The Familial Devolution of Poetry and Prose

Those in my family take pride in their love of poetry and we all take pride in our ability to be wordsmiths.

But yesterday, I posted a poem titled, “Colors” that I had written back in 1983 and I became a bit alarmed.

I could see that from my dad, to me, and now onto my son, Ryan, our poetic ability has actually devolved.

Let me show you…

Here’s a poem that my dad wrote for his second book, Credo.

The Silent Earth

From this silent earth,
I take a handful of dust…

Whose sacred ashes do I hold?
Whose wind-kissed lips are in this mold?

Does Helen’s beauty slumber here,
Beneath the dust of Sappho’s bier?

Are David’s lyric sonnets pressed,
Against Bathsheba’s fertile breast?

My lovely one, we have the key;
the fields of earth are you and me.

A century hence, this dust will bear,
your bright-eyed laughter in the air.

And someone else will lift the sand,
and toast your beauty in his hand.

Embrace this dust, the wind, the sea,
they hold the heartbeats of eternity.

Jack Mahoney ©1981

Ahhhhh, very nicely done, Dad. Let’s see the poetic genes that you passed on to me, shall we?

When I was at Bowling Green State University the campus newspaper did a story on me because I put up all of the poetry I was writing up on my dorm room door. Here’s a couple of examples:

The Sun

The Sun is hot.
Hot, Hot, Hot.
The Sun is yellow.
Yellow, Yellow, Yellow.
Well, not exactly yellow.

The Final Spring Break

The car went down the mountain road
Down the road it sped.
The car went off the mountain pass
Everyone was dead.

Unreelquited Love

The tuna swam for miles
In search of his one true sole mate
He trudged and plodded all the while
For a chance to boink and procreate

He met her at the sandbar
Her eyes and his did lock
But she swished her tail, and turned around
And said, “Sorry Charlie, I have a haddock.”

Matt-Man ©1983

I recently came across a book of poetry that my son Ryno wrote in school when he was 10 years old. Let’s look at his work.

Couplets

I went to a kid and said, “Do you rhyme?”
He said, “Not all the time.”

The kid is a kid named, Dude.
He’s pretty crude.

Practicing Kung Fu---
It makes me have to poo.

Triplets

Indians had a house
They called it a wigwam.
They did not have pom poms.

Haiku

A frog hung on
To a stick in the harbor
As the sun comes up.

Do ya see what I mean? Our poetic gene pool may be wide but it ain’t deep. Oh dear God, what hath been wrought?

You know the saddest thing about all of this is? Both my dad and my son have had books published, and me?

I appeared in the November 8, 1983 issue of the BG News. Life ain’t fair.

Cheers!!

Plugging Along With Pain

If you read yesterday's Bagwine post by the lovable Schmoop, you know that I am dealing with some type of right lung thing that is incredibly painful.

It really hurts when I bend, breathe deeply, and when I sit. That is why it is very hard to do anything at the computer. I can only sit a few minutes at a time.

Because of that, a writing deadline that comes Wednesday, and work, I will be around only sparsely until my day off on Thursday.

Until then, I will do some re-runs...Today's involves my longtime buddy, Joe. Or as some of you ancient Bagwine readers may know him as, Joe Hair Care.

As today is Joe's 45th birthday, I thought I would repost the following story about a couple of the fun times Joe and I shared at Bowling Green State University. Enjoy...

Hair Care Joe and I were near the end of the semester at BGSU. For most, the end of the semester is a time for focus, forethought, and finals.

For me…not so much. I worked very hard at enjoying the ENTIRE college experience, not just the drudgery of academia. It was, in my opinion, time to party.

Sure, there had been partying throughout the semester. The best outings were when we would go to a party off-campus at someone’s house or apartment, and the host had no clue who the hell we were.

We, of course had a right to be there, because of the obligatory, “Friend of a Friend of a Friend Party Law”.

Beer Bongs were big back then, and I became quite good at handling the receiving end of one. After a few of those, the fun would get underway.

We found it hilarious to pick up the host’s camera that was sitting on the kitchen table and proceed to take pictures of ourselves.

When said host had the film developed, he or she would have no idea who the hell the people in the pictures were.

One of our crew had a penchant for pilfering women’s nightgowns and dresses from their closets and wore them on Sundays as we watched football. He would always say, “They just feel right.”

This is the same guy who was hauled into the back of a paddy wagon during the busting up of a party.

You see, one night we were at a party that evidently drew noise complaints from the neighbors. When the cops arrived, our cohort in question was standing on the front porch with a good buzz going on.

He stated quite loudly, “Holy Crap, look at all the pigs!!” Just then, an officer emerged from the bushes and grabbed him by the arm and proceeded to escort him to the van.

Although drunk, our friend kept his quick wits about himself, and said, “C’mon occifer, I was talking about the women.”

He was ticketed for public drunkenness, and dropped off at Doyt L. Perry Stadium, better known in Bowling Green circles as “BFE”.

Now, allow me to get back to the semester ending blow out that Hair Care and I had. Joe seemed to be stressed of late, so I decided to ease his anxiety by showing him a Friday night of fun.

I asked him if he wanted to tie one on, and after threatening to mess his hair up, he graciously acquiesced.

We started by drinking some beer and Champagne Velvet in our room, while we listened to a Flock of Seagulls crank out “Space Age Love Song” through my crappy stereo.

Our buddies Paul and Webb stopped by to imbibe with us. Good Times…Good Times.

With a nice state of inebriation developing, we proceeded to McDonald’s to prepare our stomachs for the forthcoming assault upon their linings.

After Joe ordered his food, I said to him, “Your money is no good tonight. I’m buying.”

I paid. We ate. We then rambled down to the bar district.

We hit every stinkin’ bar in the city. We drank pitchers here, pitchers there, with shots of 151 everywhere. Good Lord, Nero would have been proud of the way we debauched ourselves and an entire community.

Neither of us remembered how or when we got back to our dorm room, but it was evident the next morning that we had made it.

After shaking the grain fed fog from our heads, Joe said to me, “Man, that was a great time Matt. Thanks a lot.”

I said, "Aw Joe, you don’t have to thank me.”

With a look of appreciation upon his face, he replied, “I sure as hell do have to thank you. You bought the beer, bought my Big Mac, and paid for all of the drinks at the bar. Hell, you never have money. How did you manage that?”

I smiled, grabbed my towel, and as I walked by him on my way to the shower, I told him, “I sold your textbooks.”

Happy Birthday Joe!!

And to those of you who shall be nameless, who yesterday were excited to find that Schmoop would be seen more during my illness? Here's a picture of the uber-lovely Schmoop that demonstrates her flexibility...


I hope you enjoy the picture...and then I hope you choke on it, you traitorous bastards, you!!

Cheers!!