Today we are meeting with one of our newer members, Barry Dawson Jr. IV, who writes at the intriguingly titled HEPHAESTUS’ WASTE AND COSMIC RUBBLE. Every poet has a story, and Barry's is an amazing one, which includes service in the Navy. Pour yourself a cup of tea or coffee, and draw your chairs in close. You won't want to miss a single word.
Sherry: Barry, it is so nice to be meeting with you. First,
I have to ask the meaning behind the name of your blog.
Barry: I feel a bit silly discussing this, mostly because
creating the title was a pretty absurd concept, but I’ll give it a go. First,
I’ll share a poem I wrote for 2016’s NaPoWriMo:
Hephaestus’
Waste
Hephaestus strained,
stumbled on lame foot
while smithing
warhammers for
warring gods,
blowing bellows
into the kiln,
spark begetting
cosmic inferno,
fusing hydrogen
into helium-ash,
photons flying
in all directions,
consumed by flora,
discarding oxygen
inhaled by man,
exhaled into
a poem
Hephaestus was a Greek god. He was the son of Zeus
and Hera and served as the blacksmith of the gods. Hephaestus also served as
the god of fire, masonry, metalworking, kilns, and the arts (specifically
sculpture). He is often depicted as lame and ugly. I’d go on, but you could
probably read his Wikipedia page as well as I can. :)
For my title, I was going for an oxymoron; something
grandiose and insignificant. I liked the idea of poetry being created
accidentally, as some inconsequential spillage of a clumsy, dorky god too
focused on his primary task to notice the mess pooling at his clumsy, lame feet.
Poetry, as cosmic rubble, if you will. I know it sounds silly, but my previous
blog was titled My Libido Wears a Tuxedo, which is
pretty self-explanatory. And even before that, when I was doing mostly humorous
essays, my old blog was called Trite
Clichés and Inevitable Truisms. I know my way around a silly title or
three.
Sherry: Very creative indeed. Where do you live, Barry?
Barry: I live several minutes northeast of Seattle, Washington,
nestled in the bosom of a temperate rainforest, with my wife, Erin, and our
children, Danielle and Robert. I also have a daughter, Dana, who lives with my
ex-wife. I am an IT Support professional. By day, I worked in IT tech support
for a US federal agency before the contract ended in November. I promise that my
day job adventures aren’t even as remotely interesting as I’ve written here.
I’ll try not to bring it up again.
Sherry: Smiles. You are a hop, skip and a jump from me, on the wonderful West Coast. You have such a beautiful family!
Where
did you grow up, Barry? When
you look back at that boy, can you see any hints he would become a writer? Was there someone who you feel was a
significant influence in you following your dreams?
Barry: It’s difficult for me to know exactly how much to share
here without either getting too dense and negative, or leaving it too shallow
and glib, so I’ll just wing it and see where things land. I was born on the
West side of Chicago to a lower-middle-class family. I was first-born. My
brother, and closest confidant, Phil, came six years later. There was love,
struggle, and pain in mostly equal parts. My parents were young and didn’t have
many healthy emotional support resources at their disposal. They both made mistakes
and poor choices in their youth, but they did the best they could by me and
Phil.
Barry and Phil
My parents separated when I was six years old after
something terrible happened, and I spent my remaining childhood with mom,
bouncing between rent-controlled slums, my maternal grandmother’s home, and
several housing projects. We struggled to survive in poverty conditions, and never
really put down roots anywhere. As a natural introvert, I soon became weary of
struggling to make friends, only to have them ripped away from me when we had
to move within a year or two. To cope, I built an emotional firewall around my
already natural reclusiveness. I also learned to use humor to parry and counter
external threats encroaching upon my inner world. I had exclusive adventures mostly
within my imagination, and often by extension via books, poetry, and later
videogames. I struggle with this quirk even today.
Sherry: How touching it is, to see the closeness between you and your little brother. You look like his protector. And I think most poets have a somewhat reclusive streak. I certainly do.
Barry: Mom gets all the credit for helping me to enrich and
fortify my young imagination, by exposing me to life beyond what was happening
on our block. She filled my formative years with a love for reading, science,
and museums. We would sometimes skip school and go to museums and planetariums together.
Dad lectured me on setting my sights higher than his trade as a printing press operator,
but Mom did the heavy-lifting.
I cannot recall the first time I put pen to paper
for myself, but I felt like a poet long before then. Probably because of an
active imagination, I’ve always felt displaced from my circumstances; like I
was observing rather than participating in my own life.
My first poem was
probably a diss-rap aimed at one of my cousins when I was 12 or 13. My dad’s
girlfriend found it, and that was pretty much the end of my hip-hop career. She
liked how it flowed, but didn’t appreciate all the colorful cuss-words
sprinkled through it. It’s for the best, as I was a shy kid and there’s no such
thing as a timid rapper. I wrote love notes in high school, and I tinkered here
and there, but nothing serious.
My poetic voice truly found a footing in my
late twenties, after an ex-girlfriend broke my heart. Oh yeah… I “Taylor
Swift-ed” her big time. That was fifteen years ago and we’re cool now, but
yeah, I was the emo, purple-prose kid for quite a while after that.
Sherry: I can see you. I am smiling. Been there. The teen years are hard on sensitive poets.
Barry: A few years later, in 2003, I found a website called
okayplayer. The Freestyle
Forum section is where many aspiring MC’s, “net-cee’s” (a playful, often
pejorative term for guys like me who write rap lyrics, but don’t perform), and
poets sharpen their skills and share their written art. I was intimidated at
first, but I soon found myself honing and sharing my craft as well as
workshopping with others. My fondest memory is being asked to participate in a
ten-artist collaboration. I felt like I finally belonged somewhere, which is a
pretty big deal for me. I’m still friends with poets and artists from the site,
and I poke my head in there from time to time, but for the most part, the core
group that I associated with has moved on to other projects. In 2005, I
collected many of my poems from Freestyle and self-published a poetry
collection. That was pretty neat. It got rave reviews from my former
hairstylist.
From there, I branched out into freelance writing
for sports blogs and film reviews. It was a short stint for me, as sports blogs
became saturated with insightful writers and YouTube became flush with dynamic
reviewers. Plus, my stuff was pretty mediocre and mostly terrible, so no big. I
was a hacky review guy and a pretty wack sports guy, but through all of that,
there was always my poetry. I’m probably not there yet (wherever “there” is),
but I guess I’m an OK poet now.
Sherry: Yes, you are, and we're happy you found us! Barry, we'd love to hear about your years in the Navy. And thank you so much for your service!
Barry: I joined the Navy in
1991, shortly after graduating from high school and marrying my high school
sweetheart and future ex-wife (let’s call her “P”). I reported for duty in
February, 1992. I served for six years as a Fire Controlman in the advanced
electronics field. I trained to perform preventive and corrective maintenance
on radars and missile/gun fire-control targeting computers. I helped
decommission the USS Jouett in 1993/94, and I served my last three years on the
USS Ingraham, ported in Everett, WA. This concludes my military summary. Thank
you and have a fine Navy day.
I’d like to say that I
heard the call of the warrior or that I felt the need to defend my country, but
the truth is far less patriotic. I didn’t really know what I was getting into.
I didn’t have a plan. My relationship with my mom had deteriorated, and I was
living day to day in survival mode. I was 16 and I just happened to be at P’s
house while her Navy recruiter stopped by to give her a practice exam. He
encouraged me to test as well. His eyes boggled at my score, and after that, he
wouldn’t leave me alone. He followed me through high school hallways, telling
me about the great adventure ahead of me that was so much greater than my
current struggles. As I had nothing going on, it didn’t take much convincing to
get me to swear-in. (only the University of Iowa sent me a college packet, but
I knew I needed money first, education second.)
(P never qualified for
the Navy and chose to live out her dreams vicariously through me – a guy who
was seemingly effortlessly qualified, and only joining the Navy in lieu of
starvation. Let’s just say there was plenty of friction, envy, and resentment
within our sham of a marriage. There was love, but fear was the major
motivating factor in us eloping. Fear of being alone. This and other mitigating
factors doomed our relationship and friendship years later.)
My recruiter may have
oversold the adventure part, but he was proven to be right about everything. I
was still a kid when I finished bootcamp and apprentice school. I was essentially
an immature child playing sailor when I reported to the USS Jouett, so I was
lucky to report to a ship that was decommissioning (BTW: The Navy sent me to a
six-month technical school to learn an obsolete weapons system, and then they
sent me from the east coast to the west coast just to help unplug/box-up a fire
control computer and turn off the lights. Your tax dollars at work.)
Reporting to the USS
Ingraham was when my true Navy career began, three years into a six-year
enlistment. The senior staff and leadership structure of the USS Ingraham finished
off my parenting, and boy did I make things harder than they had to be. I was a
knucklehead, but they straightened me out. I learned a great deal about
personal accountability and formed the building blocks of adult-me on the deck
of that ship. I struggled and failed, but I also exceled and had lots of fun. I
even had two greenhorns reporting to me before I was honorably discharged from
service. One guy was super-naive like I was near the beginning of my career,
and the other was a corner-cutting slacker like I was at year three. I bet my superiors
had a good ironic laugh at how frustrated those two made me at times.
Sherry: I'll bet! Smiles. Barry, what
do you love about poetry?
Barry: I love the way poetry connects me to my emotions,
and the way it connects me to other poets and readers. Words written by people
thousands of years ago moved and helped inspire me to transcend childhood
poverty and eventually share my own unique thoughts with others. Thoughts that
are uniquely mine can inspire others today, and vice-versa. Perhaps thousands
of years from now, a kid growing up in poverty will be uplifted by words
written by me, sitting here in my study in my pajamas, being annoyed and
enriched by Erin’s hug-interruptions. It is mundane and amazing. It is trivial
and essential.
At Leavenworth
We are collections of molecules using chemical-electrical
impulses to create abstract concepts, beautiful ideas, and complex emotions to understand
and/or bond with other collections of molecules. The practice of poetry, if not
immortality, is at least a special kind of alchemy. We are all alchemists, some
of us cheating death in our own way.
My God, when did I turn into such a freaking crystal-hugging,
pretentious hippie? I swear, they never should’ve legalized marijuana around
here.
Sherry: LOL. Would
you like to choose three of your poems? And tell us a bit about each?
This was more difficult than I imagined. I think
this first one is a good start, in keeping with my naval-gazing
naval-nostalgia…
Reflections
I was a small
child the first time I saw a sailor
It was on an
elevated train in the Chicago Loop
His dress blues
made him resemble a Greek deity
Though I
couldn’t determine which one
He smiled,
winked, gave me a Fonzie thumbs-up
I could see my
wide-eyed reflection in his shoes
Sometimes, I can
see the future
But I don’t
always know it when I see it
Seawater can be
used to exchange heat for cooling
Seawater will
dehydrate you if you drink it
Dolphins love
playing in the wake of warships
Flying fish
exist; they aren’t just suicidal birds
King Neptune
sings the greatest lullabies
I am numb to the
buffeting sea wind
The salty
sea-spray preserves my youth
I allow kids to
find their own reflections
** *
Sherry: I love that closing line especially.
Barry: Looking back, I
do a lot of confessional poetry. I look at it as a form of self-therapy,
validating my existence by reminding myself who I was, who I am, and where I’m
from. Consider this more self-therapy:
Crown Prince of the Stoop
____________________________________________________________
I am from concrete
and asphalt
Twisted metal
vines and closed doors with keyholes
A brownstone
with address etched in memory
Of cookouts and
clarity of purpose lost to history
I am from
wood-paneling and artistry
The Zen of
autumn leaves and spring breeze
I am from
structure and superstructure
I am the
discipline in its absence
I am from
invisible blood-soaked tenements
Where we feared
both the criminal and the lawman
Where my little
bro learned to draw homes
With iron bars
over the windows
I am from a
sociology experiment gone awry
Stacked atop one
another like animals
Sprinkle a few
magic rocks through the hood
And laugh as it
burns itself to the ground
I'm from a woman
who was raised in the slums
Who raised me
and my little bro in the slums
But she was not
of the slums
Her heart was
molded from foreign rare gems
Forged in the
heart of stars billions of years ago
She carried
herself with a galactic grace
And demanded the
same from her princely sons
She is from
where potential becomes kinetic
She is from
where daydreams dare to scream
"Why not
me? Why the fuck not,
us?"
I'm from a man
forged in iron-rich Mississippi mud
A man who I
ain't never seen lose a fight
A man who
endured painful burdens with a smirk
With a backbone
fortified with calcified pride
Never bent,
always elongated, stretching to the heavens
Filling my head
with starships, multiple realities
Alternate
possibilities of existence, taking the lead
Defending
myself, little brother, family, and country
With a quiet
swagger and my own smirk, slurring
“Why not me? Why
the fuck not, us?”
I am from a
place of problematic punchlines
Where
opportunity is denied, violence decried
Knowing we can
never commit to peace eternal
Where working
men are gunned-down
And vilified for
living
But I am from a
place of princes and kings
Scowling
unapologetically at social constructs
Dancing to the
beat of our own choosing, because
Why the fuck not
us?
** *
Sherry: This is so moving. I love poems like this, that look back at childhood and begin "I am from...." I can see those two young brothers very clearly. Saddened that your little brother learned to draw bars over the windows. I adore the "galactic grace" of your mother! Her strength inspired your dreams.
Barry: I was looking
for a poem I wrote as a fantasy/tragic fairy tale. I searched for a week, but
couldn’t find it. Perhaps I only dreamt of the poem and never actually wrote
it? Yeah, they probably shouldn’t have legalized weed around here. Anyway,
here’s another fantasy poem inspired by an anime I watched:
The Sin that Played Us
She whispered
her envy of the stars in the sky
And so she
whispered her want to myself,
and many more
She whispered,
and so the bodies began to pile
Treasures
pirated, black flag betrayal
Disguised as
other deadly sins,
and even masquerading as virtue
Compelled me to
act against my nature
She whispered,
and so the bodies began to pile
Beneath my feet,
they pooled, stagnant
She whispered to
fools that I must be stopped
Before I dimmed
each star that shined
She whispered,
and so am I betrayed
My vision
inverted, and soon I pooled beneath
The sandals of
other fools who listened
Unable to move
as crows descend upon me
Their inverted
faces masked and mute
She whispered,
but I can no longer hear
For I am
floating among the murder of crows
Flying their
processions around me
She whispered,
and now I must decide
To follow the
procession beneath the waves
Of blood spilled
by others, by me,
and by new fools
The crows pay
respect, awaiting my choice
I growl at them,
I’m not yet ready
And so one by
one, they slowly disappear
I gasp, the cool
oxygen a shock to dormant lungs
Mortal intent
rendered but a glancing blow
She whispered,
and I’d outlived my usefulness
But I ain’t dead
yet, bitch.
** *
Sherry: Thank you for these, Barry. Your voice is strong, and your writing wonderfully alive and vivid. When
you aren’t working or writing, what other activities do you enjoy?
Barry: I am a Chicago Bears fan, still, even now, in spite
of myself, good taste, and reason. Bourbon helps. I’m also a sci-fi fan, a
Trekker, an anime nerd, a former comic book guy, a Star Wars guy, and a huge
Steven Universe fan. My mom said that all she had to do was give me books or
sit me in front of the TV. That premise remains unchanged well into my 40’s.
I was also way into flag football for a decade or so
until I lost perspective, became overcompetitive, and nearly killed a baby on
the football field. But that’s another story…
Sherry: I am intrigued at all the stories we have not had time to get to. I want to include a link to your book, Barry, "Blind Eye Turning".
Good for you, getting a book out, Barry. Is
there anything you’d like to say to Poets United?
Barry: I enjoy reading the talented poets of Poets United.
I must admit, I was a bit intimidated about sharing my boring life and poetic
process here, but wifey convinced me to push through my apprehension as therapy
to let others get a peek at the man behind the words. That’s still a silly
notion to me. I mean, anyone who has waded through the words vomited upon my
blogs already knows what I’m about. This was good therapy though… and fun!
Sorry for being so long-winded, but us old-salts
love spinning a good tale. Sorry for all the bad words too. I tried limiting
them to my poems already written, but I do tend to cuss like a… well, you get
the idea.
Sherry: Thank you to Erin for encouraging you, for we love getting to know the poet behind the pen, and this has been a total trip! Thanks for persevering, Barry, and helping us get to know you. We enjoyed it, and look forward to reading many more of your poems.
Well, my friends? I told you this would be good. Do come back and see who we talk to next. Who knows? It might be you!
