+Steven Curtis Lance / Collected Poems

By +Steven Curtis Lance
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Paperback, 728 pages
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 (27 Ratings)
+Steven Curtis Lance / Collected Poems
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+Steven Curtis Lance has been a practicing poet for thirty-five years, and his fiftieth birthday is fast approaching. In observance of this milestone, he now offers himself to you within the pages of this book. Mr. Lance has created well over a thousand "Transcendental Sonnets," the very distillation of his life, and this entire collection, up to the date of this publication, may be found here along with a few hundred additional poems, or “other observations,” as he calls them. +Steven Curtis Lance / Collected Poems contains two complete books as well as new works by this modern master. This is one poet's life, offered with love from his open heart to yours: seven hundred and twenty-eight pages and three pounds of life, of love, and of laughing last. Can you handle the truth? Buy and read and savor this treasury of love, romance, politics, philosophy, and occasionally subversive humor, and live, love, and laugh last with Lance. Enjoy! Cover art by Dr. Silke Lance
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Jul. 5, 2007 By poetinresidence
"Remains"
What was once known as +Steven Curtis Lance used to be "the custodian of the Lutheran a cappella choral tradition in America," "master motet composer," "1989 Winner of the Alumni Achievement Award," and many other fine and fancy things which mean nothing to the remains now because they speak of something else, a life which passed.



They used to say he was a great composer, that he was some sort of genius. Poetry was a simple tool which he employed for the novelty of writing his own texts for his unbelievable weavings of inexplicable counterpoint. His music, with that ethereal counterpoint and strange and haunted harmony, was once called, yes, "transcendental."... More > 


He hated computers and did not own one. He had a wife and three kids and a nice home and a perfect family. He lost everything in the world one October.



He took care of his mother until she died. He took care of his grandmother until she died. He took care of lots and lots of people you do not know and do not care about. They died, and he is dead now.



After he died his last music publisher was publishing a book of his poetry, just constructions of words without notes as things in themselves, but she turned against him. He wandered away, his last tie to music severed. His death was reported by the American Choral Directors Association, and noted with sadness and a sense of tragedy.



The remains remained unquiet in their grave and wondered about "time"; was there a "future"? No. Was there a "now"? Perhaps. Finding themselves undead, the remains stirred and considered their estate. Nothing. Less than nothing. Sonnets?



He wrote thousands of poems, seeming to become better through practice. Some heard distant echoes of the music he once composed, of his last motet now held by the skeletal hand of his grandmother in her grave and tied with a black ribbon from her sewing-box.



The great composer is dead, like the mother he nursed to her grave, like the grandmother he nursed to her grave. There in the family plot, alongside them, was his grave, awaiting him throughout a long life of relative privilege. His uncle stole his inheritance, and so his grave was sold for a pittance with which to pay an attorney for a few weeks; the rest of the attorney's fees cost considerably more, perhaps everything.



The uncle was the great composer's childhood abuser, come back from the dead to claim him. Four lawsuits were fought and won, the dead against the dead. What was once known as +Steven Curtis Lance "won," and is shivering alone in an overcoat and under many blankets and a faithful cat who has seen too much, in the old family home, which belongs to him now in hollow and mocking victory.



Here in this place where his dear ones all died, here where he ended up after it all, here where there is no heat, here among the dead, among the memories of the remains, various ideas were considered and rejected. Smoking was stupid and poisonous. Alcoholism was explored and abandoned. Eating held no meaning anymore. The family-plot is empty; we are here, all of us. It is just like Christmas used to be.



The remains remain and they remember. If the remains stir in their grave in October, and if the dust and ashes know of ten-year anniversaries of their passing, will that date of fate be shat upon by angry kids who have even less reason to be here than this stain which once was someone and which never can be cleaned?



"Shall these bones live?"



There is a big book of seven hundred and twenty-eight pages. A book of dark and terrible wonders, understood by a select few.



There is a girl. Her name is Silke. She is far away. The remains stir with longing: the remains remain and they remember.



Non moriar sed vivam. Amo ergo sum.



RESURGAM



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Jan. 11, 2008 By Psiloman TheGreekOne
"Re: Re: Of Those Who Sign Up Just to Vote Down This Book of My Life" That is exactly what i call "a witty sonnet as a responce to offenders"!

Pure,simple,a very nice kick delivered exactly where it needs to be delivered without any name bashing!
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Jun. 24, 2009 By selina boyer-bradley
"Words like a symphony..." Beautiful pieces of his heart spill onto sheet after sheet of brilliant immagery. What a wonderful poet. I feel as though we are friends.
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May. 23, 2008 By +Steven Curtis Lance
"Ride That Insane Carousel" Transcendental if you will
I would rather thrill than kill
Giving in or giving out
But not giving up to doubt

Drink no more and never smoke
Live on apples and brown rice
English tea and being nice
Saving all my strength up for
Writing books one two three four

Brokenhearted and flat broke

In the existential joke
Which this life would seem to be
Staving off insanity
In oral and written test
Anal and unwritten jest

Absurdity suits me best

Ride that insane carousel
Up and out the mouth of hell
Isis and Osiris know
Things get pretty grim below
Dark and deep mysterious

Must we be so serious?

Rather fast than rather slow
Laughing last before we go

+Steven Curtis Lance



Copyright MMV Silke LLC
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Oct. 20, 2008 By Megan Murad
"A Work of Heart" This collection by +Steven Curtis Lance captures the essence of poetry at its finest. Inspired by a great love, penned by a great man, the works live and breathe as precious and sweet as the blossoming rose. Beautiful work Steven! Best wishes for you and Lady Silke!
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Product Details

ISBN 978-1-4116-1530-4
Copyright by +Steven Curtis Lance (Standard Copyright License)
Published February 5, 2007
Language English
Pages 728
 
Binding Perfect-bound Paperback
Interior Ink Black & white
Dimensions (inches) 6.0 wide × 9.0 tall

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Poetry