A Nod To Derry’s Son

This piece was originally published by The Closed Eye Open in February, 2022. I hope you enjoy this addition to my portfolio, and let me know what you think. Interacting with this post helps more people see my poetry.

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A Nod To Derry’s Son

Derry, New Hampshire was the longtime home of Robert Frost. This poem is in dedication to my favorite poetry book: North of Boston, and his poem October.

A nod to him whom attended Lady Derry’s autumn tempests, gyrating orange and red and yellow leaves, dancing alongside stone-walled pastures, caroling in voices divine.

Beneath a chimney smoking, her singing overheard, the man north of Boston, stirred.

With his pen he picked and plowed and tilled her mysteries, and, in return, a thousand rhythms’ ineffable conceived expression.

Her rolling hills and tree lined cathedrals, he interpreted.

In his toil, she delighted.

For he, the Poet, penned psalms performed by the winds and cries he earwigged from her cold, autumn skies.

To him whom attended Lady Derry’s autumn tempests, a nod is given.

—W. Alexander

Other Writings:

Escape Second Death

This poem was originally published in June, 2021. This is my first published work. I am reposting it on my blog, because hundreds of new followers may have not seen it. Together, we have come a long way in six month(ish). Honestly, I’ve received so much positive feedback over the past year that I just had to send this emotional poem out into the world again. Let me know what you think in the comments. Click here to read the original post.

This poem is published in the poetry anthology, Its Not Easy by Poets’ Choice.

Six feet under sixteen tall lilies, Man considers eternity.
Eternity’s ears hear no more the lamentations from Man’s regrets.

Regrets forgotten even by sixteen green stems, but Time—the grave gardener.

The grave gardener mows not, plows not, and sows not; He litanies.
He litanies as earth buries her one truth: Man wastes with worms.


Worms tunnel the clay and mud and brains and veins of Man’s forgotten pains.
Pains the gardener annals away, to be read on heaven’s judgement day.
Judgement day, asterisk of eternity, hour saved to open graves.
Graves untilled will break open—Man soars above lilies; He’s heaven’s chosen.


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N.L. Blandford: On Writing

“People can shy away from topics because they are hard, and it can be easier to call them dark, rather than truth, or an aspect thereof. I believe that it is in the dark that we can really start to understand the true nature of our world and its people.” —N.L. Blandford

The Day god Died: Chapters I & II

“…I hated him and his kind. I hated his affluence, his expensive clothes, his chiseled looks, and the arrogance he was born too. But most of all, I hated the power he held over me, his assumption of authority, and the truth of his superiority.”

Book Review: Ordinary Genius, A Guide for the Poet Within

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Ordinary Genius: A Guide for the Poet Within by Kim Addonizio

My rating: 4 of 5 stars


I found Kim Addonizio’s book fascinating. I had very little knowledge of what made good or bad poetry before reading this. For example, I never knew the rhythm underneath the iambic pentameter and many more meters. I love poetry; I love writing poetry; I love reading poetry. I wanted to appreciate this divine-language-of-the-gods more, because the more you know, the bigger your writer’s toolkit. So, therefore, much of what Kim covers can be adapted to your creative writing pursuits.

This book is a must-read for anyone curious about writing poetry, or like me, who desired a more intimate understanding and relationship with the craft. After reading this book, you will have quite the sophisticated understanding of how poetry works. It is worth buying!

The book is, also, replete with great examples. I do think even the most accomplished poets will enjoy this book.

I definitely recommend it to my fellow creatives, and anyone else who wants to get poetry. In fact, the first poem I wrote after finishing the book was published—link below. Thank you, Kim, for your inspiration, encouragement, and introduction to all things poetry. You changed my life!

Happy Reading,
www.w-alexander.com



View all my reviews

W. Alexander’s Published Poetry:

Escape Second Death: A Poem

This poem is published in the poetry anthology, Its Not Easy by Poets’ Choice. This is my first published work.

Six feet under sixteen tall lilies, Man considers eternity.
Eternity’s ears hear no more the lamentations from Man’s regrets.

Regrets forgotten even by sixteen green stems, but Time—the grave gardener.

The grave gardener mows not, plows not, and sows not; He litanies.
He litanies as earth buries her one truth: Man wastes with worms.


Worms tunnel the clay and mud and brains and veins of Man’s forgotten pains.
Pains the gardener annals away, to be read on heaven’s judgement day.
Judgement day, asterisk of eternity, hour saved to open graves.
Graves untilled will break open—Man soars above lilies; He’s heaven’s chosen.

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I am Published!

I am published, well soon-to-be anyway. My poem Escape Second Death, will be added to PoetsChoice’s new anthology book It’s Not Easy. I admit, I did not consider that my first published work would be poetry—I am a prose guy. However, I am excited, thrilled, and intoxicated from seeing that Accepted on my Submittable; I feel validated. Details are still coming.

Writing everyday is the dream. Writing is my pulse. I am excited to finally be able to answer the dreaded question, “Are you actually published?” with a, “Yes!” I pray this poem is the first among many, of my works, to find itself in front of readers. I am blessed and humbled, and, perhaps, way too excited over a minor publication, but, to me, it is the first points-on-the-board; I shot a three from deep.

I am not sure what I can post about the poem, so, I won’t be providing a copy of it here, until I know more about what I can do. Of course, once it goes into print, I will shout-out to everyone.

Life:

My wife and I have been buried in renovations—we don’t know why we decided to do so much at once—and the last two weeks has been filled with family and other strains on my time—volunteering, Church, favors and commitments, etcetera. My writing has really dropped off. Hoping for the routine to spark again soon.

Some Updates:

Next week, I will be in Acadia for the week. N.L., Blandford will be taking over my blog. She is a great author, with a debut release, and will share her insight and wisdom with you in the upcoming post.

Miniver Cheevy, by Edwin Arlington Robinson

This week’s post is short, but not without your consideration. So, I have shared with you a poem that I adore; a poem that I very much identify with, and, I confess, is remarkably as close, as any poem ever has been before, to a portrait of my personality. To read this poem is to know who I am. I only wish I wrote it, lol.

Photo: imgur.com
Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn, Grew lean while he assailed the seasons; He wept that he was ever born, And he had reasons.
Miniver loved the days of old
When swords were bright and steeds were prancing; The vision of a warrior bold Would set him dancing.
Miniver sighed for what was not, And dreamed, and rested from his labors;
He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot, And Priam’s neighbors.
Miniver mourned the ripe renown That made so many a name so fragrant; He mourned Romance, now on the town, And Art, a vagrant.
Miniver loved the Medici, Albeit he had never seen one; He would have sinned incessantly Could he have been one.
Miniver cursed the commonplace And eyed a khaki suit with loathing; He missed the medieval grace Of iron clothing.
Miniver scorned the gold he sought,
But sore annoyed was he without it; Miniver thought, and thought, and thought, And thought about it.
Miniver Cheevy, born too late, Scratched his head and kept on thinking;
Miniver coughed, and called it fate, And kept on drinking.
                                                                                                                                                         1910

Side note: Minutes ago, I submitted my last paper for finals. I calculated that I have written, in the past two weeks, fourteen-thousand words. Of course, that is what I kept in revision, and I am not counting anything written outside of academia.

One of my poems: