Tag: Poetry

Words Fitly Spoken

This year I read Reflections on the Revolution in France by Edmund Burke. I was initially intrigued by this work because I was on a French Revolution kick brought on by reading through A Tale of Two Cities yet again. What I found was I became far more interested in the writing style of the author than the subject material. This mastery of the English language is also what makes me, and countless others, Dickensian disciples. Mr. Burke writes a series of letters to a “French Friend.” Thankfully his friend could read English. As the title implies, these letters are his well thought out reflections on the French Revolution, an event that he watched unfold. The reflections were published and widely read during Mr. Burke’s lifetime. If you study political science today, you will become familiar with Edmond Burke as a political theorist. But I think he ought to be studied for his formal writing style.

How often have you had a conversation with someone and after it is over you find yourself wanting to edit what you said? It happens to me quite often. It is much easier for me to craft a clear response if I can write it. I am far more likely to choose appropriate words when given the luxury of reflection. With discipline and that most valuable resource time, I believe that anyone can put their deepest thoughts and feeling into written words. And people used to make this a habit in the form of diaries, journals, and letters to actual people.

Why do emails feel so stuffy and written letters seem so personal?

Although I keep a journal, and if you use your imagination I suppose you can call this blog-what an ugly word- and form of journalism, I cannot remember the last time I wrote someone a letter. For that I am a bit ashamed. At the same time I cannot remember the last time I received a letter. Most of our communication with friends today is done via text messages, FaceTime, and decreasingly for my generation, phone calls. All of these forms of communication lack the forethought and planning that a personal letter requires.

Even so, I believe that words fitly written are mere practice for words fitly spoken. As I said before, anyone can write if given time and inspiration, but it takes a truly gifted communicator to bring forth a fitly spoken word in real time. Words are powerful. Maybe this is why public speaking is a common fear.

A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in pictures of silver. Proverbs 25:11

I am a long way away from where I want to be as an in person communicator. For that matter, I am a long way from where I want to be as a writer. But I am practicing. Thank you for allowing me to practice with you today.

The Southern Simile

Do you have a favorite Southern saying?

You could hardly call me a well traveled man. I have been to Washington D.C. though, and that’s got to count for something. In the course of my limited travels I have taken note that Southerners, especially those who have traveled less than even me, are unique communicators. They have ways of describing things that are marvelously effective. In short, Southerners are masters of simile. 

For instance, “Heavy as a widow’s heart”. Instead of giving an exact measurement, you get an idea of something with an unfathomable weight that also speaks to your emotions. Most of the Southern story tellers I know have enough of these pithy descriptions to sink a ship. It’s usually this aspect of their tales that draw the greatest reaction from a listener. I’ve done my best to curate a short list of my favorite similes to help those who might want to exercise the poetic nature of language.

-Ugly as pootin’ in church. It doesn’t get much uglier than that.

-Mean as a snake.

–Mean as a striped lizard. Be sure to pronounce striped with two syllables.

-Broke as a convict.

-High as a cat’s tail.

-Nervous as a cat in a room full of rockers.

-Colder than a mother-in-law’s love. To be fair, my Mother-in-law is great.

-Cold as a well rope.

-Hot as blue blazes.

-Crooked as a dog’s leg.

-Naked as a jay bird.

–Strong as half an acre of garlic.

–Tough as woodpecker lips.

-Goofy as an eight day clock.

–Crazy as an outhouse rat.

-Poor as Job’s turkey.

-Wild as a team of goats. This is something that you say about children.

-Screaming like a coon hunter.

–Slow as molasses.

-Rough as a cob. Takes on a new meaning given the fact that corn cobs were once used as toilet paper.

–Hang in there like a hair in a biscuit. 

-Dark as a sack of black cats. 

–Pretty as a pair of new shoes.

This is by no means an exhaustive list of similes, they sometimes only come to me when I need them. I’m sure some are coming to you right now and I’d like to hear them.

Thank you for reading. If it made you laugh, or cry, or remember someone that you love please share this with a friend. -Zane Wells

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My Mind Goes Back

When I squint into the early morning Spring sun

my mind goes back to getting up before daylight

to work all day with my grandfather.

Not knowing what the day would bring.

I just showed up to work, with eyes fighting sleep and the sun to stay open.

When I smell freshly cut grass in the late afternoon shade

my mind goes back to playing softball in the back yard

with the whole family and half the neighborhood kids.

A celebration after sweating behind a push mower for half a day.

When I taste a handmade hamburger at some hole in the wall diner

where no one cares about the health score hanging on the wall,

 my mind goes back to being a kid and going somewhere with my dad.

Just me and dad.

I smile and think of him as I take a bite, he would have liked this.

When I hear hammer of diesel engine and smell it’s aromatic exhaust

my mind goes back to working odd jobs on construction sites with my older brother.

Dust is flying in the air and the sun is going down or coming up.

We worked all day.

When I hear the cawing of a crow breaking the still, clean air on a cold fall morning

my mind takes me back to the quiet frosty cotton fields behind the house.

When I drive on a rough neglected back road,

my mind goes back to the river loop.

Now I’m on the way to the boat launch with Zach and Dad.

Or on the way home from the tiny Chinese buffet across the river with the whole family.

When I smell years of stale cigarette smoke in a time capsule house from the 50s my mind goes back to my grandmother Ida Lang’s.

When a familiar musty smell escapes as I open an old book in some quiet bookstore, my mind goes back to laying in the floor reading through the ancient encyclopedias.

When I hear just about any song my mind goes back to first time that I heard it.

Some songs have a stronger memory attached to them.

And yet, sometimes my mind goes back on it’s own.

A feeling that’s hard to explain.

Sometimes I think I go back to a place that I never was, and when I get there, I am sad because I was not there the first time.

There are places that my mind takes me back that I don’t want to go.

Then there are places that my mind can’t take me.

Ah, but other times,

my mind goes forward.