L.R. Harvey Poetry

How to Enjoy a Poem      "Beyond the desert of criticism we wish to be called again." - Paul Ricouer Slow down.                  Read like it's a Saturday afternoon, sunny (let's say 65), and you are wandering down                                         the rows                                           of words like a California vineyard. You'll long to pluck and press the juicy lines before their time, the ones just dripping with flavor, but don't just yet, for unripe fruit is bound to lose its savor. No, first you must stroll the vineyard's length and breadth and back again a time or two, and not in haste - feel the sun, smell the air, enjoy - when this is done (and only  then) should you go bac...

Marshlands Magnolia       For Mimi and Pop, the roots of our Marshlands Magnolia  It didn't take a magic wardrobe, the red pill, or even a funny-sounding spell to enter that realm:                               You simply ducked beneath the overhanging boughs that fell to kiss the oystered drive, and with a little luck and a child's eye you'd look around to find the world had undergone a transformation. Like Treebeard's gnarled fingers bending down to lift the shire-folk, the bottom branches offered the smallest child the chance to scurry up and perch atop its crown as King of the Marshy Kingdom, the dreaded pirate of the Beaufort River, Mowgli, boy of the jungle,                                           or some other ploy of the imagination.      But...

That time I got a little over-excited about The Man of Twists and Turns and shouted and threw a chair across the room, I’m pretty sure I saw Eliza’s face divided between a mocking laugh (to save her cool-kid clout) and a genuine realization that maybe there’s more to learning than sitting and waiting till three. But then, in a moment of pedagogical weakness, I continued my lecture and watched her mind slowly fade to sleep, and I knew she had decided.

My 1999 Toyota Tacoma greets me with the smell of burning oil as I click the whining gears in park in the dark dawn of the high school lot.                                             Despite diplomas, I find I'm walking through the dim-lit halls in squeaky Clarks that I've had for far too long, stressing about the fact that Gracie's car needs gas, and wondering where I’ll find the cash to pay for the school that got me here. But somewhere along the walk between the double glass doors and 335, Erin smiles and says that “the Odyssey is not that bad” and I realize that I am one of the richest men alive.

Reflections while walking at low tide Walking on top the gallery, the art exhibits click and snap and disturb the still swish of the sand beneath my feet; a menagerie of colors and shapes that modern man would kill to recreate - And here I almost feel the need to apologize to an artist less known and praised than Banksy yet wearing no disguise.

Thank you, the man and woman who stopped to pick The median flowers on highway seventy-five; Oh to maintain the simplicity of soul To look and see and pause for median flowers.

The crooked wooden cross and chipping plaque on 84 attracts the wandering interstate eye for, at the most, a second or two before the rumble strips ruthlessly remind the driver that there’s no time to think about anyone but himself —         That there’s no time to pause and read that her name was Beth and she loved to read about “the night of the moonjellies” before bed, and slept with a purple lava lamp, and until the time her drunken mother crossed the yellow line she loved to laugh —      That there’s no time to realize she was flesh and not two planks of wood.  

Telemachus' Question: p. 383, ll.260 “But how can I plan my world in a sane and thoughtful way?” Telemachus asks, and looking around my house I see a swirl of ungraded essays spiraled across the floor, an unpaid bill taped to the fridge I’ve passed unnoticed for weeks, and other uns I’ve unintentionally left undone — My wife walks through the door and sees I’m busy and slightly smiles before heading to the shower —   We know we need to go on a date but the piles of work and lesson plans don’t stop for weekend hours — Damn... I totally forgot to pick up meet and bread for lunches this week.   If you find out, Telemachus,   I need to know.

grammar rules it’s all too easy to forget these things when to use a colon, the way our friends at MLA expect we punctuate The Crucible and other plays and where to place an oxford comma (Periods even find a way to slip away) Is there a place for questions in an introduction? What is the difference between can and may, and can I use I in my essay? But maybe the one that escapes the memory easiest of all of them is knowledge of how to conclude a paper or a poem

Dance in darkness Judges 16 Samson, you dance in utter darkness and spin in Dagon’s stony stare, listening to their cheers and jeers and wondering what has brought you here, an eyeless, hairless beast of night that leaps into their temple air as Philistine amusement show. You know it wasn’t worth the prize: the lion’s honey, Delilah’s touch. And if you could take it back I know you would, but she was “right in your eyes” and that was that. There’s much you could have changed, but here you are, spinning throughout the pagan night, calling for Yahweh to use your might to crush the laughing Philistine men. But Samson, you ought to know That you and I, in the midst of this messy endless night called life, could do far worse than dance in darkness crying out for the morning of deliverance.

The road from work to home is not the road less traveled - I’ve memorized the way that sleepy curve hits harder than it promises,      the spot where tattooed men in orange suits shovel gravel, the intersection where over-caffeinated Mazda’s swerve and leave you with a single finger. And yet today my autopilot eyes survey the city and lazily linger longer than usual,  and on the city skyline I see a roadside building I’ve never seen before (a bank, a hotel, or something of the sort.) It’s funny the way that thousands of tons of steel can steal away from sight and hide away in the city night in front of my work-exhausted face. If a skyscraper can disappear in place, I cannot help but wonder what other far more-important things I’m missing. If only we would see instead of look.

I’ve placed a plastic fireplace in the back of my class. Its orange bulbs emit a warmish pulsing light, and spinning plastic bristles pass over an aluminum sheet to mimic the sound of popping pine.      The space beside the couch seemed right, so there it sits.          It does not give off heat. It is my Ebenezer. No matter the often impossible tasks I’m called to meet, I will not let myself become a sputtering, glowing mass that sits in the back of class for amusement’s sake, or even to set the mood.       I will give off heat.

Until next year, Odysseus; go plant your oar in inland soil, return to Ithaca’s rocky shore and rest from twenty years’ toil. Enjoy a year of summer nights with Penelope, of April hunting trips with your son now blossomed into manhood, of autumn walks with Eumaeus to watch your cattle run lowing across the island’s wintering woods. Until next year, Odysseus, when we will dust you off and crack you open, and you will find yourself again a wanderer lost and held on Ogygia Island, willing to do whatever must be done to best the suitors and hold Penelope in your arms. And we will travel back with you, and you will teach us something new and something new and always something new. But now, our long lost King of Ithaca, rest.

I love the look of an old man’s Ford - the scratches on the dented door, the creeping crack wandering across the windshield at about the speed of the old man’s shuffling gait. And the wood on a well-played Taylor guitar - the faded spot that’s lost it’s lacquer, the fraying strings that sing of too-late nights in smokey downtown bars. But I love it less when you can see beneath my outer coat, when you can see that there is rust and wear and plenty of dirt for all of us.   It is then we must remind ourselves that life was meant to be deeply lived and not preserved.

To the book I set down with 92 pages left It’s hard to break this to you, especially after the way I broke your virgin spine, sitting up there on the shelf and innocently smiling out at passing customers. I know, my dear, it’s true; back then you caught my eye, and I went and spoke with your friends to find out if there was any chance we'd have a shot. The over made-up help-desk lady, her monotone review of you, and the four-star ranking on goodreads.com all said that you were available. Yes dear , I know; we started off strong with lively days and intimate nights where you rarely left my side, but something somewhere changed, and little by little I knew it wouldn’t last, and there would come a time I’d have to cut this off; I cannot drag this on and fight the fact that my heart’s no longer in it. I now admit that I’m not ready to commit to long-term love. There are too many fish in the sea you see, and s...

I’ve smoked a pipe on summer nights and watched my breath take shape in the still of November mornings, and it’s funny the way they look alike: the blue-grey smoke and the forming vapor (like fire and water’s natural offspring,) as if a generational gap were all it took to forget an age-old bout. The universal symbols: one of death and destruction, one of cleansing and life, both produce a haze that looks alike as it floats from my mouth. Perhaps we ought to ask ourselves if what floats off from off our tongues is smoke or only vapor.