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Monday, February 19th, 1973
That day was sunny, but frigidly cold---as many February days are in the Midwest, where I live. No school that day, due to President's Day, so I had the whole day to myself, and myself was pleasantly, even excitedly, shaken up by the experience, the previous night, of having seen the first television broadcast of the film, The Ten Commandments.
Also, in the newpaper that morning, some random advertisement featured some random model whose beauty had absolutely astounded me. I was an awkward, clumsy, squeaky-voiced adolescent with little experience in, or the opportunity to enjoy, the companionship of girls my age; but I had an eye fiercely obsessed with beauty, and the random model in the random advertisement was exquisitely beautiful (even as I remember, now, forty-seven years after the fact).
I had, for at least a year, entertained the ambition to be, someday, a published writer. My interest at that time inclined toward horror and science fiction. I had a small typewriter on which I pounded out brief, incoherent tales; I had not yet acquired a blue ribbon (that was about two years in the future).
On that morning, and through the rest of the day, I felt a somewhat undefined desire to write about a Biblical subject, even of epic proportions. I knew that the form of a short story was insufficient, but I did not know what would convey the subject more efficiently: my literature class would not begin the poetry section for another four or five weeks. I also knew that I would write from the inspiration of, and as a offering to, a beautiful Muse. I felt very strange that day---my adolescent fantasy of fame as a writer began to change, to transform, to the point where the process, for the first time in my life, began to seem more important than the response (except my Muse's) to the product. I believe that I was, at that particular moment, starting to become a Poet.
Now, the term Poet was a disrespected word in my parents' home. They believed that all poets were either communists, sexual perverts, or substance abusers. I would not disclose to them my ambition toward poetry until October 13, 1975---and their response was incredibly, perhaps even childishly, melodramatic. I was certainly not ready to face that as early as February 19, 1973. But I knew that three elements were already present before me: an example of art derived from, and based upon, a Scriptural account; a disturbing sense that ordinary prose fiction would have been adequate to convey it; and the presence of a Muse figure who would both inspire, and receive the result of, the effort.
And then, as I contemplated these elements, a wave of overwhelming inadequacy engulfed me like a deluge: my mundane name would never be sufficient to sign to such a work. I had learned to hate my name because of the way it was abused by my parents as well as the bullies at school. At home, my name was the equivalent of one of my mother's most favorite, and most often repeated, phrases: "You're just the little boy around here." She would say that to me even after I had attained legal majority. In junior high school, where the social structure rejected, without consideration, anyone who looked, dressed, spoke, studied, or believed differently than the majority; and my class had a considerable minority of students who were persecuted on that basis by the "popular" and the "beautiful" people. I had heard my name spoken like it was a curseword or a street profanity. So, exposed to this kind of psychological abuse at both home and school, with church as my only escape from it and that was only once a week and only for a few short hours, I came to despise, to hate, and to avoid the sound of my own name. Now this is not to disparage the historical importance of my family. A galaxy in outer space was discovered by a cousin of my great-grandfather; and another distant relative was, and still is, considered to be among the greatest of American military historians. Being adopted into that family, I feel great admiration for their colective achievement and great inadequacy in the face of it; but the dislike of my name is not ameliorated even by this. Starward was still far in the future for me at that time; but I knew I needed it, or something like it, in order to bring the other three elements together.
I have not, prior to today, expressed these memories in this form, or even acknowledged the personal, quiet, even secret events of Feburary 19, 1973. More than two and a half years would pass before I began to believe in the vocation of a Poet. My escape from my mundane identity would not occur until July 10th, 1976. My first real poetry would not coalesce until after July 16th, 1994, on which date I believe the Lord confirmed my calling; and my first publication, in print, would not occur until August, 1994. My first publication on the internet took place in January, 2001, in London, England; and I joined POSTPOEMS in December of that year.
But all of it, as I have suddenly remembered today in a memory triggered by random reading, began to swirl around me on February 19, 1973. I give the praise to Jesus Christ for this, and I hope that some of the verse I have written will bear witness to His regnant glory and His salvific Grace.
Starward
