Observation

There Are Days

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I’m trying something new on this one. In addition to the visual copy of the poem I usually include, I’ve also added an audio clip of me reading it. My hope is that this might allow me to communicate more widely and more clearly. If it goes well with this poem, I’ll try it out again on future selections. Let me know what you think!

I Believe in the Morning

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For about 3 months, I’ve had the inclination to write a poem that begins with, “There’s magic in the morning.” This line has been buzzing around my head because I’ve come to appreciate over the last 10 months how special the early morning hours can be.

I’ve never been one to struggle with getting up in the mornings, but I’ve also never really relished the process either. For most of my life I’ve been a habitual snooze-button-hitter. Until last October, it was not unusual for me to hit the button 3 or 4 times and buy myself an extra half-hour of sleep. Additionally, I would calculate what the absolute latest time was at which I could get up and still be on time for work.

Then, last fall, my wife suggested that we try adding two things to our morning routine: 1) Getting up around 5am, and 2) No more snooze button. Though I was skeptical of both at first, we’ve since come to realize that having a couple of hours in the morning to think, pray, exercise, and chat is a wonderfully calm and alluring way to begin your day. We both look forward to getting up and enjoying the “hopeful hush” that morning brings with it.

Though I had that first line in mind for a while, it wasn’t until this week (on vacation of all places!) that I finally carved out the rest of the poem. We are at a beach house in Rhode Island for a week, and I’ve been allowing myself to sleep in till at least 7 o’clock most mornings. Yesterday, however, my youngest son unintentionally woke me up shortly after 4. Try as I might, I couldn’t get back to sleep. Instead, I decided to walk a block and a half over to the beach and watch the sunrise. I was very glad I did. The entire experience was rewarding, and this poem was born as a result! I especially like the imagery of mornings having something special to share with those who are willing to get up and seek it. I believe this is true, and I’m glad to be in on the secret!

(On a side note, I took a series of panoramic pictures as the sun came up, and I’ve included one of these as the background for the poem!)

Old Things

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Like so many people around the world, I was shocked and saddened to see the news about the fire at Notre-Dame in Paris. Though I’ve never visited this cathedral (I hope to someday), I found its near destruction to be disheartening. I feel like so much of our world and our existence has become virtual and fleeting. (No, this is not an anti-technology or anti-social media rant. I believe both have an important role to play in our lives.) It made me feel a little hollow to think about one of the world’s great ancient treasures going up in smoke.

The fire in Paris coincided with a trip to Washington, D.C. I was on with a group of high school seniors. We spent several days walking through museums and other buildings that either housed relics or were relics in their own right. The juxtaposition of the cathedral disaster and what I was seeing on my trip impressed upon me the value and importance of our ancient treasures. I wrote this poem as a response.

Intersection

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Several months ago I found myself an unwilling observer of a fair amount of silliness and sweetness between a young man and woman in the car in front of me as we all waited at a stoplight. I don’t know how long the average red light lasts, but I’m pretty sure those two lovebirds have even less understanding than I of how short those moments were.

Before it Happened

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As our life story is told, the narrative inevitably includes watershed moments. Certain events around which we mark time and through which we are changed irrevocably for better or for worse. At the risk of sounding overdramatic, I’ll say that I experienced one of those watersheds a few months ago when I came to the realization that I needed to leave my job after 11 years. For me, the moments generating the most impact came in the weeks just before I made that decision. It took me a while, but I was eventually able to wrestle this poem out of my confusion, anger, and discouragement. It is the first of several poems I’ve written in this unexpected moment of transition I and my family have entered of late.

My Ribbon of Road

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This poem was inspired by a particular spot on the highway that I pass on my way home from Trader Joe’s each week. Those few brief moments when I drive around the curve and glimpse the mountains of western New Hampshire have become very dear to me. In the midst of the mundane (grocery shopping) is a gorgeous reminder of things elevated and transcendent.

My friend, there are fluttering moments of beauty and peace out there dangling from the treetops. May you find them and hold them dear.

Why Do Some Endure?

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I wrote this poem recently after a quiet walk along a forest road. Although I didn’t realize this when I first started carving out the lines, it occurred to me later that the questions I ask in the poem are ones that I entertain internally every now and again in various contexts. They are, I believe, questions many people ask at critical points in their life.

Down the Stretch

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As a part of my progression into poetry, I've noticed that certain occasions or events lend more poetic inspiration to me than others.

Driving is one of those occasions. When I'm on a long drive, I tend to become more observant of the features around me and more contemplative about my life than I am during my daily routine. There's just something about being held captive in a car with nothing to look at (as the driver) but the land around and the road ahead.

Here's the poem. I hope you enjoy it.

On the Evening of March 11, 2018 (Time Change)

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As my interest in writing has increased over the last few years, my interest in photography has also grown. I find a similar objective in both pursuits--to capture the moment. Whether it's through words or images, I love the challenge of zeroing in on the specifics of an instant in time and looking for the beauty, pain, hope, and sadness that can be found therein.

About a month ago, we enjoyed a lovely Sunday afternoon with family celebrating my niece's birthday. As we drove home that evening, I thought with great satisfaction of how pleasant the day had been. I was struck with the strong desire to hit "pause" and relish the day as long as I could. For a few fleeting minutes, "just now was my only ambition in life." (Haven't we all felt that way at one time or another?)

This poem was my best attempt to capture the essence of the day...

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Then The Spring

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For followers of Jesus like myself, tomorrow is the most important day on our religious calendar. The ideas of resurrection and rebirth are central to Christianity. Not all who will read this post are Christians, nor is this specifically an Easter poem. That fact notwithstanding, I think all of us can appreciate the ideas of new beginnings and new life that echo all around us during the springtime. The older I get, the more I find myself longing for that time each year when winter dies and the land "remembers what it can be." I wrote this poem in an attempt to capture my spirit of anticipation about spring's approach and my relief at its arrival.

For those who believe in and celebrate the resurrection of Jesus this weekend, I also wanted the poem to have an undertone of Biblical allusion--death replaced by life, coldness replaced by kindness, captivity replaced by freedom.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. Have a wonderful weekend everyone!

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The Twitch

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Sometimes I feel a twitch in my leg,
Or maybe it's in my shoulder.
This type of thing seems to happen
More often as I get older.

I've talked with my doctor about it,
But she feels it's creating no harm.
"Muscles and nerves sometimes do this,
But it's really no cause for alarm."

Still, it can be quite annoying
Like someone is knocking on my skin.
I want to know if this knocker
Is trying to leave or get in.

Chasing Ambulances

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This poem is the result of two specific events in my life. 

First, I read a book about a decade ago in which the author mentioned that his father told him to pray whenever he heard or saw an ambulance with its lights and siren on because it meant that someone somewhere was in trouble. I've never forgotten that. Though I don't always pray when I see an ambulance, I find that I'm often filled with a sense of dread and anxiety when one passes by with lights flashing and siren wailing.

Second, when I was driving along the interstate in Nashville a couple of weeks ago, I looked in my rearview mirror and saw an ambulance far behind me on the road. It was an odd sensation to see the emergency vehicle chasing me from so far away. My inclination was to pull over right then, but that wouldn't have made any sense. All I could do was drive, watch, and wait for it to catch up to me and then pass me by. I felt like the moment provided good potential for a poem, so I started sketching out some ideas that day.

I'm pretty happy with the result. What do you think?

 

Chasing Ambulances

by Andrew D. Doan

 

I’m traveling.

Moving about in a rental—

This temporary home of my ambition.

 

Shrill lights

Reflected into my vision

Are arresting my attention.

 

An ambulance—

Harbinger of trouble and pain—

Is rushing down the road behind me.

 

It’s distant.

Barely cresting above the horizon,

Too remote to hear its wail,

 

But it’s gaining.

Other vehicles give right of way,

And it’s moving ever closer—

 

Chasing.

Still too far for me to yield,

But impossible to ignore.

 

Approaching

With chilled foreboding

As if driven by the Reaper himself.

 

It passes by

To find the one in need

Leaving me behind with a sense of dread and gloom.

 

I resume

My travels ever mindful and wary of the day

When it will seize the right of way and stop for me.

 

“And yet,”

I hear myself say, “Don’t forget

The siren sound also means that help is on the way.”

Sometimes It's Like The Feeling

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I'm sure I'm not the first one to suggest this, but I believe that great writing strikes a balance between the unfamiliar and the familiar. We love it when a story takes us to a place we've never been before, but in order for the story to truly resonate it must tap into thoughts and feelings with which we can identify.

To that end, I've been toying for a while with a poem that tries to connect to that sense of familiarity and resonance. My thought is that most people can identify with the situations and feelings I've laid out in the poem.

 

Sometimes It's Like the Feeling

by Andrew D. Doan

 

Sometimes it’s like the feeling

When you’re putting the dishes away,

And a plate comes tumbling down.

You watch it descending toward disaster,

And cringe when it breaks apart.

Other times, it’s like the feeling

When you save it from slamming the ground.

 

Sometimes it’s like the process

Of reaching your desired destination

From directions you receive on your phone.

Each step is meticulously measured

As an algorithm determines your path.

Other times, it’s like the process

Of finding your way on your own.

 

Sometimes it’s like the excitement

Of finding a new book to read,

And snatching it up for yourself.

Each page is crisp and clean.

Each line propels you forward.

Other times, it’s like the disappointment

When you’ve read every book on the shelf.

 

Sometimes it’s like the moment

When you open a liter of cola,

And the carbonation sputters and spits.

Peppered with sweet perspiration

You blink through the drops in your eyes.

Other times, it’s like the moment

When the soda is flat with no fizz.

 

Sometimes it’s like the chill

Of raindrops freezing and falling

On a day you thought it would snow.

Grey puddles and pools at your doorstep.

Ice layers as it coats the trees.

Other times, it’s like the warmth

Of basking in golden summertime glow.

Research

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Although the title might sound a bit banal at first, this poem represents two important steps I've taken in the last year in my development as a writer (I guess it's three steps, technically, since it comes in the form of a poem).

First, this poem talks about the realization I've come to that the ebb and flow of daily life around me is rife with opportunities to find content for writing. The stories are there, someone just has to take the time to carve them out.

Second, this poem contains a declaration that has taken me several years with which to grow comfortable making. Truthfully, I'm still feel a bit conspicuous saying it, but I know that's just the voice of doubt and insecurity trying to hold me back. I can say it because it's true..."I AM A WRITER!"

 

Research

by Andrew D. Doan

 

A middle-aged woman sits crying

In the driver’s seat of her car.

A child’s winter mitten is lying

On the sidewalk outside a sports bar.

 

The trim on the ceiling emblazoned with runes

In one of the city’s old haunts.

Shock-eyed and tail-less, a lonely cat moves

Past my window looking hostile and gaunt.

 

I am a writer. I like to take walks

In the city or on far-flung rural roads.

Taking deep breaths and occasional stops

So to learn what the local man knows.

 

I am a writer.  I listen to music.

My catalog is eclectic—a bit odd.

But when the lyrics and arrangement bring weightiness to it,

A good song’s like a whisper from God.

 

I am a writer.  I take many photos.

My camera of choice is my phone.

I’ll use an odd angle.  Look high or look low.

Take the picture but make it my own.

 

I am a writer.  I love to watch shows

And movies that matter and speak

Through subtext and dialogue that gradually grows

The characters motives and needs.

 

I am a writer so I of course I must read,

But it’s a challenge for me oftentimes.

For I’m not voracious nor gifted with speed.

I just plod through—line upon line.

 

They say that a writer is his own story.

Her experiences will determine her work.

Sometimes, when I hear that, I wonder and worry

That what I’ve got to say has no worth.

 

It seems, as a writer, my life is not grand.

It’s a hair’s breadth away from mundane.

A father.  A teacher.  A husband and friend.

Predictable, safe, clean, and sane.

 

But then I remember that all human writing

Is bound by at least one common theme.

It was penned by mere humans, each one of them trying

To capture a particular scene.

 

So, as a writer, I am continually training

To expand the scope of my work.

I read.  I listen.  I watch.  And I’m straining

Through life’s endless bits of research.

 

I am a writer with a touch of obsession

To carve stories from whatever I can.

The ceiling.  The cat.  The woman’s depression.

The mitten that’s missing its hand.

 

I am a writer because that’s what I do.

It is me as much as my name.

Every picture’s a story being woven in view,

And every story’s in need of a frame.