I have always loved words that are rich in sound and texture, words that resonate, that contain in themselves some raw element of their meaning, unusual words that add spice to a poem. I keep a list of them in my notebook and look at them every so often for inspiration. Of course, they can be overdone, unless used by a master like Albert Goldbarth. For the rest of us mortals, it is wise to use them sparingly, in simple, short poems at first, where they can stand out without overshadowing.

So, here’s an example. Titled “God rode by,” it is a short poem I wrote and first recited at a jazz/poetry reading where a jazz combo improvised around the poet’s words. Not sure about the poem’s origins, but as a kid I repainted my bike every spring. I would go to the hardware store, buy a small can of some appealing color, brush it on, oil up the chain, and the next day I would be off riding toward adventure on a spiffy new steed.

Two words in this poem were taken from my list of Special Words: redolent and Baroque. I had used Baroque before. It is an adjective meaning “of, relating to, or having the characteristics of a style of artistic expression prevalent especially in the 17th century” (Merriam-Webster). So it is fairly easy to use and fairly straight-forward for the reader to interpret. Redolent is just a lovely word. It starts out with you pursing your lips (“reh”), touching your tongue on the roof of your mouth for that hard “d,” pouring that “oh” out over your tongue, then rolling it and “len” around, then your tongue goes to the roof of your mouth again for the more sprightly “tuh” at the end. Its primary meanings relate to exuding a fragrance or aroma; I used it in terms of its secondary meaning, “conveying an aura,” “tending to suggest,” or “evocative” (Merriam-Webster again).

Here’s the poem:

God rode by

on his bicycle today.
It was painted red, a rich shade,
redolent of Baroque oils,
reminiscent of the candle-
lit cloth of de La Tour’s
Penitent Magdalen.

“Nice paint job!” I called.
“Thanks!” He yelled back.
“Can’t stop now.
Maybe later.”

He turned, noticed
the pothole in the road,
swerved around it with
a certain grace
I could only describe
as Divine.

This poem begins with the preposterous and presuming image of God coming by my yard on a bicycle. I then make sure that things are a bit more serious by setting his choice of colors on a more celestial scale. Notice that the line “redolent of Baroque oils,” can actually be read as relating to aroma, especially if you have ever painted with oils; it brings to mind the mellow odor of linseed oil rather than the sharp smell of the turpentine that would be used to thin the kind of enamels you would use for a bike. I went on to elaborate on the imagery, referring to a specific painting by a Baroque artist, and added what I hope is a touch of humor in that the painting is entitled The Penitent Magdalen (since she was a central figure in Christ’s life). I then took a turn back to the ordinary, taking it on myself to congratulate Him on the bike’s appearance, then noting again at the end that He has, even in these ordinary endeavors, extraordinary abilities.

Here’s an image of The Penitent Magdalen (ca. 1640) by Georges de La Tour. The painting can be seen at The Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City.

—Published previously in the author’s blog, Phanaerozoic (12 July 2018); appears here with his permission.

Roy Beckemeyer’s

latest poetry collection is Stage Whispers (Meadowlark Books, 2018). His chapbook, Amanuensis Angel, comprises ekphrastic poems inspired by modern artists’ depictions of angels (Spartan Press, 2018). His first book, Music I Once Could Dance To (Coal City Press, 2014), was a 2015 Kansas Notable Book. He recently co-edited (with Caryn Mirriam-Goldberg) Kansas Time+Place: An Anthology of Heartland Poetry (Little Balkans Press, 2017). Beckemeyer lives in Wichita, Kansas and is a retired engineer and scientific journal editor. His work has been nominated for Pushcart, Best of the Net, and Best Small Fiction awards.