A New Romanticism: The Collected Poetry Volume Two

by Andrew Chavez

Overview

Andrew Chavez provides a large representative sampling of the poetry that is part of his exploratory journey leading to the final development of his perspective called a new romanticism. Chavez turned to poetry because of intense revelatory experiences; those same revelations guide and direct his work. A reader is allowed an opportunity to follow the ups and downs, the misdirections, errors, and pitfalls that were part of the unique process of discovery. The poetry strives to be as direct, clear, and brief as possible. Chavez believes that a thinking mind with something to say has a natural melody to those expressions. The job of the poet is to say what needs to be said then stop. There is no law of poetry guiding length. A poem should be as long, or short, as necessary to say, tell, or show whatever needs to be said, told, or shown.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781467043816
Publisher:	AuthorHouse
Publication date:	10/31/2011
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	528
File size:	1 MB

Read an Excerpt

A NEW ROMANTICISM

The Collected Poetry Volume Two

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By ANDREW CHAVEZ

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2011 Andrew Chavez
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4670-4390-8

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Chapter One

           GOODNESS, HOW TIRED


    Goodness, how tired, old, and worn I feel.
    I'd like to forget everything all together;
    Wander away to a forest or desert plain
    There to tend sheep or live the life of a forgotten hermit.

    It seems that after a million steps
    I haven't gone anywhere forward
    So I laugh to choke back tears.

    What am I to do?
    My efforts lead to nothing;
    My progress is a steady march of marking time.
    What use to hasten my pace
    If a flurry of activity only gains exhaustion
    Without moving so much as an inch?

    I could say tomorrow is another day
    But that itself points to what I fear.
    What's left but to trod along as I usually do
    Despite the manner of my curious motion
    While hoping that somehow things will get better?


            IT SEEMS THAT NEVER
            HAS A MAN LOVED

    It seems that never has a man loved
    Nor a woman been more deserving.

    I have to divert myself with a tale,
    Yes, it's of a woman, and beautiful
    Far beyond those babes of yore; indeed,
    Those others, although poets lauded them yesterday,
    Today they suffer a grave defect, true,
    They are dead, yet this one that I talk of
    Is alive and willing. Willing to what?
    Why, to be called on, to spend the day with a guy,
    The night, too, but there she's wary
    Saying an easy love forgets easily,
    But she makes nothing easy, her motto: aloof,
    And yet, for accessibility she's like sunshine;
    Like the very air all engulfing, supporting, and encouraging
    But invisible walls are erected around her
    To guard against a too vociferous or hands-on admirer.

    I think she means to drive me crazy
    Being a world of contradictions: soft yet rough,
    Kind but mean, easy and difficult, promising but denying,
    With come-on beauty that flares dreadful fires of doubtless doom
    Whenever I try to get closer.

    This ferocious tenderness, dark light,
    Brutal civility, and hopeless dreaming
    Has me submissive and rebelling.


           WHEN I WALK INTO
            THIS TERRITORY

    When I walk into this territory
    I'm still not fully aware of what to do
    So I try myself here by wandering over the grounds
    Merely to get a feel for the place with my own two feet;
    I speak to hear the sound of my own voice
    Testing whether there's an echo or if my voice falters,
    Cracks or becomes gruff, or strains toward high or awkward
    pitches.

    Strolling, I get to know what my surroundings are
    In the way of forests, lakes, pastures, rivers, and hills;
    I find out what birds, snakes, insects, cattle, coyotes, and people
    Are living in this domain.

    What am I saying but that this land seems like new
    Although I've wandered here many times
    And return whenever I'm able?

    If Thoreau had his Walden Pond
    And Whitman his Leaves of Grass
    Then here I claim my own terrain
    And call it my Progressively Changing Prairie.


            IN BROOKVILLE

    I was reading in my study;
    I kept hearing laughter
    So I got up and looked through the front door
    And out across a large field across the street;
    There, two girls, both about ten years old,
    Were climbing on the large blocking equipment
    Used by the local high school football team.

    They were climbing the upright columns,
    The tall padded portions,
    And when they reached the proper height,
    The structure would fall forward.
    The girls screamed and laughed as they fell down.
    Once on the ground
    They stood the equipment back up into the ready position
    And did the whole thing again.


            I WAS WORKING AND LIVING IN
          COFFEYVILLE

    I was working and living in Coffeyville at the time
    But kept my usual apartment in Manhattan
    And once during a regular visit from Coffeyville to Manhattan
    I learned that it was Band Day
    And that bands from around the region
    Would soon be marching down mainstreet.
    I found a spot to watch the parade and waited.

    The first band started to march down Poyntz Avenue
    And was followed by another; then another.
    They were high school bands from all over the state
    And were dressed in full regalia;
    Some of the bands were large and expensively dressed
    While others were very small and wore slacks and T-shirts.

    I enjoyed watching and listening to them all.
    I knew those people; lived and worked in their towns
    From Wamego to Downs; from Topeka to Marysville.
    I noticed each town banner and recalled each one pleasantly.

    Come now, poet, surely you can sing as lively
    As those bands played for you.
    Tell how their spirited tunes set your heart throbbing;
    How you couldn't stand still
    Except for those times
    When the band's strict precision of rank and file
    Froze you into admiration.
    Tell how difficult it was to silence
    A great shout of joy and approbation
    And how you were constantly choking down tears of excitement.

    Mention their brightly-colored uniforms;
    Each band wore the same set of colors that were offset
    By the different colors and glittering fabrics of the twirlers
    Who marched ahead of the band
    In sparkling red, blue, green, or purple costumes.

    Talk about the attractive young girls
    Who marched carrying pompoms, banners, and flags;
    Speak of those girls strutting in high-step fashion;
    Include the band instructors who marched nervously
    Alongside their band with hands keeping time
    And sometimes mouthing-out silent cautions or corrections.

    No sooner did one band pass in review than another approached
    Proudly displaying upfront the banner showing their town of origin.
    Tell how often, as the bands marched along, they'd pause
    So the twirlers could display their talents of agility, control, dexterity,
    And eye-delighting showmanship;
    Don't leave out the flag-girls
    Who high-stepped while working their synchronized routines.
    Talk of all the alluring pep-rally girls
    Who stepped along precisely together
    Wearing outfits designed to inspire admiration.

    Drummers kept a steady marching beat
    Until the brass raised their shinning instruments
    And began to fill the air with exciting music.

    It was easy to see how the band members
    Enjoyed performing for the large and appreciative audience
    Who watched and listened in much the same state of mind
    As the poet who fought back tears, could not stand still,
    And longed to shout his pleasure at the whole spectacle.


           TONIGHT I WENT TO A RODEO

    Tonight I went to a rodeo in Coffeyville.
    Kathy went along with me.
    The stands were full of people;
    Even all the extra bleachers were full.

    The announcer introduced himself and welcomed everyone
    Then the grand parade began.
    Horses of every size, shape, and color strolled out into the arena
    One right after another until the whole arena
    Was covered with horses that walked, galloped, and strutted in
    line.
    The riders belonged to riding clubs, were rodeo hands, and
    sponsors.

    Once the arena was cleared
    A woman shot out of a chute on horseback.
    The woman rode free-reigned while carrying the flag
    Of the rodeo's main corporate sponsor.
    I can still hear the pounding hooves that kicked up chunks of dirt
    While the flag flapped and snapped wildly in the wind.
    As she rode around, the sponsor's name was announced
    Along with information about the sponsor's activities
    In Coffeyville, Kansas and around the nation.

    I enjoyed watching the woman ride.
    She rode a beautiful chestnut quarter horse
    And rode him well. She, too, was very attractive
    And probably selected for both her beauty and riding skills.

    The rodeo went very well.
    The bucking horses were good
    And the bulls large, mean, and muscular.
    The show at intermission featured a buffalo trainer
    And his buffalo that weighed over a thousand pounds.
    The trainer explained how buffalo are supposed to be untrainable
    But he made the buffalo do a lot of tricks.
    The buffalo knelt down on both knees,
    Moved forward and back on command,
    And allowed the trainer to ride him like a horse.
    After the trainer rode the buffalo around
    The buffalo jumped on the back of a pickup truck
    With the trainer still on his back.
    The pickup then drove the mounted trainer around
    While the trainer smiled at everyone
    And waved his big white hat.


            LET ME PLUNGE

    Let me plunge myself into these waters
    Because they attract me like a native element.
    It's senseless to stroll along the shore
    Touching the diminished waves with a dainty foot
    While I long to immerse myself
    Deep and fully into its fluid body.


           IT'S THIS

    It's this, these very lines here that I've longed for.
    It's this that I've worked hard to have
    And traveled many miles to see.
    It's this that has kept me awake at night;
    This that made me fidget and forgetful
    While I worked through the day to earn a living.
    This that explains the mysterious behavior:
    The aloofness, the sudden departures, the explosive rages;
    The erratic seeming routes taken
    That only from afar can be seen as straight and steady.
    This that puts the gleam in the eyes
    And the eager, happy rush into the voice.
    This that gives the heart a lively beat; pounding rapidly.
    This that makes the mind swell with various conceptions,
    This, that seems so simple and ordinary.
    This, these, and them,
    Are the very lines that I've always longed for.


            MY DAYS ARE MOSTLY DULL

    My days are mostly dull and uneventful.
    I have a set of routines that moves me through the day,
    A set that prompts me through the night,
    And one that takes me to bed, and then,
    I wake up and start the whole thing going again.


           WALKING THE STREETS
            OF MANHATTAN

    Walking the streets of Manhattan
    I paused to look at a brick road
    And thought of the men who laid it years ago.

    I could imagine the scene with the exposed and compressed dirt
    Where stacks of bricks were scattered around for ready use.
    I could see the red and yellow flags where engineers and
    surveyors
    Kept straight lines and denoted manholes or where pipes were
    laid.

    I saw the men working, some with their shirts off,
    Their backs tanned and glistening; some wore shirts
    Soaked with sweat as they kneeled down, set bricks,
    And tapped them with their wood or rubber hammers;
    Then set more along a string line.

    I could see the loaded trucks,
    Some parked and being unloaded,
    Others drove off for another load.

    I could hear the clank and clatter of tools,
    The tapping of bricks, and the roar of engines;
    The laughter, shouts, and the joyful banter, the cussing
    Of men working near to one another.

    The scene was busy with men; the work was labor intensive.
    Some men worked ahead of the bricklayers
    Cutting out the ground, grading, rolling the dirt down hard
    To meet specifications for compaction;
    Some are pouring concrete for drains and manholes.
    Carpenters hammer forms; others saw lumber.
    The foreman explaining a problem to the supervisor.
    There are elderly men looking on.
    Children here and there attentively watching.

    The bricks were new.
    They glistened and shined.
    The air was clear;
    The trees green; so were the neighborhood lawns
    Lining the stretching job site.


            I QUESTION MYSELF

    I question myself in such a manner
    That I succumb to conventional cautions and criticisms
    Saying that modern songs cannot be composed.
    Why not? I am modern. I write songs.
    Why can't the two worlds be brought together?
    As a matter of fact, I'm already doing
    What cautions and criticisms say can't and shouldn't be done.
    I know where all the negativity comes from.
    It's part of the critical and now canonical literature
    From both modernist and postmodernist pages.
    Blast all that! Their instructions are meant
    To guide modernists and postmodernists.
    I am neither.
    I am a new romantic.
    I write and sing modern songs
    Having nothing to do with current limits or restrictions.
    I am not about making things new
    And thereby self-imprisoning myself.
    I am about making things old, older, and older still
    Until I have what is most ancient of all.


            TO WALK, STROLL, OR ROAM ABOUT

    To walk, stroll, or roam about, that's my proper element.
    These muscles filled with nervous energy: restless, fretful;
    Always urging and prodding, prompting and encouraging.

    I slip into the night burdened with a heavy fog and get lost,
    But I'm not lost. Fog confirms what would be found;
    What is worthy of finding and having.
    Lost, found, it's always a matter of how you look at it;
    What you are ready and able to see,
    What need requires and ambition gives courage to grasp and own.

    Groping, striving; never satisfied yet content, confident
    Despite being doomed to frustrations, disappointments, and
    failures.
    Often seeking solitude where I try my tongue
    And play with various thoughtful and musical exercises;
    Feeling my powers rise and fall.
    A novice, always a student; always learning, listening,
    And wanting more. Trying out new found potential
    And talking about what I've learned.
    The beauty of it. The thrill and frustration.
    The wonder as I feel myself gathering depth and rising
    Into domains new and refreshing.

    I'm humored sometimes that I've grown up on the plains
    Away from the great centers of culture and sophistication.
    If I meet a cow on one of my strolls then that's nothing unusual.
    If I hear coyotes yelping or see an owl flying low over a pasture
    Or hear an eagle cry-out and say hello
    Then I don't have to think anything about it.
    A possum might cross my path; I pause and let it go.

    Among the rolling hills, the tall grass pastures, and small towns
    I hear subjects calling and saying
    How they like to be entered into my poetry.
    I'm hailed, cajoled, assailed, and seduced
    But I act hard to get.
    I don't commit myself too soon or too widely.
    Necessity says that I must choose with caution;
    Different kinds of laws are at work.
    I attend and watch; wait for the feel of the affirmative.
    Natural powers flow or explode
    Grabbing immediately what is wanted or needed.
    There is no choice involved; no decision on my part;
    Thus, and thereby, I sing what is often unsung
    Simply because too often it is unseen, unknown,
    Unfamiliar, and not infrequently, unwanted
    By those who cling to curiously contrived agendas.

    I come onto this stage prompted by powers greater than any we use
    In our factories or laboratories; greater than industrial might.
    Brought to awareness by the wind,
    Taught temperance and control by the seasons,
    Instructed by the rivers about eloquence, reflection, and flow
    While mountains, forests, and valleys taught harmony,
    Grandeur, strength, and adaptability;
    The stars lectured about philosophy, cosmology, physics, and aesthetics.

    I leave myself walking, talking, and proceeding
    From one place to another.
    I know that I often walk in circles; I'm surprised that I do
    But accept it all as natural circulation.
    When the time is ripe and when I am ready
    There is a voice that comes to straighten me out.
    I trust myself; I trust nature and my natural reserves.
    I often walk in fear among new territory
    But I know that I am empowered and supported
    By forces, powers, and might that has no equal.

    Out of my mouth, and flowing from my own energy centers,
    Are culture and sophistication enough
    That I need not worry over what is stored in assorted buildings.
    Pour me full and light me bright enough
    To have my moment of self-sustaining illumination
    And I can be at peace; content
    While others share and gain the same powers
    Simply by being close
    Like people surround a nighttime fire.

    I am not about making it new.
    I want to be old, older, and oldest
    Until I am among the most ancient of all.
    What is most ancient of all is my working material.
    No, I will not constrain and imprison myself
    With tight compact language
    That struggles to create a novel phrase
    Or seemingly new, modern, and provocative scene.
    Mine is the descent down into the deepest darkness;
    There, sudden and strange, current and modern
    I shine with the brightest light;
    I am illuminated by an ancient splendor.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from A NEW ROMANTICISM by ANDREW CHAVEZ Copyright © 2011 by Andrew Chavez. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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