Friends, I am grateful that inspiration continues to find me. Another free verse piece arrived, and I feel my recent writer’s block losing its grip. I hope you enjoy it!
As some of you know, this space is primarily for sharing my poetry and other creative endeavors; however, I will occasionally share my thoughts on works and artists that have enriched my life, hoping the work sparks something in you.
“He walked out in the gray light and stood and he saw for a brief moment the absolute truth of the world. The cold relentless circling of the intestate earth. Darkness implacable. The blind dogs of the sun in their running. The crushing black vacuum of the universe. And somewhere two hunted animals trembling like ground-foxes in their cover. Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it.”
McCarthy, Cormac. The Road. New York: Vintage Books, 2006
If someone were to describe the basic plot of The Road by Cormac McCarthy, it would likely leave most people uninspired and unlikely to look into the book for themselves.
In 2021, the idea of another story about the struggle for survival in a post-apocalyptic setting is yawn-worthy at best, and how could you possibly blame someone for such a response? The market is beyond oversaturated, with thousands of titles born of the concept. Though there may be the occasional winner, for my money, The Road stands alone as the work closest to perfection.
We join the central protagonist, simply known as The Man, and his son, The Boy on The Road, pushing a shopping cart containing all their worldly positions down a stretch of desolate highway somewhere in America. The sky is gray with ash, the trees dead and falling, wildlife, like most of humanity, virtually wiped out. A full explanation is never offered as to how or why the world came to be this way, which only furthered my curiosity for the story.
We’re quick to learn that the state of the world and the many challenges and dangers encountered by The Boy and The Man are secondary to their father and son relationship. It struck me as powerful in 2006 when I first read the novel, and in 2021, now a father of two, I find it devastatingly beautiful.
“He knew only that his child was his warrant. He said: If he is not the word of God God never spoke.”
McCarthy, Cormac. The Road. New York: Vintage Books, 2006
The exchanges between The Man and The Boy are simple, real, and perhaps the most underrated aspect of this book. The dialogue between a father and son facing impossible odds. The emotional investment of the reader comes quickly, the story rooting itself in the mind, the heart.
McCarthy’s use of language is masterful. Using as little punctuation as possible, his words find the page with an authority known only to a select few. All at once, beautiful and disturbing. Moments of extreme violence followed by a brief reprieve from the nightmarish landscape to be reminded of the beauty of a child’s curiosity and how we parents try to explain the world’s cruelty without crushing their wonder.
If you’re looking for not only a new read but an experience, I cannot recommend The Road enough. This is a book that will stay with you for years to come. You’ll revisit it when you’ve felt removed enough from the cold grip of its world, and you’ll hold every book that follows to a higher standard.
Safe Travels.
5 Stars.
“People were always getting ready for tomorrow. I didn’t believe in that. Tomorrow wasn’t getting ready for them. It didn’t even know they were there.”
McCarthy, Cormac. The Road. New York: Vintage Books, 2006
Another recently unearthed free verse poem, written a few months after my father’s passing. I was inspired to write about the comfort we find in art during times of uncertainty and pain. I’m happy it’s found a place.
This free verse piece was written around the same time as the bulk of the poems that make up my debut book, The Year that Stole the Light Away. I stumbled onto it this morning, and after seeing it with fresh eyes, I thought it would be nice to give it a home. A piece about the child that lives in us all: I hope you enjoy it.
The Child:
She remembers me from years ago, but I can’t say the same. She says her mind is troubled.
She tells me her mother ran off with her stepfather. They’re traveling the country in an RV.
She tells me she deserved more when her father died. Now that bastard gets it all!
She leaps from her chair and loudly re-enacts an argument, jabbing her finger into a phantom chest.
Her eyes fill with tears, and at sixty years old, a lost child cries out for her mother.
I hadn’t thought about this free verse poem in a while. Before the pandemic, one of my favorite places to write was a restaurant booth or in a coffeehouse somewhere- surrounded by lives being lived and the hustle of the day. The electric air thick with poetry.
Please, come back.
The Musings of a Future Yelper:
They’ve never been able to maintain a restaurant at this location, and many have tried.
It’s not a bad spot, either. Downtown, right on the avenue, the best bars within walking distance.
I’ve sampled every establishment that attempts to put roots down here. They’ve all been decent enough.
For whatever reason, the people won’t come. Sushi, Burgers, Piano Bar, it makes no difference.
I’ve sampled cuisine from four different countries and sat in the same shitty booth each time.
Outside, the rain falls steadily. It’ll be this way for the next several days, and I’m sad my daughter might not get her last train ride of the season.
Three men enter the restaurant and sit directly in my line of sight.
Above me, a TV plays sports highlights and when they watch, it feels like they’re staring.
Maybe they are? I’ve reached that elusive point in life where it makes no difference.
The burger and fries are too salty— what a shame.
My waitress asks how everything tastes, and I lie to make her feel better. She smiles her crooked smile and fixes her peroxide-blonde hair.
I ask for my ticket and she’s out of sight again. I begin to review my latest poem.
I’m writing about food a lot lately. I’ll be yelping before you know it.
Outside, the rain pours on, gathering into puddles and flowing down the drain.
Like all the wasted minutes in a life.
-Brandon White
The above poem, “The Musings of a Future Yelper, ” appears in my debut poetry collection, The Year that Stole the Light Away (Raw Earth Ink). Click the cover to purchase a copy!
I hope you’ve all had a great week! I’m a bit under the weather this morning, but nothing some rest and meds won’t fix. Here’s a newer, free verse poem that I thought you might enjoy.
Jagged:
I love you in fifteen-second bursts that feel like dreams to those of us who remember how
Do you know that kind of longing? The kind That sets souls to searching
the pages of books and unfamiliar hands? Those of us who do almost always return empty-handed
Just as I am now, here, in the long shadow of your love
Remember this moment when the old life calls to you again.
Remember your brokenness, and the promises you made in the dark.
Remember the final breath and the frantic heartbeat under your hand.
Remember how quickly a life, with all its complexity, can vanish.
-Brandon White
The poem above, “Promises,” appears in my debut poetry collection, The Year that Stole the Light Away (Raw Earth Ink). Click the cover to purchase a copy!
