"Bet Me If You Can"

I am a gambler,
see me roll.
Stakes high,
chips fly,
odds rise against me.

I'll take the risk no matter the
loss--
cost me a beat,
toss in a heart,
I'm all in.

It's nature,
or addiction--
either way,
the math won't add
and I will lose.
But you
fold,
and I watch your back get smaller.

Question:
is it
you won't
or can't
go all in, too?

Drop the poker face,
it's just me, you,
and the dice.
And yes, the risk is
high,
but so is the prize.

So let's see those
cards, baby,
and take this town like Rain Man.

F in din gHo wA llth ePie cesF it

A correction to my last post--
I have been struggling for the last three to four weeks with my newest poem (spoken). And for a while the major issue was I couldn't find my own voice. I realized my philosophy contrary to Stephen King's (he always does end up being right, doesn't he?) had filled my brain with another's voice (Rives) and everything I was writing sounded like something he would say.
I tried desperately to fight this and I started to listen to some well-written rap (as given to me by Todd Hicks) which centered primarily on Lupe Fiasco's The Cool. This helped me to stray away from the un-rhythmic talking of Rives back to my own style which is grounded a bit more in a set flow and rhyming pattern.
So, King wins again. I bow my pen down in reverence...
However, I'm still struggling with this piece. And it really has been a tremendous learning experience. I've always admired Uncle Stevie for his ability to understand the craft of writing and why he is successful and so darn good at what he does (see On Writing for more information, again when it comes to writing, in my book King is one of the greats). But similar to him, I have been learning what it is that makes my old pieces ("Words" and "What Makes a Man?") so good. Besides the topics and the content, what about my style of the craft works? What works better?
I first struggled with putting too much of myself into the piece. I was telling too much of my story and while my experience leads my subjects, I am not the subject. I don't want to be the subject. I don't like attention. At all. Ever. It makes me feel awkward. Maybe because I've been ignored for most of my life (my parents are shaking their heads right now "No! It's cause you talk too much!!"). Anyway, bottom line my pieces are supposed to be universal and applicable to every audience member/reader. And while personal testimony helps, the vague experience that can be heard behind it is stronger.
I've also learned that my spoken poetry needs to be a bit ADD. It needs to jump around a little, be a little vague while still teaching and driving home one point. But it needs to move and move quickly in a flowing, transitional way.
Well, I don't know if any of that made sense, but there is so much learning when it comes to writing that I don't even realize occurred, and happens so subconsciously. Anyway, with how much of a rollercoaster this poem has been so far (I'm still not done, not even half way) I couldn't stand looking at this blog and seeing my last post completely contradict the way I feel now and what I've learned, so I had to correct myself and once again throw my lot in with Uncle Stevie.

Also, I've learned that the father to great writing is constant unsatisfaction. It leads to so many more wonderful and beautiful experiences and pushes me to rise away from complacency and an " eh, good enough" attitude.

I guess I'm still f in din gho wa llth epie cesf it together...hopefully they come together soon, if not you may be reading another post in five weeks that expresses more of my frustration.

"Speak to Be Heard"

"Write to be understood, speak to be heard, read to grow..." - Lawrence Clark Powell

Last night I performed (for the first time) spoken word at my school's coffee house night. It went really well. Amazing in fact.

Figured I'd post here to share, though of course, hearing it is better than reading it.

If you couldn't make it last night, the bolded "words" are where I threw my fist in the air and had the audience shout "words."

"Words"

12/10/09

Last night I had a dream you see

In my slumber I watched a rumble and a tumble

Atop a hilltop I saw a battle in a valley

A war waged between only one enraged army

One people

All soldiers under one kingdom

Fighting for their quote end quote freedom

Men rose and they chose to slaughter their daughters

To burn down their brothers, and murder their fathers

Swords clanged and they clashed as little girls took up the sword as they had been taught

And blood soaked in the field and bones covered the grounds

And I looked all around to discover this hill wasn’t really a hill at all it was a cloud

And the valley was the earth

And the soldiers, my brothers

The army, my people

And I heard a small voice say to me,

“Now you see how dark the ways of man,

How violent the blaze of man,

How temporary the days of man.

Now you believe the pain of the sword,

The strain it affords,

And the gain it ignores.

Now you must act to bring about change

To lead a new phase

And use words to save the day.”

And I fell to the earth as the cloud disappeared

And the atmosphere set me ablaze to start again

It cleansed and it purified all my wants and desires

And I exploded to the earth still set on fire

Ready in hand with a brand new pen and a sharp new tongue

Ready to undo what man has done.

And I spoke, as I had been spoken to:

“Take heart, dear people,

Take heed, my brothers,

And I ask you, where does it lead?

This sword that you swore would be your protection

Has it filled its lofty position?

You’ve saved your wives and your children for sure

And you’ve shown the whole world how great the man you are

But at what expense? At who’s expense? At who’s incentive?

And can you recompense the pain you’ve gained from?

Sure, we’re the civilized society, the burger with fries society, it’s all-about-the-size society, the means are justified by the prize society

But what you’re really just saying is we’re the animals with supplies society

The beasts with the means

And if you want to disagree

I ask you to look the children and the wives of the other side in the eyes and tell them your right, tell them your holy, tell them you’ve decided they and their loved ones have to die!

Because you know what? The difference between the sword and the pen?

Is the sword really kills

The pen? You can throw your metaphors, analogies, imageries and see what sticks

But in the end, the only time the pen brings physical death is when it is misused, misread

By angry men, by blinded men, with small-picture means

Who think the only thing that can save their earthly fortunes is death

Because “murder protects and words just collect into nothing"

Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote: “Words are also actions, and actions are a kind of words.”

And when he speaks I don’t think he means battles and violence because those actions end things, and actions that are words start things.

Again, if you wanna disagree, let’s take a look through history

At the power of

Words like

Taking a seat at the front of the bus

Showing the world a hundred years haven’t changed us

You call us naïve idealists, hippies just here to protest

And I’m just saying, we’re just showing love

And love is actions, and love is

Words like

Taking a stand against an oppression

Rising a people to march an objection

A protest to taxation, taxation on salt

That’s all

A tax on salt and men rose up

But when the other kiddies knock over our sand castle

When we believe the lie that a good defense is a good offense, a good vengeance

We ignore the power of actions, the strength in

Words like

Teaching the people there’s more than they know

Showing them all how fast love can grow

Speaking to them to turn one more cheek

To turn one more cheek

To turn one more cheek

Using that love and those words to break down an empire

And exercising silence in order to sacrifice

So tell me: how rightly, how mighty is your violence?

How strong is your sword?

Can it weather the storm of Truth and words?

Because actions bring consequences, you reap what you sow, and retaliation will kill you

So you kill to protect

You murder to heal

Fight fire with fire when fire doesn’t put out fire it just starts more

And you fall to your sword

When you should rise to your words.”

And by the end of my dream there was this strong sound, this rising, fighting to breath sound, that echoed all around and shattered the bones on the ground

And it sounded a little like:

Words! Words! Words! Words! Words! Words! Words! Words!

But to be honest I’m not really a pacifist

Because I do battle with words

I duel with adjectives and verbs

And I can fence with sentences

And for those who don’t, I don’t blame 'em

Because we’ve all heard the lie, but talk isn’t cheap, it’s hard

And choosing to fight is easy, and typically the hard thing is the right thing

Or so I’ve been told

And to be really honest I don’t know if I am right

But I know that a life is sacred

And I know that violence follows violence follows violence

So what then follows talk and actions?

So this is a call for change

This is a call to rearrange our instincts

To re-think our choices, our voices

This is a call for words!

So there's that one, and here's this one...

"What Makes a Man?"

1/10/10

What makes a man?

There’s gotta be an answer

It can’t just be some non-descript question, paper slip certificate, fake-it-till-you-make-it attitude, empty lip the principal gave me to make me grow up

I don’t believe it’s some useless threat my parents threw in my face so I’d face the consequences of my ride on the fences of responsibility

Words that float through air without a care and dare you to wish, dare you to dream they could be real when really they’re just lies

It can’t be that

Not rumors, urban legends, mythologies about ideology, philosophies that tell you you might as well be trying to learn to fly with wings made from wax and ignorance

So what makes a man?

Business suit attire

With a tie too tight to breathe

He’s up at three, to the station by four-forty-five for a two hour bus ride to work

From seven to six

And by the end of his eleven hour shift?

His slicked back hair is soft from the wear of working under a hard man, a merciless man

Because as the assistant to a business man

He’s not given the respect he deserves as his own man

And while often it seems like just fate, he’s often cheated out of his lunch break

So what does he do?

What makes a man?

Is it the strength to complain about the difficulty?

Or the love to refrain because he’s got to provide for a family?

What makes a man?

Foxhole box to keep him in

Buddies and comrades by his side

Blonde set in a snapshot hiding in his pocket

He’s got a lot to live for

See she is going to be his wife

Soon as he gets home

But the phone calls they get to make to each other every six weeks aren’t enough

She’s all he thinks about, all he talks about, all he fights for, lives for, be willing to die for her

Whistle and thud and a grenade is laid down to the ground gently

Right behind him

So what does he do?

What makes a man?

Is it the selfishness to run so he can see her?

Or the selflessness to jump so he can save them?

What makes a man?

Two part time jobs and a cushy home to boot

Life seems great, life seems grand

And with two parents who pay, life is dandy

Not rolling in cash, not many bills to pay

Gas in the tank and whatever other useless stuff he can rake in

Times are slim, but for him? He’s still getting a DVD a week

And some new clothes on the weekend

But then he’s reminded about the poverty of the society of Africa

And how their health and wealth isn't the same as his health and wealth

So what does he do?

What makes a man?

Is it the excuse he makes that it's in another man's hands?

Or the choice he makes that the responsibility is in his own hands?

What makes a man?

What makes a man?

What makes a man?

I think I know.

And maybe you do too.

But let me impart what I’ve learned so far.

So what makes a man?

Love makes a man

I was once told and I believe that if you ask what is the loving thing to do, you will be right 95% of the time

And the rest of the time you will be striving to find what is right, and that makes a man too

See we all have this delusion that being a man is not the same as being a gentleman

And the gentlemanly thing to do, definitely isn't the manly thing to do

But what makes a man?

Gentleness

Kindness

Self-control

A searching man once made a list of all the thing’s a man is

Wrote 'em on post-its and stuck 'em where he could not forget it

And his ever-growing list ever-grew into a tree of life and knowledge

And he picked off the fruits and he learned

A man is responsible

A man is respectable, respectful

A man is humble

A man is self-less

A man is self-sacrificial

And a man is a lot of other things we don’t think we can be

Something’s that are just too subjective, he can be it, I can’t be it, we’ll just leave it

But a man is wise

And a man is patient

And a man is courteous, honest, chivalrous, willing, loyal, dedicated

And a man is sincere

And he’s quick to listen and he’s slow to speak

And a man is a lot of other things that actually come easy

Because a man is prayerful

And a man is peaceful and comforting and strong

But not in the way you’re thinking of strong

Because a man is strong [side note: held fist to heart]

And a man is joyful

And he’s pure in thought and action!

And a man is vigorous in his pursuit of goodness and righteousness!

And a man is steadfast!

And he holds to the truth no matter what, no matter the consequences, no matter the insults or the pride holding him back

Because you know what? Of all the fruits on the tree the searching man made

There was one he forbade to never let go

And it is: a man is content with Jesus as his everything

Because what makes a man?

God makes a man

God fear, God near, God here [side note: touched heart]

For God so loved the world that he believed in man

He believes in man

And they say God won’t give us more than we can handle

And this is what He’s given us

So what can we handle?

See we’re all searching for what a man is

Whether you’re male or you’re female

And I don’t have all the answers yet

Because there are too many I don’t want to forget, and too many more to explore

So I want to leave you with these four simple words

With this quest that should help you in life with your struggles and strife

Are you ready?

Because it’s a tough one, it’s a doozy, it’s…it’s a hard one,

But it’s easier if you're searching, if you’re asking:

What makes a man?

And I think you know.

Miss Hiedi Johnson asked me after what the four words are. She asked if it was "God makes a man." I told her, to me, they are "What makes a man?" and also "I think you know." That's because it leaves it as more of a quest and a searching. I think it needs to be a discovery rather than a sermon a man decides to believe. There's more faith in searching.

However, she's right: "God makes a man" is four words and that's perfect and works beautifully as if I had planned it :), as do any word before "makes a man" ("Love makes a man," "Responsibility makes a man," etc etc etc) so that all works, too.

And that's it. That's all I got...

Plan to write another soon...now? We'll see...need an idea, need an idea...

"You Have Exchanged Nothing"

I have reached a new chapter in my life. And I don't think it's sunk in just yet exactly where I am.

Two weeks ago today (12/25/09) at about 9:30 pm I officially completed my first novel.

188, 12pt font, single spaced pages. (374 double spaced)

86, 698 words.

3 1/2 years.

Blood.

Sweat.

Tears.

And while it is probably one of the greatest accomplishments of my 20 year life right now (I finished the first draft of my first book when I was 20!), I am not satisfied.

But maybe that is because I don't know what's to come.

I am not satisfied because I know it's not ready. I know I have a lot of work to get done on it before I feel comfortable letting anyone else (Chris excluded) look at it, breathe on it, experience it.

I failed the ending. It didn't flow right, it wasn't descriptive, full enough, definitely wasn't long enough. My intended goal was 200 pages, roughly 100,000.

I missed the mark.

But it's only draft one, and draft one is complete.

I've decided to re-read over Stephen King's section of his book On Writing about revising and editing. If you haven't read On Writing you should, even if you don't like King. You will learn to respect him because of this book. Because he lays out why it is that he is so successful, and it's not a fluke. Even if you're not a writer, you can appreciate this book (my dad did).

King tells me that the first step in revising a work, building draft two, is to not look at, touch, or even think about the book for 6 weeks...minimum.

When something that is so short for a novel (King keeps talks about 400-500 page manuscripts with 350,000 word counts) and it's taken up 3 1/2 years of your life, you want to get it done. To keep working it, scrubbing it, cleaning it, perfecting it.

But I trust him.

So I dropped it.

But it still hasn't left my mind, and that'll take a few days.

According to websites I just browsed, one said that I am definitely classed as a hard-bound novel (25,000-150,000 words, 100-600 double spaced pages) as opposed to a paper-back novel (35,000-80,000 words, 140-320 double spaced pages). So I'm on the shorter end of a hard cover, and that's comforting.

Another site said some publishers prefer a minimum of 70,000 words for a first novel, while others won't take anything less than 80,000, and they are less inclined to like a 110,000 word first novel.

And that gives me a lot of comfort.

But,

I'm dropping it.

To get my mind off my baby, my child, that terribly ugly old thing over there (I have a terrible knack of comparing myself to King and he says that if a novel shouldn't take you longer than 3 months to finish you're doing something wrong, I did that 14 times over...).

Anyway, yet again to get my mind off that blasted book I began writing something new yesterday. And to be honest...the first scene is really cool. The story telling technique isn't perfect yet, I haven't worked out the exact nature of the big reveal for the scene, not sure if my method was flawless, but the idea, the characters, the direction it has the potential to go into (since I have no idea what this is at all, a few vague ideas but nothing more) seems very promising, and very fun.

So that is my life as a writer. Exactly like my new story: a lot of promise, very fun, a direction with a lot of potential, and when I'm completely honest with myself: not as bad as I think it is.

Now, the other part of my life.

I have started a new chapter, a new beginning, a new facet of a coal-transforming-diamond...

Over the last few months—

My gosh this is a long post! Sorry...

Over the last few months I have had this incredible face-to-face confrontation with God. Closer than I've ever been. I can feel him breathing.

I went through a drastic revelation from God back in October that challenged me to disregard all of my searches for my own happiness, my own love and to search after him with that passion and vigorous pursuit.

Because of the weight of that night and what I felt and heard Him say, I have sworn to never look back, to keep moving forward and always strive to become the man that He wants me to be.

And that is one of the things we have been talking about: "What does it mean to be a man, versus a boy?"

Aswell...

"Do you love Me more than these?"

"God first, before anything"

"God helps those who help others"

And the idea of "Steadfastness"

There has been sacrifice, submission, a drastic change in my prayer/Bible-reading life, and I like to think a drastic change in my attitude and presence.

I think that for many months, years God was preparing me for that night. He was steadily moving me toward that night where He could swoop in and cut to the quick with Words.

It has been an amazing adventure so far and I know I'm barely out of the exposition (look up a plot diagram once in a while, why don't ya?)

But unlike my writing life, I see the direction for this chapter, I can see the promise more clearly. And I see the potential worry that could sink in with the rising action to come (finding a job, moving out of my parents house, finding a wife, getting married, leading a family, paying off my loans), but then I just "consider the ravens" (see Luke 12:24) and remember that no matter what, I'm set, I'm safe, I've got back up through it all.

Life is moving, developing, dynamic changes are coming and have been underway. This is not a time for complacency or laziness, but growth and action. The direction has been set, and the promise is a beautiful facet with the possibility for more.

“Birth is the sudden opening of a window, through which you look out upon a stupendous prospect. For what has happened? A miracle. You have exchanged nothing for the possibility of everything.”

- William MacNeile Dixon

(sketches of the Hope Diamond)

e.e., Willie, and Me

For our Analysis of Literary Forms class we've had to read a wide variety of very interesting pieces. Some of the most prominent in my mind are e.e. cummings and William Faulkner. Both of these writers were largely modernist in their style and composition, emphasizing free verse and stream of conscious quite frequently. And it is because of these two greats that I find myself doing this:

"These, Thoughts"

11/16/09

Do you love me more than these?

My mind

A vagabond

Roman, circus, or not

No home

[So many]

Just thoughts

[So many]

Wanderer

My mind

[So many]

thoughts thoughts thoughts thoughts fill my head

build build build control my mind sway me away from the

true path

[truth proven in vulnerable

forced to understand truth

broken till belief]

Then I hear—

Do you love me more than these?

Hesitation

Do you love me more than these?

Perhaps

Do you love me more than these?

Yes. Now, body, act.

God helps those who help

Others

I realize the brackets are very e.e cummings, but they really seem to set the text apart in a way that parentheses, italics, bold, all caps can't. And I think it's really important for the bracket portions to be separated.

Anyway, it's been a while since I've posted, and even longer since I've posted creativity, so I'm going to put one more up. This is a few months old, but still one of my favorites...maybe I'll put two.

"A Cigarette With God"

9/25/09

Does it hurt? I don’t

‘no.’

Confusion-delusion profuses

And the noose is

…not mine.

Hands in the air

With everybody else staring at me

There’s more rope if you wanna go…

Not mine.

And that’s where I struggle.

That’s where I hurt.

Where this heart screams that instead I

Take the noose!

And hang the emotions!

Fuck my heart!

I can survive

I can live

I’ll be OK!

And Norah calms me

“Something has to make you run…”

My feet are tired

They hurt

I need new shoes because these ones

Are worn

And sole-less

Thank God I’m not soulless with my

Feet on gravel

Blood

Crimson

Raw

Bones

And I’m tired.

Should I worry?

Do I dare?

My heart is bare from all these cares

And the cost of these fairs is so great my rhymes even fucking annoy me!

“All

This

Uselessness

I

Write”

Leave me on the tile

“emptiness”

Longing for

“Distractions.”

And finding God silent.

Leisure strolls with fear in tow.

Finding God waiting.

Smoking His last cigarette.

Where were You?

I felt You.

I saw You.

Knew You.

But couldn’t hear You.

“WAIT.”

And I wait

And I wait

And I wait

And I wait

And I wait

And I wait

And I wait

And I wait

And I wait

And I wait

Are You annoyed?

Are you?

Cause I am!

Then He passed me His last

And taught me to relax

Taught me to calm the storms of my

Capsized, bleeding ship now floating

Where were You?

Where were You?

I was here.

I AM here all along.

I know. But where were You?

Silent. Does that bother you?

And then my turn…

I trust

And I wait

That one is what spurred on my recent post entitled "The 'Fuck' I'm Talking About".

I really enjoy it because it accurately shows my struggle at that time. And I think it is so beautiful. Sorry if any are offended (by either the f-word, or the image of God smoking [see The Fray's song "You Found Me"])

"Table"

9/15/09

Quiet night

Darkest liquid calm my nerves

I feel I am the only

One of my kind

Alone

Solitary

Table as my company

No kings or rich man can compare

Try, electric generators if you dare but

I know I am

Alone

Failed metaphors of poet’s past

May tempt my mind to ease

There is no one like

Me

We

Are alone

To hoard and store, few can compare

To this “fair” price we fare for our

Transgressions?

Nay, for our hope.

Ha ha ha!

Hope!

Thanks be to God for my hope!

This gift that I must hold for now

To save bestow for someone grand

But hold it close, keep it tight!

For hope will give me life…

And where does this hope lead?

This special hope bleed?

To love

Thanks be to God for my love

This gift I must hold for now

To save bestow—

Crimson

Clover

Crowded heart

Claustrophobia

I hold so much in my heart so much passion emotions love and I’m not sure what to do with it I don’t see a drain for my relief or a leak to release this swelling and so it builds builds builds builds builds and I am left to hold it with nowhere to put it no one to share it and you can’t see my pain you can’t understand…

And I don’t know why we’re alone

Or what great sins we to atone,

I only know that I have love

And not a way to rid me of—

These quiet nights

Downtown

Coffee shop

Table for one, please.

These are seriously my three favorite poems I've written this year. I think they are so progressive and show so much of my development as a writer and poet. They really are the essence of my recent poet-identity-crisis (see...oh I haven't written a blog about that yet...hm), my experimentation because of that dilemma, and the changes that have been happening in my life this semester.

Too much good stuff.

As always, thanks for reading.

And... Now I'm Published

Officially self published author Nathan Glen McWherter

Check out here to see the book. It doesn't say it on that page but the book is also available for FREE download. So, to find the free download link just do a quick search for "Bones of a Nightingale" or "Nathan Glen McWherter" (however, if you search for "Nathan McWherter" you won't find me, but you'll find my dad. Weird) and it'll be one of the big blue (purple? I'm color blind) buttons right there.

So, IT'S DONE!

Check it out, of course I would prefer everyone to buy a printed copy, but I don't even have money right now to have my own, so I understand.

Bones of a Nightingale Cover Done

Well, it's done. Over. Almost.

The cover's done. Six months of me talking about it, waiting for it, scouring over my 21 poems and 2 prose making them perfect (kinda), and now...well I'm closer.

Here's the cover, photos and design by Niall McCarthy.

Well, I can't seem to get the picture much bigger. The back cover says:

"Poetry is like alcohol. Both are weapons in the desperate fight to escape the agonies and tortures of life. Both, when used create madmen, inescapable confusion, and unpredictable chaos. But where a drunkard's night ends, is where a poet's night begins—with throw up. In poetry though I don't get a hang over the next morning or a crazy night I wish I could forget or hours I wish I could remember. I just get relief. The drunks have all the fun though."

And the spine says:

"All good things rise from joy and happiness, but in many cases also from pain and suffering. I fear we shall never fully understand the extent to which the former comes in the later."

So, I love it. I think it's awesome. Exactly what I want. And if you, like Niall, don't understand the picture frame and polaroid, well then you'll just have to spend $6.36 and read it. It should be done within the next few days (this time I'm serious), I just have to scour over it a bit more, make sure its near perfect. So, soon. Yay.

Please, please, please, please leave a comment and tell me what you think. Thanks.

"Suspicions": An Older Poem, Posted Late, by Request

So, I wrote this over winter break, on a plane flying back from Washington D.C. I had just listened to Death Cab for Cutie's "We Looked Like Giants," and in it there is a line that goes:

"I don't know about you but I swear on my name they can smell it on me,

And I've never been too good with secrets."

You'll actually read where that line fits in. But, I heard that and I didn't know the song too well, so I didn't know what he was really talking about, but the picture I had in my head I needed to relay, I needed to put down. So I wrote a poem that I originally called...

Well, here I wanted to give cool trivia but I don't remember what I called it. But it wasn't called "Suspicions" till later. By later I mean like 45 minutes later on the plane, after I had gone to the bathroom and had time to think more.

Also, this is the first (and I think only) poem I've ever written that was purely fictional (metaphors, analogies, and other poetic devices obviously don't count when relaying emotions and feelings) and not from my own point of view. There may be one or two...yep I just thought of another. Ok, well it's still the first.

So, here's the poem posted by request (though later than would have been ideal) from the ride on a plane from Washington D.C. after listening to Death Cab while a Richard Gere movie played in the background that wasn't originally called "Suspicions" and is the first fictional poem not being spoken by, but still written by Nathan Glen McWherter and actually written on my iPhone instead of a cocktail napkin like all the greats (Hey! iPhones are the new cocktail napkins, give me a break! I'm just upgrading. Also I apologize for the run-on sentence, but if we were talking, it would have been exactly like that, so I felt the need to relay the sentence as would have been spoken. "Oh, relay is my word of the day!" Shut up, Niall!)

Anyway, here you go, I hope it makes sense. I added a line (more of a word) since I last let someone read it, and I think that line (word) clears it up a bit. We'll see.

Also, this poem is not featured in Bones of a Nightingale, so this is a kind of sneak peek to my second book of poetry.

Suspicions

1/3/09

The table bat not,

But echoed response,

And it made me laugh at his expense,

That his hands might hurt some

But the table was fine

And my pride grew tired.

He battered and pried

And left his shield to lie.

And I?

Adroit, sleeping my boredom to droll.

My eyes laughed, but my lips were as you have never seen:

Tight locked, hidden in frustration.

His patience died by my pleasure.

And dear, you would have laughed with me,

And I would be distracted and lost evermore because of it.

But his words, darling, lay empty.

And you would have laughed.

They wanted you strung up,

Tied to horses that fly

North, East, West, South;

Lying in a gutter with a hole through your brain.

My first words, that God would damn them to their lies.

They said you were in Quantico.

In Quantico that night you spent with your sister.

Your sister whom I have never met.

They said you stole secrets.

That you worked for the government.

A white hat, with a ridiculous salary.

But now your hat was black

Because it wasn't enough.

And he called you Diane.

You would've laughed.

He said he could smell you on my sweater.

And I've never been good at keeping secrets.

But I said you were with me that night

And we went to the fair.

I called him something I could never repeat to you.

And he hit me.

I laughed through blood and tears

And said to charge me

Or let me go.

He opened the door

And I left with three tails.

And my face fell

At my falling thoughts.

And you would've laughed.

Laugh with me, darling.

Laugh.

Well... Thoughts? Criticisms? Does it make sense what's going on?

FULL SCALE CENSORSHIP!

Well it's official.

I'm a writer.

That may sound a few years (like 22... no, 17... ok like 13) too late, but hear me out.

I now consider myself a true writer, because I have been officially censored. And not on a small scale either. It's not like "Oh Nathan, you can't say that word/sentence/paragraph. Silly writer..."

Nope this is a FULL SCALE CENSORSHIP!

And honestly, I'm proud of it all.

I tip my hat to Kelsey and Jeremy for helping me along, also I would like to thank McSweeney's, the Onion, and Mr. Twisselmann, my senior AP Lit teacher.

Honestly, those three groups helped me get to where I am, as a writer and as a censored writer.

(BTW Kelsey right now is shaking her head at me about how over dramatic I'm being about this, I don't care, I'm stoked!)

Here's the thing: I wrote last week about how I am in love with Swift's "A Modest Proposal" (still true, love that guy, love that essay), and a few months ago I thought it'd be fun to write an article in the same fashion as Swift. I had a great idea, a lot of satirical/sarcastic points to make, and the passion to pull it off.

So over the weekend I wrote out my article and text Kelse immediately to tell her how stoked I was about it, she said she was excited to read it.

Come Tuesday, I give her the article, she read it...

and she tells me we can't publish it.

Sigh.

Ok.

Kelse at first was unsure, but then Jeremy read it and enforced the idea and it was decided.

I was being censored.

Apparently the article attacks too much. Which for satire and our newspaper, and especially for the "Opinion" section is definitely a good thing, but as Jeremy said "It doesn't attack something bad, it just attacks laziness. It'd be more effective if it stung a little because what you're attacking is actually wrong." (no, that's not a direct quote, it's a paraphrase, see this is why I like blogs better than newspaper articles I can kind of make things up as I go along, AND I don't get censored).

So we talked for a bit and now I have a completely new idea for the article and it's better...I'm not going to say "a lot" better, but definitely a step up. For more information on the new article, please see the Hope International Tribune next Thursday (4/23).

So, now for your reading pleasure, I give you, "Proposing a 'Swift' and Pretty Decent Proposal: The Version They Won't Let You Read In The Newspaper, Uncut, UnCENSORED, and a little bit Unoriginal (Oops!)"

Nathan McWherter

Copy Editor and Satirist

     It is a melancholy object to those, who walk through our great school to find students of all years lying along the sidewalk, tired and worn out from the long trek across campus. After all, the legs of these great youth can only take so much; and I mean, look at the size of this campus!

     It is in light of these atrocities that I humbly propose a pretty decent proposal: that all members of the student body be given their own golf cart in order to relieve them of the tedious walk around school.

     The continuous trauma sustained by the legs during walks, I am told, has unhealthy side effects that include fatigue, aches, and perspiration. Students are stressed and overworked, and adding to this load is unconstitutional at best.

     Golf carts are nice, cushy devices that will relieve this strain. Many may see this as lazy, unnecessary, and an overall inconvenience to those who are forced to enjoy the natural recreation of walking. This is not the case however, as it is a necessity to basic human function.

     The difficulty is that the school is not built for this, thus many students will have to drive in circles and maneuver around pillars in order to get a simple ten feet away. This may take hours and could cause many students to be late, but it is a necessary evil in preserving the well being of our extremities.

     A great advantage to this proposal, however, is the possibility of circling the school parking lot and smoking. This could be misconstrued as unhealthy and against school policy, however the occupation is extremely relaxing and worth further reflection.

     As well, there can be no more glorious a sound than that of a golf cart backing up. I, in fact, have this repetitive and divinely inspired harmonic as my ringtone. I also propose that Dr. Cho create a nine-part golf cart ensemble, strictly to spread the joy found in this mechanical tone.

     Nevertheless, there are many drawbacks that need be taken into account. For instance, as with the rest of the world, rush hour will be a problem, especially in regards to the commute to chapel. We may have to build a freeway across the campus to accommodate this inconvenience. However, an acceptable solution to this problem would be the addition of a carpool lane (making the campus more green, and garnering the North West’s respect). When looking at a golf cart there are many additional areas that can sustain human weight. Of course the passenger seat would be the first choice but others may include (but are not limited to) the back bumper, the front bumper, the side rail, and of course the roof. I myself have seen each of these locations utilized around our beautiful campus.

     In addition, a parking structure may be in order to provide space for all the parked golf carts. This will call for an increase in the amount of zealous, passionate Security guards working very hard to secure our vehicles. Nonetheless, it is obvious to see they will be forced to walk, since the increase in golf cart activity will decrease the possibility of Security-golf-cart-usage. Also, as mentioned before, with the addition of a golf cart parking structure we can be sure to see much more of everyone’s favorite sport, Operations’ Native-American-Inspired-Smoke-Signal-Polo. Yeah, I know, I am excited, too.

     I regret to report that there is a minute snag to this proposal. From several reports I have read, and after numerous interviews with leading physicists, there appears to be an eventual deterioration of the leg tendons due to excessive golf cart use (in spite of the health benefits linked to smoking). My sources report that this is, of course, not due to the infrequent use of the leg muscles (as many would have you believe), but rather a rare radiation produced by the golf cart motor. Despite this frightening degeneration, scientist’s report that continued and over-use of the legs will in fact destroy the leg muscles and tendons at a much faster rate.

     I regret, yet again, that this proposal will create a nuisance to Operations and Security as they travel across our handsome school. I mean, look at the size of this campus! However, I feel that their sacrifice in this time is necessary in preserving the legs of our youth. They can walk after all.

     I admit though, in the sincerity of my heart, that if even given such a golf cart to journey with back and forth, I would decline to use such vehicle as I enjoy long walks and what others may see as “unhealthy” exercise.

Well? Comments? Agreements? Laughters?

"Proposing a 'Swift' and Pretty Decent Proposal"

(Article to come two weeks from today. In which case, on that day, this post shall be deleted as it will no longer be necessary. Sorry for the inconvenience, and heartache over a post on this blog being deleted)

To clarify, this post is to fill for the posting of my upcoming opinion piece that I am very excited about.

I have recently become enthralled by Jonathan Swift's satirical essay entitled "A Modest Proposal." So much so that I have determined to write my own satire piece (published in our fair Hope International Tribune two weeks from today) in the vein of Swift's humor and intelligence.

I accept that I shall be a mere pebble in the shadow of a monolith, though I pray to God a pretty pebble at that.

To prepare for the greatest opinion piece I shall write whilst a member of the newspaper staff* I have posted a link to Swift's essay.

Be forewarned:

- it was written in 1729 in Ireland so the spelling and sentence structure is a bit different

- it is 6 pages long when typed into Word (single spaced, 12 point, Times New Roman), that's a 12 page exegetical paper roughly

- it is meant to critique the proposals made to solve the economic crises of the time (sound familiar?) and possibly the over population issues they were dealing with

- it is completely and undeniably ridiculous in all the points it makes

- it is very long winded, though this was the style of the time, it also increases the hilarity since his sarcastic proposal is so deep and intricate

- it uses harsh language such as vermin, filth, and famine

In addition, if you do not like 18th century literature or do not wish to read that much (I would implore you to rethink this since the essay is nothing short of utter, divine, satirical glory), please enjoy many other such literary pieces that may be a bit more modern.

Some acceptable replacements may be McSweeney's or The Onion.

An example of a great article from both may be Michael Ian Black's piece on eating babies (very similar to Swift's) and that bit about the Pope, abortion, fornication, and self-gratification.

Also I'm sure you can see that I found the link button. I'm a bit trigger-happy.

In conclusion: satire rules, and no one likes babies.

*This assumes that my "French Fries...I Mean C'mon!" article will be good, but not great; it also creates a loophole for any opinion piece I write in the coming years as a freelance; and assumes (as in ass-out-of-you-and-me) that you even care about anything I write (reading my blog does not prove that to me). Also, this does not imply that "Nerd is the New Cool" was not a great article, simply that a satirical article eclipses one about nerdom, however incredible all things nerd may be.

Bones of a Nightingale Update

For months now I have been talking about the poetry book I plan to self-publish on Lulu.com called Bones of a Nightingale. I said about three months ago that it would be done by the end of January.

Sad to say, it's not done yet. Not my fault.

Ok maybe it is.

The stumbling block is finding time. Not to write, all the poems are done, in fact all (I hope) of the formatting is done as well.

It's the cover. Niall and I went out to Ikea a month and a half ago (?) and took awesome pictures, if you haven't seen them check out the photo album "Niall Takes Pictures of Nathan" on my Facebook. If we're not friends, why the hell are you reading this?

Sorry. If we're not friends, I'm happy you're here.

Anyway.

The photos came out amazing, but Niall and I just haven't gotten around to taking the cover shot yet, which I'm actually happy for because he has been working really hard on other photos and learning how to age pictures and put really cool textures on them (if you haven't seen them go to hamskies.blogspot.com or click on "Petitioning the Open Sky" at the bottom of this blog). The aged look is what I really want for my cover, so I'm happy he's been working on that.

Niall actually told me yesterday that he plans to devote this week to me and while that hasn't happened yet, it most likely will either tomorrow or on Friday.

More to come on that.

So the title I actually really like (am I allowed to say "actually really"? Two words ending in "ly" right next to each other sound weird. Oh well, I'm the English Lit Major. As Alex says, "I do what I want!").

The title comes from two of my favorite quotes about writing. The first is from the song "The Engine Driver" by the Decemberists. It says:

"And I am a writer, writer of fictions

And I am the heart that you call home

And I've written pages, upon pages

Trying to rid you from my bones."

Originally I liked the title To Rid My Bones, but then Natalie Hewitt showed us this really cool quote by Percy Bysshe Shelley:

"A Poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds."

Thus, Bones of a Nightingale came to be. And now I'm waiting to take a picture of an empty gold-leafed frame with a gray polaroid inside.

Completely unrelated. Yet not. You'll have to read the book to understand.

And no, you cannot have a free copy. Lulu has to make money somehow.

Updates will follow. Hopefully the cover picture will be posted by Monday.

Sigh.