Nature Has Him in Its Sight - Scot Young

Time to share another poet that captivates my attention and admiration every time I land on his blog. This wonderful poet would be none other than Scot Young who graces the pages of Be Not Inhospitable to Strangers: Lest They be Angels in Disguise with some of the most beautiful and provocative poetry on the web today. Scot's range of subjects that he gets into seems to have no limit; he seems to cruise in hyper-vigilance mode and doesn't let much get by him. His ear is to the wind and he eyes things like an eagle. He reminds me of life seen from the aerie's nest. Nature has him in its sight, although he might jest it's the other way around. Ha! Funny how the Great Spirit seeks out its own; taps the shoulder of its earthly manprey to give a flash of intuition or revelation. Here's examples of what I mean. You gotta love'm!

A Haiku Love Sonnet–

–Waiting for the End of Yesterday

sometimes we travel
deep into this naked night
and see yesterday

eager to reconstruct
bits of a fragmented dream
with lost dialogue

wait for fading light
to kiss the soft of angel
wings warmed by the day

not an easy job
turning the orange sky dark
not an easy job

rearranging the planets
hanging a blue moon

Haiku Sonnet: Ozark County

March 18, 2008

hands held on weathered
glades set with yellow primrose
side step cactus that

stair steps down through oak
scattered woods hidden from noon
day tourists lost and

dodging dirt road ruts
this path leads to our hidden
waterfall off that

ridge spilling into
a shaded pool reflecting
soft blooms of dogwoods

in filtered light we
scratch our names on mossy rocks

Summer Morning #2 Haiku

July 12, 2008

summer morning
silence broken by light
rain on a tin roof

Summer Morning #1 Haiku

July 11, 2008

This is the first of three summer morning haiku from our Ozark hideaway.

summer morning–
yellow swallowtails dance on
wild bee balm

Stones

July 3, 2008

I spend my time
collecting stones
large ones for strong corners
flats for the cap
cobbles for plugging
the holes mixed
each day
to hold it strong

I spend my time
collecting stones
working in layers
laying each one to fit
like a puzzle
in this perfect wall
that protects the things
I own
and sometimes own me

I spend my time
collecting stones
set them around this
ancient oak
spreading arching
protects from sun
and storms
built high enough
to dream well under
a marauding moon

I spend my time
collecting stones
my father’s trade
this art passed down
with bleeding hands
fit to chisels
chipping stones
making them fit
sealing it up

I spend my time
collecting stones
but sometimes I
leave one out
of the perfect wall
……..one rock removed just
long enough for you
to slip in
before new mortar
is mixed
I cannot tell you
where it is

run your hand slowly
over the surface
……..there

do you see it?

Reading these few poems ought to make you feel one with nature; like falling on your back into the tall field grass; ready to dive into a fresh, cold, crisp mountain stream; dive off a high cliff on a hang glider or watch an eagle scope the swoop like Jonathan Livingston Seagull. Oh, WOW. I'm having a John Denver moment! You can, too. Now get yourself over to Scot Young's blog posthaste and have yourself a piece of Scot's delicious naturescape!

Scot lives in Missouri with his wife and 3 daughters. He's a high school principal and finds time to teach graduate classes, and a poetry class beginning with the Beats. Scot can be found both on the internet and in print and his poetry credits include publication in The Beat, Spoken Word, Asphalt Sky, Potpourri, Hemingway's Shotgun and Pleiades.

Hallowed Ground to Asphalt Sky

I've chosen this intriguing painting by Rick Mobbs to highlight Jo Hemmant, a participant in Rick Mobb's invitation to readers to write poems for his paintings. I also chose Jo Hemmant because I want to tell my readers about a superb new online literary journal, Asphalt Sky, of which Jo is an editor. Asphalt Sky is an elegantly appointed journal that is "committed to publishing emerging and established artists and giving a place for thoughtful and engaging poetry, prose, and art work." My thought is to present a juxtaposition between earth and sky, highlighting the poet whose feet are firmly grounded on terra firma who has the ability to guide us into the heavenly through the written word. Asphalt Sky has just stepped into the world of online publishing. A very impressive first issue revels in earth's nature while taking the reader up, up, up and away into self-mesmerizing day-dreamy thoughts and images provided by these exceptional writers, poets and artists. I love that this first issue reminds me of all things earthbound but takes me into quiet contemplation that speaks to otherwordly thoughtscapes. I find myself scultping images into solid landscape and bucolic meanderings. I say kudos, and a cartwheel to Asphalt Sky's first foray into online literary journaling. Artists Cris Halverson and Catherine Farmer further attest to the otherworldly glimpses I experienced while reading this splendid issue.

Jo Hemmant's editorial essay, Beginnings, featured in Asphalt Sky, is as fresh as a newborn babe's first slap and hits you as strong as that first slap's wail. Please read it. Here's just a snippet of the essay, followed by Jo's poem written for Rick Mobb's painting gracing the top of this post. Enjoy!

Beginnings

"Language surrounds us, defines us, is how we express our selves, how we try to decode the universe. When I visualize it, it is as water flowing, meaning always and endlessly deferred, passing through the connections, the spaces between words and moving on, understanding contextual. And this deferral means that there can be no endings as such. Yet still the records are made, and they come out of two very different beginnings -- origin and starting point."

To which Jo goes on to describe these two very different beginnings.

Hallowed ground

he has exposed history for us,
fortified walls arc over earth
as deceptive as love, territory

cross-sectioned, the blade finding
the soft beginning of the belly that
mounds then slitting the fundaments
from pubis to throat.

Note the foreground, a woman’s head
resting on an arm as if sleeping,
a child close, tender shorn,
these two recognisable in a scree of
faceless figures, a continuum,

a latitude, the others vulnerable curvature,
ribcages scored like the knife’s
sliding through skin, muscle,
bone to marrow’s...

Please follow the linked last line to read the remainder of this poem at Jo Hemmant's blog florescence.