Archeology of Poetry

Today, my wife and I watched a program about Chavaut Cave in France. “The Chauvet-Pont-d’Arc Cave in the Ardèche department of southern France is a cave that contains the earliest known and best preserved figurative cave paintings in the world, as well as other evidence of Upper Paleolithic life. It is located near the commune of Vallon-Pont-d’Arc on a limestone cliff above the former bed of the Ardèche River, in the Gorges de l’Ardèche. Discovered on December 18, 1994, it is considered one of the most significant prehistoric art sites and the UN’s cultural agency UNESCO granted it the World Heritage status on June 22, 2014.

The cave was first explored by a group of three speleologists: Eliette Brunel-Deschamps, Christian Hillaire, and Jean-Marie Chauvet for whom it was named. Chauvet (1996) has a detailed account of the discovery. In addition to the paintings and other human evidence, they also discovered fossilized remains, prints, and markings from a variety of animals, some of which are now extinct. Further study by French archaeologist Jean Clottes has revealed much about the site. The dates have been a matter of dispute but a study published in 2012 supports placing the art in the Aurignacian period, approximately 32,000–30,000 BP.”

As I, via the television program, deeper into the cave, I was overcome with excitement. I was steeping into a place of mystery, wonder, and art; yet still very human. Strangely, I am overcome with the same excitement when I write poetry: mystery, wonder, art, and humanity. Am I a good poet? That’s for others to decide, people far more intelligent that I am. Still, I write to tap into the mystery that poetry holds for me. It’s wonderful.

July’s Last

Today, I spent far too much time peering through my living room window, through this hot July afternoon. Still, it was, I think, time well spent.

July 31, 2015 – 4:35pm

Sunlight trickles
over the broad

and pools

on the dirt

the white rock
where a sparrow

for a breath,

to splash
in the afternoon.


Banished Dwarves of Erebor

I’ve been lost again, lost in worlds that don’t exist, made real in my imgaination.

The Lonely Mountain. Within lies the Kingdom of Erebor.

Forgotten Song of the Banished Dwarves of Erebor

Deep beneath the sun’s warm light,
under the mountain’s craggy heights,
where dark halls carved within the stone
are now the tombs of brothers’ bones,

we make our way with rusted steel,
afeard too long, we’ll have our will,
to face the dragon, lord of might,
seal Smaug’s heart in death’s cold night.


Inspired by today’s Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Fourth Wall.”


In my previous post, I discussed the primary reason why I write. Here, I explore why I often avoid writing or simply fail to write. Here are two reasons, two reasons I believe all writers need to grapple with.

1. Time – I possess little of it. A teacher, a professor, and husband, and a father, I write when I can. Poetry has become my chosen venue of creativity because I can complete a poem in a relatively short amount of time. Fiction? That’s a more difficult beast to tame and, generally, I don’t have the time to sit down and craft a story (though I am trying).

2. Doubt – Yes, I am a very good teacher, but a writer? Me? A writer? Sometimes, I find it difficult to believe myself. Indeed, I receive my share of rejection, but all writers face rejection. I need to have tougher skin. I need to dip my shoulder and plow forward (when I have time.)

So, writers, can you empathise?