Oh Lookhence, an Update!

Sorry for such a boring week, you guys. :P I had the best of intentions, but those often fail in the face of DUNDUNDUNAPATHY.

Here's what happened. Yes, this is IN OTHER NEWSSSS!!!

Tuesday: I went to my great-grandpa's funeral. I didn't cry until the military honor guard played taps. My grandpa served in the infantry reconstructing Japan in WWII, so he got a military funeral, which was incredibly moving and utterly AWESOME. Yes, I cried a single glistening tear at the sound of the trump (the guy was a pretty good trumpet player). Then we had our family luncheon at Wendy's and went home, because we were all wearing black and it was 94 degrees outside.

As we were getting in the car to leave the graveside service, my dad came up with a poem:

My grandpa died.
I cried a single glistening tear. 

He likes to take my poetry and turn it into a two-line poem that says basically the same thing as the full-length poem. Show-off...
So I decided to one-up him:

My grandpa died.
I cried. 

Wednesday: I had my job interview for that paid graphic design internship. I was pretty stressed out, I must admit, but I think my chances are pretty good. I'm being optimistic.

Thursday: My aunt is moving, so my sister and I drove out to help her pack boxes and such. Fun fun fun...

Friday: First, the library, then a 3-hour pool party where I let a bunch of 9-year-old boys beat me up. My shoulders are so sunburned it's not even funny, but I'm not complaining. It was a fun party!

So today, since I have so much less going on, I am finally going to put up a poem.

ALSO: For those of you who are wondering about the poetry contest, I'm going to hold off until I have more interested people. So... if you want a poetry contest, direct your poetic friends to my blog! (Yes indeed, that was indeed a shameless plug for followers).

When I end up having a poetry contest, the theme will be "Personal Histories: Your Life in Poetry." That is, unless I change it.

Today's poem is a reworked piece that EAL suggested I write. The original piece can be found here, and the style is inspired by Kevin Routh's poetry. I thought I might try writing a poem that's a little bit more... well, streamlined, I guess you could say. Less wordy.
 

Lifeblood

This
Is
My
Life
Blood
You’ve splashed ‘cross the floor,
It pools there in droplets
For us to adore.

This
Is
My
Life
Blood
I’ve splashed ‘round in ink,
I leave it to tell you
What it is I think.

Guest Writer: A Glimpse into the Soul of Kevin Routh

Welcome, welcome everyone, to Illiterations' very first guest writer! (If I had a clapping track, I'd play it here. You can applaud now as you read this if you feel so inclined).

Today's feature is the brilliant Kevin Routh, a father of 3 who lives outside of St. Louis, Missouri. He has been writing poetry for many years and has only recently begun to share his writings with others through his blog, Shards: The Poetry of Kevin Routh.

I was personally very impressed with all or Mr. Routh's poetry, as well as with his prose. Each piece is completely different, yet all have the same, unique style. My personal favorites are "Connor" and "Plastic People." These two poems, as well as the two featured here, reflect a critical observer of society, a bit of a jokester, and a loving man and father.

About his poetry, Kevin says:

"I strive to connect to human emotions and the human condition through my poetry. Some of my poems are happy, some angry and some are sad - but all of them are honest. They are all small glimpses into my soul."

Without further ado, I present to you "Memories" and "Poetry Is..." (and commentary on aforementioned poems) by Kevin Routh.

This is probably the hardest poem I ever wrote. I’m never ever quite sure what’s going to happen when I go back through my life and start poking and prodding at old scars. Even though it was painful, I really like how this piece turned out.

Memories 

little boy
5 or 6 maybe
trust me
(he whispers)
i love you
(he lies)
the house is filthy and dark
(like him)
little boy
concentrates on a cockroach
skittering back and forth across the floor
(instead of the pain)
the rancid breath
(cigarettes and gum disease)
the violence
followed by tears
(and apologies)
(and threats)
little boy
closing memories
(and shame)
behind locked doors

I took a literature class once and the professor, a tall, lanky (stork-like) fellow, asked us to write an essay defining poetry. Instead of the essay, I wrote this poem. I never really was one for following directions.

Poetry Is…

Poetry is?
The Stork asks,
his beady eyes darting to
and fro.
omigod!
I do not know –
I DO NOT KNOW!

He stands there on one leg asking me
to define the indefinable.
What is Poetry?
Some sort of verse?
Must it rhyme? Must it flow?
omigod… I don’t know!

The stork paces,
waiting for my answer,
waiting for me to speak.
If I don’t tell him,
he will gouge my eyes with his beak.
I hear the tick of the clock:
Poetry is… Poetry is… Poetry is…

I bet Whitman could have told him,
even Tennyson, Keats or Thoreau…
But as for me,
I do not know.
I do not know.

 Like what you've read? Read more at kevinrouthpoetry.blogspot.com!

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