Hello, friends and followers, I am back from vacation. I climbed summits and traversed ocean waters—harbor to harbor. I watched seals nap, Bald Eagles fight Seagulls, and I even kissed, yes kissed, a fresh caught lobster. If you know me, you know a week in nature isn’t my vibe, but, now, I am inspired to make that change. Acadia National Park and Bar Harbor fills a man, this man, with a thirst for natural beauty. I believe I am becoming a true New England artist, lol.
Of course, a much needed, much enjoyed, week in a national park isn’t all that I experienced. My poem, the one recently accepted to be published printed. It is found in Poets’ Choice’s new Anthology Its Not Easy.
I cannot begin to tell you how proud I am of the progress I have made as a person and as an artist. I am finally, successfully, living my true self. Cheers, friends, to all whom have the courage to be their honest selves.
Below are pics of our family on vacation. For my email followers:You may have the best viewing experience if you open your email to the webpage.
W. Alexander Dunford I will never forget the television’s blue light that night fifteen years ago. Leonardo DiCaprio’s Blood Diamond played. Outside, beneath black skies, rain pelted our windows and the house’s bones braced against high winds. Thunder shook the walls. It was Father’s idea to watch the movie. He loved violence, and I loved…
This poem is published in the poetry anthology, Its Not Easyby Poets’ Choice. This is my first published work.
Six feet under sixteen tall lilies, Man considers eternity. Eternity’s ears hear no more the lamentations from Man’s regrets.
Regrets forgotten even by sixteen green stems, but Time—the grave gardener.
The grave gardener mows not, plows not, and sows not; He litanies. He litanies as earth buries her one truth: Man wastes with worms.
Worms tunnel the clay and mud and brains and veins of Man’s forgotten pains. Pains the gardener annals away, to be read on heaven’s judgement day. Judgement day, asterisk of eternity, hour saved to open graves. Graves untilled will break open—Man soars above lilies; He’s heaven’s chosen.
I am published, well soon-to-be anyway. My poem Escape Second Death, will be added to PoetsChoice’s new anthology book It’s Not Easy. I admit, I did not consider that my first published work would be poetry—I am a prose guy. However, I am excited, thrilled, and intoxicated from seeing that Accepted on my Submittable; I feel validated. Details are still coming.
Writing everyday is the dream. Writing is my pulse. I am excited to finally be able to answer the dreaded question, “Are you actually published?” with a, “Yes!” I pray this poem is the first among many, of my works, to find itself in front of readers. I am blessed and humbled, and, perhaps, way too excited over a minor publication, but, to me, it is the first points-on-the-board; I shot a three from deep.
I am not sure what I can post about the poem, so, I won’t be providing a copy of it here, until I know more about what I can do. Of course, once it goes into print, I will shout-out to everyone.
Life:
My wife and I have been buried in renovations—we don’t know why we decided to do so much at once—and the last two weeks has been filled with family and other strains on my time—volunteering, Church, favors and commitments, etcetera. My writing has really dropped off. Hoping for the routine to spark again soon.
Some Updates:
Next week, I will be in Acadia for the week. N.L., Blandford will be taking over my blog. She is a great author, with a debut release, and will share her insight and wisdom with you in the upcoming post.
This week’s post is short, but not without your consideration. So, I have shared with you a poem that I adore; a poem that I very much identify with, and, I confess, is remarkably as close, as any poem ever has been before, to a portrait of my personality. To read this poem is to know who I am. I only wish I wrote it, lol.
Photo: imgur.com
Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn, Grew lean while he assailed the seasons; He wept that he was ever born, And he had reasons.
Miniver loved the days of old
When swords were bright and steeds were prancing; The vision of a warrior bold Would set him dancing.
Miniver sighed for what was not, And dreamed, and rested from his labors;
He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot, And Priam’s neighbors.
Miniver mourned the ripe renown That made so many a name so fragrant; He mourned Romance, now on the town, And Art, a vagrant.
Miniver loved the Medici, Albeit he had never seen one; He would have sinned incessantly Could he have been one.
Miniver cursed the commonplace And eyed a khaki suit with loathing; He missed the medieval grace Of iron clothing.
Miniver scorned the gold he sought,
But sore annoyed was he without it; Miniver thought, and thought, and thought, And thought about it.
Miniver Cheevy, born too late, Scratched his head and kept on thinking;
Miniver coughed, and called it fate, And kept on drinking.
1910
Side note: Minutes ago, I submitted my last paper for finals. I calculated that I have written, in the past two weeks, fourteen-thousand words. Of course, that is what I kept in revision, and I am not counting anything written outside of academia.
The second half of eighteenth-century America, witnessed the miraculous rise of Phillis Wheatley: An African-born slave-woman, who used the power of poetry along with her respectable connections to challenge and reverse many of the prejudices that plagued her sex and race, and, later, her genius helped inspire the abolitionist long campaign to abolish slavery.
Wheatley, at only seven years old, found herself chained aboard a slave-trading vessel headed to Boston. When she arrived, she was sold to John and Susanna Wheatley, “The Wheatley’s were prosperous people with a wide circle of friends and active members of the New South Congregational Church” (Belasco and Johnson 599). However, her childhood was quite different than the plight of other slaves: she was taught to read and write, and was raised firmly entrenched in Boston’s Puritan religion, “she lived mostly as a member of the family and had considerable freedom to study… and received a good education, especially for a young girl of the time” (Belasco and Johnson 599). As a teenager, she discovered a passion for what would soon become the miraculous vehicle for her rise: she began to write poetry.
Wheatley wrote in the style of the eighteenth-century English poets all her life, but like any poetic-genius, she left her own mark on literature, “while she closely followed the poetic conventions of the period, Wheatley was also an innovator…she was the founder not only of African American literary tradition but also of the tradition of black women’s writing in the United States” (Belasco and Johnson 600). Wheatley’s poetry concerned itself with the major issues that surrounded her life: politics, religion, and slavery.
However, wonderful her poetry was, Boston proved difficult to find the funding needed to get her book published. Colonists were unwilling to support an African’s written work. This prompted the Wheatley’s to look across the Atlantic and travel to London, “…Wheatley traveled to London with the Wheatley’s son [Nathaniel] to publish her first collection of poems, Poems on Various Subjects, Religious and Moral—the first book written by a black woman in America” (par III). In London, Wheatley was an adored sensation—England showed little racial bias. This was in contrast with, at the time, the American colonies. Yet, even after she returned to America, her talents were undeniably exceptional, and her circle of influencers and connections soon extended beyond New England and into the admirations of the most famous and powerful man in the colonies: his excellency, General of the Continental Army, and later first President of the new United States of America, George Washington.
Wheatley’s beginnings were humble: she came to Boston a small girl forced from her homeland, enslaved, restricted by the disadvantages of her sex, and the plight of racial prejudices concerning her race all stood in her way. However, despite her obstacles, she achieved remarkable, miraculous heights. Her poem, To His Excellency General Washington is a prime example of her poetic talents, her admiration for General Washington, and her patriotic sensibilities, “Proceed great chief, with virtue on thy side. They ev’ry action let the goddess guide. A crown, a mansion, and a throne that shine. With gold unfading Washington! be thine” (Wheatley 609). Wheatley’s rise from a small slave girl to being in correspondence with Mr. Washington was certainly no small feat. Such an accomplishment was certain to stick out in history.
Of course, Wheatley’s poetry, like all great works of art, challenged the norms of her times both religiously and civilly. The country being built around her, that she so loved, was fast losing its religious zeal (of which she was devout), and the institution of slavery, was, naturally, an idea she would never advocate, “Wheatley recognized the contradiction between the institution of slavery in the American colonies and their struggle for “liberty,” a struggle she implicitly sought to align with the cause of freedom for the slaves” (Belasco and Johnson 601). Wheatley, certainly, showed a society built on control by the patriarchy, and a contradictory perception of superiority between the races (racial bias) that a woman, a black-woman, an African-born woman could rise to soaring heights in this new world the colonists were building. Her poetry was used by abolitionists as proof for the equality between the races. Wheatley’s legacy and popularity, especially, in New England continues to dazzle and inspire all those who learn of her miraculous rise.
Eighteenth-century America, witnessed Phillis Wheatley overcome her humble beginnings and the challenges, at-the-time, that prejudiced her sex and race; her star ascended out of Boston and would eventually emanate its light throughout American literary history. Her poetry revealed a deep trust in God, yet it also revealed a break with political conventions— opposition to slavery, and her love for her new country. George Washington received her letters and poetry with adoration and gave testimony to her genius. Dunford 4
Wheatley achieved the miraculous, the impossible, the unthought of: she a black-African-born-woman did not peel at the edges of prejudice, she slashed it, and all were forced to recognize her gift and confront their misplaced assumptions on the place of women and slavery.
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Works Cited
Belasco, Susan, and Linck Johnson, editors. “Phillis Wheatley (1753-1784).” The Bedford Anthology of American Literature, vol. 1.,2nd ed., Bedford St. Martin’s, 2014, pp. 599- 601. E-Textbook Liberty University English 201.
Wheatley, Phillis. “To His Excellency General Washington.” The Bedford Anthology of American Literature, edited by Susan Belasco and Linck Johnson, 2nd., vol.1., Bedford St. Martin’s, 2014, pp. 608-609. E- Textbook Liberty University English 201.
I hold my breath—one-second, two-seconds—I find the words I cannot say.
I must tell the truth by lying well.
Too false for Heaven, too honest for Hell.
I click my pen and write my heart open.
I write the words I cannot pray.
—W. Alexander
Do me a favor, if you like my short poem, please tweet it or share it. I know so many feel this way. I have been learning, reading, and writing poetry in school lately. I have very little gage on what is good, and what is not. Although, I hope you like it all the same.
I write the words I cannot pray, too false for Heaven, too honest for Hell, telling the truth by lying well. —W. Alexander
