliance.

As for the descent, steep as it was, I reminded myself of the line from Jack Kerouac's The Dharma Bums, "It's impossible to fall off mountains, you fool." And so I made my way back down, brisk and lively across the snow.

→Haiku

Bluebird sky above,

Untrammeled snow at my feet,

Mountaintops beckon.

Difficulties

https://unsplash.com/photos/GRk5T551-80

A poem dealing with the difficulties of life seemed apropos for the moment we find ourselves in. With the Covid-19 pandemic ongoing and worsening in many places, travel limitations and the inability to spend the holiday with family, to work stress and just the general stress of life, sometimes we must ask tough questions and cry out to the Universe for answers. Thus, poetry, perhaps the best and most honest form of crying out when the going gets tough.

Difficulties

A call with difficult news, a struggle ongoing.

Sit with, walk with the person on the other end of the line.

My instinct is to throw that coffee cup bearing the cross and flame,

Smash it to bits on the tile floor.

But I don't.

Life is hard, and cleaning up the fragments would only be harder.

I instead cry out in spirit, in solidarity with the one I've just spoken with,

Asking, pleading to make it easier, better.

Can the cross do that?

La Sal Love

 

La Sal Mountains, Utah

I took this photo on my first visit to Arches National Park in the deserts of Utah. The clouds scattered just so, leaving their shadows to dot the desert floor. The peaks of the La Sal Mountains jut above the stark tree line to face the onslaught of sunlight, wind, rain, and snow that will inevitably batter them through the seasons.

Words

Majestic; textured; stark; vivid; rugged; beckoning

Haiku

Sunlit desert where

Clouds swarm, sage dots, sand spreads forth;

Mountains capped, not bowed.