Brian Vogl
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I was born on the North side of Chicago and remained there until my
junior year of high school when my parents sent me to boarding
school; I suppose I had a few authority issues as an adolescent. My
new home was the Oliverian school of Haverhill, New Hampshire
where I was one of 55 students on a beautiful 1,800 acre lot the middle
of the Appalachian Mountains. This is where I took my first class
dedicated to poetry and where I decided to make it my main focus of
study, and upon my graduation, I as awarded the "Excellence in
Poetry" achievement.
As a kid I grew up reading children's poetry books, you know the
compilations of light-hearted, humorous poems. However, the first
encounter I had with composing a poem came in the 6th grade when I
wrote a tragic sonnet that dazzled my teacher and parents. Since then, I
have retained a love for it as an art and a hobby. As of now, I am a
junior enrolled in the Creative Writing Program at the University of
Montana still doing what I love.
junior year of high school when my parents sent me to boarding
school; I suppose I had a few authority issues as an adolescent. My
new home was the Oliverian school of Haverhill, New Hampshire
where I was one of 55 students on a beautiful 1,800 acre lot the middle
of the Appalachian Mountains. This is where I took my first class
dedicated to poetry and where I decided to make it my main focus of
study, and upon my graduation, I as awarded the "Excellence in
Poetry" achievement.
As a kid I grew up reading children's poetry books, you know the
compilations of light-hearted, humorous poems. However, the first
encounter I had with composing a poem came in the 6th grade when I
wrote a tragic sonnet that dazzled my teacher and parents. Since then, I
have retained a love for it as an art and a hobby. As of now, I am a
junior enrolled in the Creative Writing Program at the University of
Montana still doing what I love.
A Chilling “Pop!”
Leaves me sleepless, complicated.
A citified matron slams her car door down the block
Nauseated, on the fringe,
Outwitting the inheritable
With contrary labor, she
is no sleepwalker slip-up;
Always quiescent, engaging
Evidence decorates her eyes. “Keep
Tidy your ingot! Keep safe
The receipt.” She’d say.
This half-dollar game
is no hoax. There is little
to gain from the dusty
draught that detains me. The television portrays
masterly men, gallant
it slithers subliminal
into my tinted windowless room.
The press serves like
a quick antiperspirant.
Sit motionless.
Mind maladjusted like turntable
Furniture litters, cockades the evening
Premise. Painless initiative guides
like a bird nursing
On Psittacosis.
Ode Two Wives
How her legend precedes you
Sun-dazed eyes dimmed like embers
Now sleeping away the night
And how we dance
Like a run-down movie
Dawdles and how you have
Hardened like her perfect flesh
Wounds me and scabs you
O and how the O
Would bring down heaven
And O the magic of her voice
But your song has drowned
By songbirds, no, seagulls
Strikingly similar
How her legend precedes you
Resurrecting a Poppy
To Hopkins
Seven or eight months ago the sun faded
Snuffed out like dawn in a snow storm
Or a plane ride home
Her dregs laid down its heavy blanket
His weakened eye winced
As a drowsy evening rides West
Seven or eight months ago my color faded
Like a red fruit evicted, rots and waiting
For its resurrection
Waiting,
I can’t kick it, or I would. I’d kick it to death
And burry it in my front yard where it would wait.
Seven or eight months ago I faded
Into an im-patient infirmary
Still, in a white bed upon a white floor in a white box.
Leaves me sleepless, complicated.
A citified matron slams her car door down the block
Nauseated, on the fringe,
Outwitting the inheritable
With contrary labor, she
is no sleepwalker slip-up;
Always quiescent, engaging
Evidence decorates her eyes. “Keep
Tidy your ingot! Keep safe
The receipt.” She’d say.
This half-dollar game
is no hoax. There is little
to gain from the dusty
draught that detains me. The television portrays
masterly men, gallant
it slithers subliminal
into my tinted windowless room.
The press serves like
a quick antiperspirant.
Sit motionless.
Mind maladjusted like turntable
Furniture litters, cockades the evening
Premise. Painless initiative guides
like a bird nursing
On Psittacosis.
Ode Two Wives
How her legend precedes you
Sun-dazed eyes dimmed like embers
Now sleeping away the night
And how we dance
Like a run-down movie
Dawdles and how you have
Hardened like her perfect flesh
Wounds me and scabs you
O and how the O
Would bring down heaven
And O the magic of her voice
But your song has drowned
By songbirds, no, seagulls
Strikingly similar
How her legend precedes you
Resurrecting a Poppy
To Hopkins
Seven or eight months ago the sun faded
Snuffed out like dawn in a snow storm
Or a plane ride home
Her dregs laid down its heavy blanket
His weakened eye winced
As a drowsy evening rides West
Seven or eight months ago my color faded
Like a red fruit evicted, rots and waiting
For its resurrection
Waiting,
I can’t kick it, or I would. I’d kick it to death
And burry it in my front yard where it would wait.
Seven or eight months ago I faded
Into an im-patient infirmary
Still, in a white bed upon a white floor in a white box.