When I started this blog, I said I was going to write a little bit of everything I really like to write. And there is some stuff that I get absolutely jolly writing. There’s nothing like capping off a sports column with that perfect last sentence, that last neat little stitch to bring it all together. There’s nothing like learning something big about your faith and then finding a way to put that life-lesson into words. There’s nothing like inventing a new fictional character in your mind that even you yourself find interesting, funny, complex and mysterious.
But to be honest, sometimes my column feels like a chore. Sometimes I go months without telling people what’s going on in my walk with God. And most of the time, I want to punch my main fictional character in the face, because he’s just a bad metaphor for my life and he can’t gain his own independence and have his own unique personality (which is what good fictional authors can do). When it comes to those forms of writing, I often have to dig down deep and pull something out of myself… and though it’s exhausting, when I find the discipline to do it, it’s always very rewarding.
Yes, readers, I’m going to finally admit one of my most awful secrets to you: my favorite writer is myself, and my most loyal reader is me. I get a tingling feeling when I read my own stuff; I’d imagine it’s sort of what doing crack is like. Nobody thinks I’m wittier and craftier with words than I do. Seriously if anyone has a good shrink they should call me, because as you can see, I’ve got some ego-issues going on. But hey, admitting it is the first step right? But even more seriously I think all writers have to have this confidence and satisfaction on some level (although my levels are admittedly are a little high).
Personal Hamartia aside (if you don’t know what Hamartia means, Wikipedia that bitch) I’ll get back to the point. That a lot of the writing I do sometimes feels like pulling teeth. But even though it feels like I have to dig a lot of this stuff out of me, there’s one form of writing that has always just flowed out of my pen onto the paper, or came in a text message to myself, or that taps itself out on a little document I’ve had open on my computer for four years saved under “Playonward– Cause for Effect” (playing on the phrases ‘pause for effect’ and ’cause and effect,’ you have no idea how much I stroked my ego when I came up with that one).”
What I’m talking about is the writing form of poetry and lyrics. Since my freshman year of high school it’s something I just have to do or I’ll burst. Come to think of it, it’s a lot like peeing. I never really know if I’m writing poetry or song lyrics, but when it’s three in the morning and my mind is roaring like a Harley, I know I won’t be able to get some Z’s until I grab my phone, open a text to myself, and see what knots my head is trying to untie.
What happens as I furiously tap those little button on my En-V3 is a rush I can’t explain. A kind of trance or orgasm of the brain. What I’m left with is an explanation to myself I’ve been working out for days, weeks, months, and sometimes even years. I wrote a poem about my relationship with my late-father on the 20th anniversary of his death that I’d been trying to capture the complexity and feeling of since my freshman year of high school.
If my other writings are what crack is like, poetry is to me, the brief moment of clarity I’d imagine someone gets when they smoke meth. I still remember the first truly satisfying poem/lyrics I wrote in a text message to my brother one day the summer after my freshman year helping my Dad fix fence on the ranch. Back in 2005 I’d just got my first iPod and was finding my own unique taste in music– listening to a lot of Dashboard Confessional, Fall Out Boy and The Starting Line. That angsty teenage music about how girls are the source of all their pain and all their joy. And though it’s childish, I remember thinking that Chris Carrabarra (the lead singer of Dashboard) was like the Hemingway of angsty teenage music. So naturally I wanted to be like Chris (I don’t so much anymore).
I opened a text to ‘Mitch’ and wrote the following lines, “What goes around comes around and kicks you in the back of the head, I’m chasing your tail, which has me chasing mine instead.” Yes it was very 15-years-old of me. But hey, that’s what 15 year olds do right? I had officially started my mission to figure out how to deal with this angst and ultimately conquer it. Once I hit send I didn’t stop the rest of the day. “Alright bro, here’s another one: ‘Your skating on thin ice and I’m under water with a blow torch to bring you down.'” It was a bad imitation of Chris Carrabarra, but had Mick not been a good older brother and texted me back telling me they were really good, I’d probably still be looking for some form of my identity to this day. In fact, I owe most of my confidence as a writer to Mick (and for that bro, I can never repay you).
Eventually I became competent enough with a guitar to start writing songs. I wrote my first song the second semester of my freshman year at WSU and haven’t gone three months without writing one since. I’d estimate I’ve partially written about 40 songs and have finished about 25 of them, putting me at about a completed song once every six weeks. It’s something I have to do to keep my sanity.
With that in mind, I’d like to start consistently sharing with my small handful of faithful readers, where my true heart for writing came from. I’ve posted a few poems on here before, but I’d like to make it a more regular occurrence. So I’m going to start a series title, “Lazy Saturday Poetry.” One poem will be posted by yours truly at 12 pm Pacific Time every Saturday.
And when you read them, know that the writer your interacting with felt nothing but bliss and exhilaration as he wrote the words. That he was refreshed and not drained as he hammered them out. That even though writing his sports column was like doing layup drills, or writing about his faith felt like practicing free throws, or the short story your reading came from countless hours studying film– the poetry your taking in, was to him like all that hard work paying off as he took the court for the big game.
Below is the first ever edition of the Lazy Saturday Poetry series. I wrote it in church last week. It by no means stands out from the dozens of other poems I’ve written on this exact subject; trying to motivate myself to conquer my pride, and remind myself that only Jesus Christ has the power to do that. But in a way it’s kind of a classic Charlie poem. A good way to introduce you to my style: pure, flowing vulnerability.
Lately I’ve been trying to write some poems that have a rhyme scheme that’s more complex than my natural Mother Goose style. I’ve been playing around with structure, punctuation and capitalization more, and learning how to make something flow that doesn’t necessarily rhyme, or at least rhyme all the time (you see, I can’t help myslef). And though I’ve made strides in this department, I’ve come to the realization that sometimes a poet just needs to be true to himself and his natural style. I hope you enjoy it.
Why The Wine is Red
See your face, and I shake like a quake.
The center of the flock breaks,
And the lambs disperse in every which way.
But the shepherd speaks a stern command:
We can be united again,
When you come back and feast from the palm of my hand.
Will you wait for me to find you or will you wander in the land?
If you’d ever stop screaming you could hear me calling back.
Calm down and come back.
You get a little closer with the tiniest of steps.
Deliverance will find you when you eat the bread,
And remember why that wine is red.
Go back to all the times where you thought your soul was dead.
And you prayed that sweetest phrase,
“I swear I’ll start living it.”
I don’t want another start, I just need another chance.
One more day to sing a song, strip off my clothes and dance.
Another night to ponder stars and praise how small I am.
I’m just a man without a plan because instead I chase my dreams,
That Christ would take my life until there is no more of me.
So I bid good riddance to that sore in my eye.
That swollen, black, pride.