My Body is a Forest-Oak/Torso

By Scott Vanya

Background: Five years or so passed after the production of "Revelation" (my first best of), so upon leaving my house and concluding my divorce, I felt it was time (and I was able to) step back and put together books of all the poems that really mattered to me. So I printed copies of all of them (over 1000 poems (leaving about another 900 for which I had no digital copies)) and began to edit and organize them so that I could pick out my favorite and/or what I felt were my "best" poems.

Very shortly there after I realized that I could not more "sort", i.e. A, B, C, the poems than I could say one of my children were my favorite over the other. So I searched for better analogies: what I came up with were Trees, to all of which i owe a great allegiance.

Over the ensuing three months, I was able to see sets of reoccurring themes, Love, Nature, God, Death, etc., as well as group them according to body parts. (I know more favored my right arm over my left, vice versa, nor they over my torso or head,. Without any of them i would feel incomplete.

Thus, 6 books were created: PECAN-HEAD, OAK-TORSO, CYPRESS-RIGHT_ARM, ELM-LEFT_ARM, WILLOW-LEFT_LEG, ASH-RIGHT_LEG, all of which I will publish as ebooks.

I am starting by publishing OAK-TORSO, because the poems included are the "nearest and dearest" to my heart. It includes the Long Poems, one almost forty pages long, as well as, all of the dramatic monologues I wrote for presentation at poetry open mics in Austin, TX (my home).

In closing, I say this: a human being is no more a single blade of grass (to borrow from Whitman) than he or she is a single role. We encompass many roles, and thus, are more akin to forests. And I, for one, freely and proudly, admit, "I am a tree-hugger."

Peace.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scott Vanya
• Release date: Apr 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311160799

Scott Vanya

I've been writing for a very long time, what seems like my whole life, taking it seriously from the time I was about 11. Now, at 46, I think I may be starting to get the hang of it: Say what you feel, as passionately as you can, but always with an ear turned to those who are listening.Most of my more serious work is done at live performances, which i do totally extemporaneously, channeling the mood of the room as my fingers play on the guitar. You can see some of that if you go to "my" website. (Open Mics Austin is a platform I created to showcase the Spoken Word scene here in Austin, TX. Only a small role in which i play.)As far as I can tell what makes good writing is LOVE. Love ,plainly simply, and with no strings attached.I put these words/books before you, not so much because I want something back from it, because I think and feel like I feel my bones and my soul, if you were to see the world, experience it like it do, for even a brief moment, you would walk away from that happier, more alive, compassionate and in tune with all those around you.Peace, good will, and harmony. Let those be your guiding light.Agape forever,Scott VanyaPublication Credits:Stepping Stones Magazine, The Main Street Rag, www.carcinogenicpoetry.com, Texas Art Initiative, Phoenix New Life Poetry, Walt’s Corner, Manna, Perigee, Chicago Literary Review, Mobius, Cosmic Trend, Pitchfork, Romantics Quarterly, Artisan, Pegasus, The Neovictorian, Red Owl, The Story Teller, The Blind Man's Rainbow, Atlantic Pacific Press

Book preview

THE WATER FROM THE WELL

A BENEDICTION

WEDNESDAY, November 24, 2010

FOR CAFÉ CAFFEINE, THANKSGIVING AND ALL MY POET FRIENDS

Dedicated to, inspired and made a whole lot better by Petra

-

I need a little help.

I need a lot of help.

I cannot master peace alone.

I need all of your hands, all of your ears,

all of your hands,

all of your ears,

to help it come out of me.

The Master has spoken to me

and as he wishes, I must do.

It is the only way

I can rest my head and gracefully

depart this wakeful Earth.

He is coming soon, and we must prepare

make our selves ready

if we are to receive him fully.

The words will choke me

as they come out.

They will catch

and I will stumble.

My body is just a vehicle

and I have no choice

but to step aside

and watch as

He does his work.

Some little boy drawing outside the lines,

I do not want to color in

anymore!

I want to sing out

until my soul is free.

I want to see past

the page, the paper, the pen

The moment that I am writing in

And start climbing

out of my own skin.

Be gone my desire for perfection and order

and all my painted works

Let me see each new moment

as my first creation.

Only then will He be a part of you

forever.

I will rush along, speed up my words

my body working to catch up with it,

His Presence that is to come.

It seems

it is always just ahead.

Let me slow down now, for a moment

count to three in my head,

[pause count in my head to three-VERY slowly]

and rest until it gets here

and the Master says to speak.

There is a water deep within me.

The bottom of the well

that is me,

I can not choose

the forks in the road that I am given

I can only choose which ones

I continue my journey upon.

As a poem speaks more to one

than another,

so I deepen each day as

the sun goes down.

Each dream a day darker, a day

deeper within me

the Truth must rise from.

Forty three years now

it has only deepened

with each new rising sun

and each new bed I lay down upon.

HELP ME GORDON, HELP ME TOM, HELP ME CHRIS, CRAIG, and BRADLEY!

HELP ME GENE and Jill

HELP ME, LEE and PETRA!

HE IS COMING AND I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO!

Lend me down a hand

And when I

get up

I will lend you down mine

Together we just might transcend

The walls of this daily well.

In the long deep tunnel down into my soul

the algae covers all the walls

so many dark and green and thick

layers of scum,

the harsh words I've spoken and shouted

the anger I rained down

upon my wife and son.

So much hate I cast there,

so much filth others dropped down into me

of days I've killed,

but could not reckon on.

Reach your hands, ALL OF THEM please

down into me and scrape off the scum.

Let's not be selfish

and keep our inner peace within!

Let's let our love

ring out of us

like waves from a bell,

or ripples on a lake

Free the Love inside us

tell one and all

To master peace is to give every breath and action

the meaning of a poem!

Ahhh,

Let it toll and know

that the only inner peace

is that given to another!

Joy to their lips

like a cool drink of water.

Ahhh, The Master comes!

Let not a drop of filth fall into my soul!

Let every bit of hateful morsel come out

as you scrape along the walls.

Be careful not to drop

even a single one!

It would taint the water!

And that is what you must drink upon.

Let it remain potable

And there for everyone.

I can already hear your swallow,

the rumble subsiding that moans!

Thank you, Master,

That was what I wanted

to suck upon.

The Master is coming

And with it

He brings Peace along.

Sitting on the bottom

on the stones and rubble

deep in the darkness

where all the moonlights

have come and gone,

a bucket,

a simple wooden bucket

with handle and rope

attached thereon.

So far above the wench,

so far above the wench!

I need you, see you, there too,

The Master is calling out to me,

is crawling out of me,

yet needs you to bring Him up peacefully

into the daylight sun.

I can hear his angels' trumpets blowing.

Harken, harken, harken

I believe you can hear them, too.

He is coming, My Master.

He is soon to arrive.

Be expectant, be pregnant

With 6 billion pauses

If you must.

Each poem is a well spring

That I run out of.

For NO poem is written

Without a bit of Truth and Love.

It is impossible to do justice without it.

For anything written without Love

Is not written by the hand of the Master,

and so holds no truth

And thusly is NOT a poem.

And just as Gordon, has his Old Soldier to channel

and Julian his Rafael

Tom his POEM ITSELF

and CHRIS his Road Toad friend,

in me there is a spirit

that rises

rises

transcends every dusk and dawn.

[Pause, catch your breath]

The Truth is here.

Not the bucket, but that that is in it,

for the bucket has a hole

and will drip little droplets

back into the well

saved for some other time

that We can not see

and do not know of.

The Truth is here,

it is the water

that quenches

what The Sun doth parch,

EACH POEM

DOTH BROADEN

THE VERY

HEART AND SOUL!

True to yourself!

True to the Poem!

Let the Audience Be Quenched!

Be near, says the Father

to his Daughter,

The Father to his Son.

The Truth is in The Water and in the drinking

The Master, One.

The bucket cannot be emptied

Even it some of you spill it on the ground.

Serve Love, Serve Truth!

Stare blindly into your destiny

even though in shadows it lurks!

Doubt scurries and

in the darkness intimidates.

The Fates huddle away in the corners

With all their hates.

Deny me, They