 Songs for the Soul
- by Harry Furness
-
- Bob "Bubba"
Church
-
Introduction
 Greetings
- and Happy New Year. This month I would like to share my admiration
and respect for one of the best writers that I've had the privilege
to meet and know. He is an internet writer; only working in the
ether medium because the print medium has not recognized his
talent and abilities. It's their loss and our gain. Bob "Bubba"
Church is someone who both recognizes and writes about the human
spirit. Mr. Church is no different than the other great American
poets that I have talked about.
His prose is a compendium of both the heights
of human endeavor and its absurdities. His poetry soars with
its sound of language. Mr. Church uses words much like a conductor
uses individual instruments combining their sounds to create
music that lifts the reader to appreciate the language of the
poem. We each are improved because we have heard his songs.
Bob Church - Some Facts
Bob Church was born in 1947 and grew up
in Denver, CO. Like many of the poets that I've discussed Mr.
Church has tried a number of life paths. He was a helicopter
pilot in Viet Nam. He hustled pool and even played Willie Mosconi
in a game. He spent time as a Colorado state trooper. He studied
pre-med and became a chemical engineer.
Mr. Church states that his writing is influenced
by the likes of Richard Brautigan and Jack Kerouac. But his prose
and view on American life can be best described as both influenced
by and carrying on the traditions and views of Mark Twain. He
has stated that his poetic view owes a debt to Gerard Manley
Hopkins and Charles Bukowski. However, Mr. Church has stated
that his major accomplishment in his life is his family and friends.
Bob Church - Some Facts as I see Them
(*usually I only use part of the author's
poem, but because most of Bob Church's poems are only found online,
I will use the complete poems)
Bob Church's poetry relies on his witty
expressionisms, employing paradoxes, puns, and subtle yet remarkable
analogies. His pieces are often ironic but never cynical, especially
regarding love and human motives. Common subjects of Mr. Church's
poems are love or sex, life and death, and the little absurdities
that make up existence.
Mr. Church's poetic meter and rhyme schemes
are structured with changing and jagged rhythms that sometimes
resemble casual speech. His work suggests a healthy appetite
for life and its pleasures, while also expressing deep emotion.
He does this through his use of human conceits viewed through
the lens of his wit and intellect.
"Fields of wildflowers grow close
within sight,
open in daytime and shut down at night,
but myopic vision sees nothing but doom,
their sweet-scented odor to me smells like gloom.
What changes can do this to natures' sweet
feast?
What once looked like beauty I now recognize least.
Proud heritage written in red, white and blue,
is now smeared with crimson, and tears flow anew."
("Glory In Requiem")
Mr. Church living for sometime in Missouri
has a deep affinity for Samuel Clemens,  Mark
Twain. His themes and characters share Mr. Twain's view of the
human condition - not the old jaded Mark Twain in his later years,
but the young Mr. Twain who had such hope and belief in the American
experience. Mr. Church and Mr. Twain seem to share the ideal
that even though mankind may be corrupt, individuals are worth
knowing. Individuals when you learn each of their stories have
the capabilities to enlighten each of our lives.
"I'm going to write you a poem this
morning,
as I listen to the blues and decide
if the sixty mile drive is really worth it.
Sure, Hannibal is where Sam Clemens grew
up (or so the history books tell us),
back in the days before he became another man entirely.
Personally, I understand why he left.
I look at Big Muddy and see only the white,
wind-blown tips of dollar signs
sparkling in the sun and filtering naturally to city shores,
each directed perfectly to neon signs featuring Sam's countenance.
Everything downtown gives reference to
the white-haired,
mustachioed patriarch of prose,
hideously mutating him with their quest for green.
These days, about the only folks unwilling
to take a buck
from the kind-eyed portrait is the Mark Twain Museum-
they now call Florida home. And so would Sam."
("Afterlife On The Mississippi")
Bob Church has been greatly influenced
by Gerard Manley Hopkins and he uses similar images and themes.
His language is often striking. His imagery can be simple, where
the comparison is between a hill and a tree. It can be splendidly
metaphysical and intricate, where he leaps from one image to
another to show how each thing expresses its own uniqueness,
and how divinity reflects itself through all of them.
He uses many archaic and dialectic words,
and will coin his own phrases when needed to capture a moment
in time, "water-lily flakes." He creates compound adjectives,
sometimes with a hyphen, but just as often without. This concentrates
his images, communicating the poem's perceptions (view-point)
to the reader. Every great poem is similar to a perfect triangle
with three equal sides defined by three points - the poem, the
reader, a universal idea.
"I look upon the raven hill,
With alders standing stark and still,
Beneath, betwixt my altered will,
Sweet reverence notwithstanding.
There stood for me a buttressed swale,
Inviting me to climb its trail,
Around, among the fall detail,
Glib reference remanding.
It's there I heard her call to me,
From back, behind an alder tree,
With naught but skylarks there to see,
Still deference demanding.
"Manley Hopkins, I presume?"
Called she, from manses deep with gloom,
Her voice a misplaced autumn bloom,
From high, atop a landing.
How could she dare to mistake me
For one of voice so pure and free
That mention of his name with mine
Might risk the gods' displeasure?
"I fear that you would chance defame
By uttering so profound a name
That any man would proudly claim,
When taken at his leisure."
The nymph appeared and stood before
My disbelieving eyes, now sore
So bright became her earthly glow,
Indeed, she was a treasure.
"Are you not he whom all can see,
Who lives in chastened harmony,
With boundless touch of land and sea,
And hint of mist for measure?"
With lowered head and furrowed brow,
I dared a smile'd escape me now;
Humbled, I could not help but bow,
And shake my head, "No, tis not I.
He wrote of Spenser and of Keats,
Mermaids wrought of nature's sweets,
Sonnets writ in measured beats,
Interchanging eclipse with splendor;
Crossing lines, his words imbue
Cleric virtues in attitude
Reserved for laity to choose,
Certainly not Society of Jesus."
Plum-purple west with spikes of light,
Speared open gashes, crimson-white,
And doggedly she denied the night
Opportunity to seize us.
She spoke of water-lily flakes,
Clustering on beryl lakes,
Reminding me what nature takes,
When last she opts to leave us.
"Gerard left his touch on you,
With gusts of scented wind that blew,
And antique Latin chants he knew,
He touched your quivering face.
Embrace his words as they were taught,
As they pass your lips you'll fear them not,
Revere them as you know you ought,
And they'll lend to you their grace."
To know dusk-depths of ponderous sea,
Or with miles of solid green, to be
One-tenth as profound as he
Is worthy as undertaken."
("Muse-Tryst In Elysian Field **Tribute to Gerard Manley
Hopkins")
Mr. Church is not only a master of many
forms of communications, but also very inventive and creates
his own forms when needed. He masters academic forms and invents
his own. The following is a sample essay that Mr. Church wrote
to define forms that fit his humouristic genius.
Little-Known Yet Nevertheless Important
Poetic Formats
Recently, we, as students of our craft,
have begun to explore our efforts to expand and more fully understand
the database of poetic formats developed over hundreds of years,
by poets of the world. It is imperative that every poet have
a mastery of the various forms and the ability to discern and
evaluate their efficacy as they relate to a specific work. Then,
and only then, can s/he successfully develop a style based on
ability and relative to form.
That being said, it is not without value
to point out the need for a dynamic, changing to develop and
institute its own contribution to the body of knowledge accepted
as integral to current poets. It is with this in mind that I
would endeavor to expand the working knowledge or arsenal, if
you will, of forms in use in our contemporaneous world.
1) The Pterodact
This form relies upon the ability to fly,
even though you're technically a
reptile, something akin to a flying squirrel (but without any
huge incisors
or fur… well, very little fur) and, it goes without saying,
you've been extinct for a few million years. The first line is
committed to either 4 syllables or four words
(whatever's available at the time and can be viewed from aloft),
the second
line is a dramatic extraction which MUST include the words "I
gotcha now,
asshole!", the third line is in some manner (you choose
how you want to do
it) metaphorically aligned with 'soaring' (but with no mention
of wings
flapping), and the fourth (final) line is devoted to 'ripping
the subject
matter apart' and 'feeding it to one's young'.
Example:
I see you down there,
You think you can be late on the child support, but I gotcha
now, asshole!
Run, sucker, but you can't hide-I found out where you hang…
Your next beer, I will drink as I make your kids mac and cheese!
Lovely, wouldn't you agree? Try it, I'm
sure you'll become fully absorbed in it, especially during times
of stress, such as while filling out court papers, bail-bond
assignments, etc.
2) The Sucker Punch
This is a form usually used as a tribute
to buying a used car or taking a second mortgage on one's home
to pay off credit cards and/or gambling debts. The form is basically
non-structure dependant, except that it must include at least
one threat to the 'offender figure' as developed in the work,
and be presented in an emotional (if sometimes guttural or profane)
utterance, the purpose of which is to declare the frustration
and futility present.
Example:
I go to work every day
Slaving just so I can pay,
I hope your dog dies,
No satisfaction in any way
As my costs I must defray
And all your teeth fall out except one
Help me, Lord, today I pray
To watch my children as they play
Then you get the worst toothache in the world!
3) The Whodat
This form was developed in the rural areas
of Louisiana and can now be heard in stadiums across the nations
during the fall, as bewildered fans attempt to understand why
a total idiot masquerading as a football coach would produce
so little in the way of offense and defense after paying gargantuan
steroid-rich behemoths an unspeakably exorbitant sum of money
to accomplish one simple feat that any reasonably-intelligent
and/or coachable schoolboy could master in five minutes or less…
I offer no example of this form due to my desire not to offend
the public at large. Suffice to say that it involves invoking
multiple curses and questions regarding a particular person's
sexuality or parentage. Although the Whodat form is largely used
as a performance art, it also works well when employed as the
subject matter for e-mails to the offensive individual(s). Several
sub-forms are evident in different (although regionally-exclusive)
locales, such as The YankeesSuck and The DaBears. More on this
later…
Sound and words matter a great deal to
Bob Church. He has described his intent as reaching for a feeling
of a poem by using the sound of language. He does this by inventing
sounds and using others in a form as to meet a meaning. There
is a similarity of sound capturing a thought. One hears the music
of each of the words that he uses to create a mood that elevates
the entire poem beyond words. And after all, that is what all
of poetry is striving to attain.
"Jai guru deva…
Simple thoughts cruise slowly by,
Dropping in to just say hi,
Inciting and inviting me…
Nothing's gonna change my world.
Lennon paid the price to say
His piece was peace for all to play,
A million eyes watched us dance our way
Just him and me across the universe…
Nothing's gonna change my world.
Endless rain, a million tears fall endlessly,
Beheld by all, yet blind to see
As doubt and trouble swallow me,
A million suns play calliope…
Jai guru deva… Om."
("Calliope")
"Tioux rivals once lived in Sioux
City
Who considered the other tioux pretty.
So each one took her knife
And the other one's klife-
Now which of the tioux dioux yioux pity?"
("Et tioux, Briouxte?")
Sometimes Mr. Church just wishes to construct
verse that seems silly or amusing. His wit and intelligence is
always his strongest ally. Some of his poetry is written to show
the humanity of us all by showing us our own foibles. Much of
his writing demonstrates that quick switch from the ordinary
to the extraordinary by folding in on itself, disarming us at
the end like O'Henry or Benchly would do.
"They say some days you eat the bear,
Some days the bear eats you.
I have no reason to believe
The saying is not true.
But as I sit around the bar,
Joking with my buddies,
I now regret I went so far
To complete my Ursine Studies.
Overall, the trip was really fun
I figured, 'Where's the harm
In leaving camp without a gun?'
I really miss my arm."
("Barely Bearable")
As Mr. Church has stated, "I would
encourage anyone to pick up a pen and open their mind. We all
have treasures that the rest of the world would like to know
about. I desire to look at situations that others take as common
place; put things on the outer realm of reality. I like to take
ordinary things to the next level."
I've tried to provide a broad-brush view
of Bob Church's poetry, themes, and artistic visions. He has
the ability to view the world and describe situations that are
meaningful to all of us. I would invite all of you to take the
time and search the internet for more of Mr. Church's creative
and inventive works.
Selected Bibliography - A few more Poems
Adagio (Parallelismus Membrorum)
The sun has set upon me,
And my moon came out;
I am cyclone's plunder
Under gentle breeze;
Though you would forget them,
memories linger on;
Make-believe gifts to open
Where real ones once lay.
Appellations of Winter Fruit
"Will you do me a favor?" she
asked,
lyrics sung above the din,
less clarion calls than soft, burrowing nuances
sent to touch that hidden spot,
that erstwhile need only she recognizes.
"Write me a poem…" she whispered,
more request than demand,
springing from desire, expectant… yes,
but worthy of so much more than I could
ever offer with my pale, lifeless tones.
"…doesn't have to be flowery",
she added,
as though in afterthought,
already preparing the bins for a bleak harvest;
sallow sprouts of not-quite-verdant yield,
sporting buds of ill-formed tufts.
So I offered the only crop that I can grow,
in fields past their prime,
hoping that dry flavor of winter wheat
can somehow blunt
the bitter taste of disappointment.
Light of Night, Light of Death, Light
of Haunting Baby's Breath
How is it known that a fading light dies,
but that the searching rays at last
find no entry through the gates of sight,
no harbor from the endless darkness,
no expressed need from the once-enlightened.
Wasted light wanders where it will,
never far evoked from its eternal source,
content to bounce while impetus gives it life,
even if not as its original will intended,
even if it bears no witness to its erstwhile power or glory.
Was it ever light for light's sake,
Sure of its mission and needless of praise,
Or fraudulent half-light,
Split by need and rent by desire,
Less than it could have been… should have been?
Or is fading light merely less wasteful
of dear resource,
A conserved evolution in chrysalis form,
Even now transforming its power to burst forth in future-speak,
Once again emanating its redundancies,
Illuminating surfaces whether absorbed or denied?
Perhaps it doesn't matter…
Story-Man Blues
Scaddely-womp a boo-bomp, da skat-man do,
Whatever the hell he want to do,
And he done do it to me and you,
Biddley-bomp a woo-womp, what you gon' do?
Scribbley-scree a shomp bomp, da blin'
lady sing,
Da tunes she be a-hearin' out dat skat-man's strings,
But she don' know the pleasure dat her singin' brings,
Wobbley-domp a shoo-shomp, she tell'd de tale on tings.
Shingley-dingley doo-domp, ol' Bristow
ring de bell,
He just sit real quiet-like and den he raises hell,
A'bangin' and a'clangin, dat man he dance so well,
Boogely-bee a womp-bomp, what a tale da man do tell.
Wordsmith's Lament
Writer without a story to tell,
Stuck down here in Writer's Hell,
telling tales 'bout men with one dimension
and lives filled up with made-up tension,
trying to jump off the pages
and falling flat on their faces.
Now I know what my teachers meant
when they launched my bleak experiment,
scientific method would be damned
and hypotheses could then expand,
but arithmetic means to geometric scenes
left my heroes stuck somewhere in between
characters whose interaction
serve as addition by subtraction.
Write, write, write at a frenetic pace,
dropping adverbs all over the place,
describe, depict, be sure to stay active,
keep your boys all smart and girls attractive;
inject your prose with superstitions,
don't end your thoughts with prepositions.
Be professional, goddammit all,
With every single word you scrawl,
turn lemons into lemonade,
devil's in the details (or so they say),
make every emotion heaven-sent
and load your stories with denouement.
I started out with intentions best,
who better than me to pass the test?
I'd soon have a big fat 3-book deal,
Escalade with chauffeur at the wheel,
Why didn't I foresee this mess,
After all, ain't I a genius?
Somehow it all went down the shitter,
but I plod on, I ain't no quitter,
it's a story I now know too well,
stuck down here in Hacker's Hell
writin' poems with lousy cadence
aren't a pleasure-they're a sentence.
Yea, I know the last line doesn't rhyme-sue
me.
Monty Video
Who are you, Uruguay, and why do you run,
unencumbered through my dreams?
Is your alpha the soft 'ooo' antithesis of your
harsh, guttural omega, or does the thumb
of sound-guilt point back at U?
I hear no contrition in your pronunciation,
either.
Only the mocking scorn of ages bereft of English,
contentment born of colonialism and nurtured by revolution.
You simply don't care.
It's obvious to the most casual observer.
So why should I care?
You obviously share none of my passion,
I'm naught but the Google-Search passerby,
your fourteenth, this month alone.
Your smugness sickens me.
Just know that I have feelings, too.
© Harry Furness 2008
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