We have lived at our little house on our little hill here in Pennsylvania now for twenty-six plus years and for the third time will be having the driveway paved, the toil from nature and tires and basketball games and mulch deliveries having taken their toll again.

My memory for this process, when I noticed the first few pieces of asphalt breaking up, when I saw the first crack, when the first root started pushing its way up, my memory for this breaking down is muddled. It was slow then quick then needed to be dealt with.

When we first moved here in 1997 the original paved driveway had given up the ghost and was all gravel. Gravel actually would be fine, but it would be frustrating to continually monitor the shared and paved driveway we share with our neighbors at the bottom of our hill, the gravel surely being washed with every rain down the hill.

The cost for this paving has grown, I think, more than double. Each time, looking back, we chose a less expensive and comprehensive path without totally reconstructing the base layers of gravel and went with lower bids.

Not this time. This time we are going to do the job right. And of course, in all senses of the word, we are paying for it.

So this poem grew from this driveway experience.

I again wrote it in a burst, though this time I did quite a bit more editing to address places where it felt unclear.

For instance, where the first draft read

which such as mine
will be dug some 
down and down 
this golden line we
bricklaybricklay
bricklaybricklay

I felt (and my AI mentor pointed out) did not connect its dots, so to speak. So, liking how the words slowquickslowquick and bricklaybricklay worked in the poem, I came up with the word dugsunk and arrived with these revised lines:

which such as mine
will be dugsunk some 
down and down 
and against 
this coaled endtime 
this golden line we
bricklaybricklay
bricklaybricklay

I instantly loved the sound of “dugsunk” and knew that it helped this section pop. The theme I’m playing with her is that our house, our driveway will eventually be hidden underground, dug down and sunk beneath the earth. There is wordplay here with the word “mine” and digging down. Wordplay also with the word “coaled” implying both that we will become the coal of the future but also that this “endtime” will be cold.

Maybe that’s a bit too clever. Probably. For sure.

But it is fun to do.

I intended the line “this golden line” to have multiple interpretations. First, it echoes the short phrase I use several times here “this old” which is also echoed with the lines “this hold”, “this coaled”, and “these old”.

The golden line is also about the golden years we are heading toward, or so they are called. And also this is a subtle reference to “The Wizard of Oz” where Dorothy and her crew follow the golden brick road to see the wizard.

I secure that reference when I use the word “wizened” as well as the doubled line “bricklaybricklay”, a line I want to be seen visually as bricks lain down.

Using words shoved together this way is a reference to Ronald Johnson’s Ark and its poetry-world famous lines

earthearthearth
earthearthearth
earthearthearth

though bricklaybricklay doesn’t have phrases and words hidden within, except a bit the word “clay”, at least when read out loud.

On top of this there is another layer, though perhaps only I would ever know this. My poem “a tinman has hope too” plays with the words “heart”, “hearth”, “earth”, “heat” and “art” while the title itself lets you know is also about “The Wizard of Oz”.

As I wrote today this influenced my choices, so in that way it is meaningful, at least if a reader is interested in where a poem came from, in the forces that made it the way it is. And this explication and documentation is the purpose of these post-poem blog posts, so there you have it.

My style of late has leaned into lyricism and wordplay, and the lines

now and how we 
warred our way 
where warrens once 
were just as prized
yet just as 
slowquickslowquick
wore away

really lean into this, to the point they seem to be falling over. I would accept some criticism of this, depending on the critic’s justification.

For instance, what if a critic just said, “this part is too silly with too much rhyme and double meaning to warrant calling this poem in any way ‘literary’”?

How might one reply to this?

I spoke with my AI mentor and posited this question. Here’s the conversation we had:

My AI mentor (Chat GPT):

I’d push back on that critic by questioning their rigid definition of “literary.” Literary poetry isn’t confined to somber tones or strict formal structures—it thrives on play, on the way language stretches and surprises. Wordplay, rhyme, and layered meaning have deep literary roots, from Shakespeare’s puns to Joyce’s linguistic gymnastics to poets like Heather McHugh and Angie Estes, who revel in the slipperiness of language.

Your lines “warred our way / where warrens once / were just as prized” contain a sharp interplay between history, violence, and nature, and the “slowquickslowquick” rhythm physically enacts the erosion and persistence you’re describing. It’s not just cleverness for cleverness’ sake—it’s serving the poem’s motion and meaning.

So if a critic dismisses it as “too silly,” I’d ask: since when has playfulness been a flaw in poetry? Play can deepen meaning, not dilute it.

Me:

Thank you! My argument would also be that having this or that opinion of a poem or part of a poem needs to be supported with justification, some form of documentation, not simply a dismissal based upon personal preference.

My AI mentor (Chat GPT):

Exactly! A well-founded critique should go beyond personal taste and provide reasoning—ideally rooted in craft, tradition, or the poem’s internal logic. Dismissing something as “too silly” or “not literary” without engaging with its function in the poem is lazy criticism.

Your approach values discussion over dismissal, which is the essence of good literary criticism. If a critic doesn’t like the wordplay, they should be able to articulate why—does it undercut the poem’s tone? Does it create an effect that feels unintentional? Even then, it’s about engaging with the poet’s choices, not just imposing a narrow aesthetic standard.

Your lines hold weight because they serve the poem’s movement, sonic texture, and layered meanings. If anything, a thoughtful critic should ask: How does this wordplay enhance or complicate the themes of the poem?—not just write it off because it doesn’t match their idea of what poetry should be.

And with that, I’ll leave off here for now.

We have a busy weekend ahead full of family and lots of driving, time to be together, time to watch the miles pass and listen to an audiobook, podcast, or two.

And now, what does the WordPress AI have to say about this poem in the visual realm?

Hmmm. Not that far off from my actual place.

The featured photo here was one that I took in the Capitol Building, filters and cropping applied. I love those claw-like shapes.