Veterans Day 2014

On Veterans Day 2014

 

Hot led balls from volleys of musket fire rip through the lines,

men fall on either side, some scream at the searing pain,

cannonballs tear arms and legs from bodies,

faces you know vaporize, still you struggle on,

 

across battlefields, through bayous, across plains and deserts,

freedom secured here, now go, into tropical mush

where malaria rises like steam, out across the world,

where screaming men thrust steel into your hearts,

 

cavalry charges give way to rolling tanks, rolling thunder

and thunder from the skies, death from above and

death from the juggernauts at sea, defiant, adamant,

you own the waves, the air, the land, in the name of hope,

 

freedom, of the people, by the people, for the people,

don't lose hope when the people don't remember,

they do, some do, enough to stand up, salute,

enough to shake your hand and say thank you.

 

 

Robert L. Vogel

Knoxville, Veterans' Day 2014

 

 

Writing in the Moment - Sculpting the Elephant

"Did you ever hear a guy telling a long wild tale to a bunch of men in a bar and all are listening and smiling, did you ever hear that guy stop to revise himself, go back to a previous sentence to improve it, to defray its rhythmic thought impact?" — Jack Kerouac on writing in the moment.

I'm not a planner. I hate control so much that when I make my own list of to do's, I avoid it. Over the years, I've had many teachers and fellow writers who talk about outlining their plot, building the novel planned piece by planned piece.

I've written all my life, but in the last two years, I've finished two novels and am revising them now. I have a third underway. What has inspired me is learning to allow my characters to tell the story. Rather than be a puppeteer who hopes that no one notices the strings - or the man behind the curtain exposed by the little dog, I try to let the story evolve and grow as the characters evolve and grow.

I recently read Stephen King's book "On Writing. I highly recommend it to all of you. He talks about putting characters into a situation and seeing what they do and writing it down. When I read that, a chime went off in my head. I do that. And the more I do that, the better my story becomes.  I may go as far as thinking about a thumbnail sketch of what happens next, but I never do more than announce to my characters that this is next obstacle you will have to overcome if you want to reach your goal.

I do have a fairly clear picture of what my character wants to accomplish by the end of the story. However, how he gets there, and how I might get there, how Dorothy would get there, or how any other character I've ever created would get there are all different matters.

For me, this is where the joy in the creative process comes from. I can get lost in these events as they happen for hours at a time. Mornings, afternoons and evenings disappear as I watch characters emerge as people and the people make their own decisions about what they should do and why.

The crafting process - which is how I think of editing. Has become a pleasure, too. When I go back, I can sculpt the raw scene and make it look more and more truthful for my character. I can take away the flaws that popped up through my inaccurate fingers. If I allow the character and his  purpose to remain true - real - truthful - then the story emerges as I cut out the stuff that doesn't belong.

I think of the editing process in terms of an old joke I heard:

"Do you know how to sculpt an elephant?"
"How?"
"Get a big block of stone and chip away anything that doesn't look like an elephant."

That's how I approach the crafting process, but only after the story is written - only after I possess the big block of stone.

Bob Vogel
Knoxville
October 5, 2014

Great Article - a writer walks into a bar - and he stays

http://www.themillions.com/2014/09/a-writer-walks-into-a-bar-and-stays.html

An American Beauty

 

 

She curves with feline grace and evokes

pangs of painful passion so powerful

the boys don't see her face and bushy hair

on steamy dark nights on lonely roads back seat, front seat,

it's always the same, and some come back, steadies;

but no parties, ever, no bright lights, no people gaily dressed,

no wedding receptions with tossed bouquets and white garters,

no church pot luck dinners or a cousin's backyard barbeque;

but sometimes in the shadowed huddles of a crowded bar,

the swill and smell of spilled beer in the back corner,

on a date, she lets them touch her, sometimes more than one,

she lets them; her father told her she took after her aunt,

his ugly sister, right before he left forever, her mother

told her makeup might help and low cut dresses, short skirts;

but the boys like her in the swirling maelstrom of lights,

in the far corner on the small stage she dances,

and sometimes she lets them touch her, and the pills help,

and she prays her baby girl will be pretty.

 

 

Robert L. Vogel

Knoxville, 2014

Testimony = a poem by Bob Vogel

Testimony

 

You know, I am a sinner.

And, don’t hear, “too” at the end of that

I am a sinner, but yes,

Like you.  Everyday, I am a sinner.

 

It makes me sad,

To be, because I want not to be

A sinner, like me, everyday, but how,

To be free, I know, really, I do.

 

But first, I must also tell you

That just because free is there

Does not allow me to go and do

What I do that I don’t want to

 

Oh, no, no, I do it in spite

Of the fact that I know better,

What I’ll say in a moment

Will set you free but it is not

 

A permanent hall pass, a get out

Of jail free card, the short line,

The lottery ticket, ace in the hole,

The whole enchilada, oh no, no

 

Because like all things, you know

For every action there is an equal

An opposite reaction, its not just true

In the physical world, God

 

Is consistent: things fall down when dropped,

Hands are slapped away from the cookie jar,

Ripples roll away from a pebble dropped in a pond,

Hate begets hate, gossip begets gossip, death begets death,

 

Truth is that truth is best and, sin

When confessed can be washed away,

I told you I would tell you how,

So, yes, washed away, and its free

 

Yes, its free, you can’t earn it, buy it,

Rent it, or pay it off, but there is a late fee,

That someone you don’t want to meet

Will collect after you die

 

Sorry, but you needed to know

It all, before you know the final truth

That your sin, like mine, can be washed away

And faith in Jesus Christ can save

 

Even me, so certainly, you, and He loves

Even me, so certainly, you, and can you just

Be loved? Can you just let Him love you?

Its okay, you deserve it.

 

I know, it doesn’t feel that way.

It feels like we are wayward children

Whose father would not forgive us

Even if we went to him to ask

 

Because we have done so many bad things

We can’t think of the bad things

Without feeling bad, so we try to hide

Us and them from Him: but don’t.

 

Really, you can’t, anyway.  If He is real,

And He is, He can see all things, so,

It is futile to hide what is already seen,

Just confess it and let it go.

 

And, if you were in front of your father now

And he knew all the bad things you did

Would you not go down on your knees in tears

And beg his forgiveness and, if you did…

 

Wouldn’t he forgive?  It is the same.

God forgives, just tell Him you want it

And why you need it and, it is okay to cry,

Because it hurts but it’s a happy

 

Hurt the kind of hurt that clears you head

And heart and life from burdens and you

Suddenly feel like you can jump up and run

And laugh, while the tears dry on your cheeks

 

So, go ahead, and cry and then laugh

Dance and celebrate, for as you are faithful

To confess, He is faithful to forgive,

Both of us, He is, and does, thankfully, Amen.

Redemption - a poem by Robert L. Vogel

Redemption

 The maelstrom behind me bellows and roars,

sucks in waves of anger and misery,
thunder threatens, lightening cuts
like a broken razor in a madman's hand.

Above, black bottomed clouds swirl

a dark reflection of the roaring vortex.
Sea swells reach over the bow
and wash cold across the deck.

I sail onward, onward and away,

through smoke colored fog that parts to reveal
pale shards of light then covers
itself like a dancer might flash and tease. 

On the horizon, a point of black rock,

the sea breaks upon it and explodes, spurts
of white foam dangle in the air
then fall, then vanish, lost in the mist.

Through the haze, I see a hillside,

palms that fringe a pale beach,
quiet waters caress the sand:
it disappears into the mist like a dream.

Haul the sheets, hold the tiller true.

Fresh winds grab the sail,
fill its belly like a woman in labor,
drive us through the roll of the sea.
 
All the speed, all the speed,
pile it on and drive us home.
Fear the storm, use its power,
fly from danger, fly from fear

to the promise out on the horizon,

the image that teases my soul, appears
in the fog that parts and patches and parts,
to the hope of still waters ahead.

Bob Vogel

6/28/14