Andrew David King
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- Words of Wisdom and Inspiration from Andrew David King
1. Your biographical details show that you are the Editor-In-Chief of a online Journal. Please tell us some more
about this.
Yes. Just recently, I founded Wings of Icarus, a journal of all sorts of creative writing and art. I founded it out of the necessity for
communication with other artists and writers, as well as a need to publicize people whom I felt deserved attention for their good work
but weren't getting it because all of the "credible" publications were denying them publication. I also wanted to found a journal that
didn't demand that everyone send them only new work and demanded no simultaneous submissions. Sure, it's good to send out new
work, there's no debate there. But what devalues a piece just because it has been already published? If it's good enough to publish
once it might be good enough to be reprinted. Not a lot of publishers share my philosophy on this because they want only "fresh"
work to appear in their journals. Which to me is a load of bullshit, because they don't care about the quality of the work so much as
it's something that's new and flashy and will get them more readers. And the "No Simultaneous Submissions" policy at magazines,
especially new ones, always makes me laugh. I mean, here you have a new magazine that needs submitters basically telling them what
they can and can't do with their work. I understand that sometimes this is necessary for new zines for readers to take them seriously,
but in reality, hardly any editors in the small press have the time or resources to hunt down simultaneous submitters. So, in the
creation of Wings of Icarus, I decided to embrace these realities and formulate a reasonable submission policy that allowed people the
room to do what they wanted with their art. The artists contribute their art, writers contribute their writing, and we contribute our
time. The actual site, however, is free to us, which means it is a little bit harder to work with, so fixing errors in the site and posting
new material can be difficult, especially with formatting. But despite this small hurdle, along with fellow Poetry editor Ray Succre and
annual-publication editor Tony R. Rodriguez, I have managed to pull this dream into a small reality which I am very satisfied with.
2. David McLean (Munyori Poetry Journal October Issue) says of your poetry:
"Because of Andrew David King's age, his facility with English poetry almost makes one think of Rimbaud and "premature
genius". His poems, which are beautifully crafted, maintain an almost disturbingly high standard. His voice in them is
exceptionally mature, his imagery is often very appealing, and his cadence and phrasing are splendid."
Tell us how you feel about this praise of your work. What effect has this and other praise of your work had on your career as
a poet?
The fact that such talented poets such as David McLean are willing to say such things about my work is really inspiring and
encourages me to pursue my interests as an artist and a writer. McLean's quote is very kind and quite heartening. I really do
appreciate it when people comment upon my work in such a manner. However, I try to remind myself that it's extremely important to
not get wrapped up in the promotional aspect of writing, nor let such statements go to my head. Once you let the ego take over, you're
no longer writing for yourself; you're moreover a slave to everyone else's opinion of you. As a friend of mine, poet John Sweet, says,
that is pretty much "writing suicide".
3. In addition to editing Wings of Icarus, your poetry journal, you also have a critical inquiry or social commentary
website and a blog. How does this online presence influence your writing? Does publishing other people's work
assist in your own growth as a writer?
Yes, it often does, and that is why I created Wings of Icarus. I have three online venues which I run, and they include my blog , my
nonfiction website , and Wings of Icarus , the poetry journal that I edit. Wings of Icarus, however, is the only venue where I
physically "edit" other people's work for publication. My nonfiction page contains social commentary essays that I have written on
various political events ranging from fairly current to a while back. I am very involved in learning about worldly events, and keeping
up-to-date in the news. We live in a world full of turmoil, and often times I will have strong feelings about a subject that I feel I need
to document fully, which I then post, polished and revised, on my nonfiction website. My blog, however, is basically my personal
website where I document new happenings in my writing career as well as accomplishments. It takes time and effort to put together
websites, but formulating an online presence is a good idea for any writer, so that he or she can reach out and connect with other
writers and other people who are interested in reading their work.
4. Tell us about the concerns in your poetry. What effect has writing had on your life as a student?
As far as "concerns", I'm assuming you mean the issues that I deal with in my poetry. I tend to deal with a wide variety of issues,
both intensely personal and extraneous, both experienced and imagined. As I said before, I am vastly influenced by the happenings of
the world. Thus, a large portion of my poetry is political and socially-based in its nature. I feel the necessity, within my work, to call
upon the erroneous ways or methods of my fellow humans, all the while keeping in mind my own. But despite the melancholy tone
that may be present in some of my work dealing with such matters as war and sacrifice, I still confidently place my faith in humanity
and in the ability of good to overcome evil in the end. Often times, it's really hard to look at the world today and say "This is a good
place to live." I mean, we've got genocides continuously happening, wars all over the place, religious nutcases preaching to their
choirs, and the like. But I always have to constantly remind myself that people are good on a basic level. And I believe they are.
Writing has affected my life very positively as a student. High school is a time full of chaos and unleashed emotion, and I tend to think
a lot about things and have a lot of ideas, so poetry just kind of happens naturally for me. Writing, especially poetry, always prompts
me to look at my life a bit more objectively, rather than this subjective "me first" mindset that plagues American society. It calls upon
me, as a student, to ask myself what I am doing right and what I am doing wrong. It's hard to write honest poetry when you're not
being truly honest with yourself.
Although as a student I have a lot of opportunities to write with charged emotion as my motive, I try not to. I have to be careful to not
use poetry as a tool to vent. Don't get me wrong: I think that some of the best poetry ever written was derived deeply from emotion,
but from controlled and refined emotion. I am just against the concept of turning "venting" as an art form. I believe that this causes
me to become less in control of my writing. It trains the artist to succumb to his or her emotions at that particular moment and not
look at what's best for them as an artist or for that particular poem as a piece of art.
5. What advice can you give to writers who may submit work to Wings of Icarus?
Be original, be catchy, don't overdo it, be frank, say something that hasn't been said a thousand times before. And please take us
seriously, because we'll take you seriously. Often times we can tell when someone just is submitting something to us for the heck of it
and doesn't really care if they get accepted or not, because we're just a fledgling journal. If that's going to be you, then don't submit.
We take writing and writers seriously, but not writers' egos. We are very kind people, however, we apologize: we don't give a flying
fuck about your list of publication credits. Been published in the Paris Review? Your new play has its world premiere next month?
That's really great. We don't care. Just send work that you feel is good. All of the editors here are dedicated writers themselves who
care about our submitters greatly, because without submitters we wouldn't have a zine. So send us something! We will read it, and
we will read it thoroughly. We promise.
6. What inspired your poem "pacific"?
The poem "pacific" was inspired by Silver Strand State Beach in Coronado (a city near San Diego), California. I go there every
August, and I truly believe that for me it is the closest place to heaven on earth. That was the actual "place" that inspired this poem.
But within the poem there lies a deeper "idea", so to speak, which that is based on. Whenever I am at that beach, I am always struck
by the beauty of the universe that often hides behind man's ugliness. With the poem I wanted to capture the frustration that I had of
not being able to understand such beauty and the true power of existence.
The poem essentially alludes to a greater reality that exists beyond our universe. The Chinese had a term for this greater reality, this
thing that existed before even God did; they called it the Tao. I believe everyone has moments in their lives when they struggle with the
purpose existence, whether consciously or not. That beach was one place that called me to ponder why I was here on this planet.
And it poses a dichotomy in where the horizon seems to meet the water. For me, that was the "ultimate metaphor", for our small
reality (the water) to touch the greater reality (the sky). The person in the poem is not me, however. It is an alcoholic whose view on
life is inevitably negative and who is struggling to understand the positive aspect of the universe because he has always seen only the
negative. This character is not necessarily one whom readers may sympathize with at the beginning of the poem, but at the end, I hope
the reasons for his actions become clearer. The point of this poem is to also say, basically, that you don't have to be "someone" or a
person society deems important to begin to understand the deepest truth the universe can offer. All you have to be is human.
7. What else would you like to share with the Munyori poets and readers?
As usual I would like to give a big "Thank You" to everyone who has taken the time to read my work. Feel free to drop me a line
sometime at andrewking.adk@gmail.com, visit my blog or submit to Wings of Icarus . Peace.
- Five Poems by Andrew David King
parachutes
we pull these boundaries
off our shelves
and wipe the dust away
to see each golden letter
crying remorse
we ask these questions
in black and white
and eagerly discard
the watercolor dreamscapes
of sunset
we build these jails
with bars of hate
drawing the lines slowly
carefully
hoping that every line
every step
can be retraced
we sail these seas
of light
that fuel the imagination
fears coming alive
surrounded endlessly
on all sides
by infinity
we beat these feeble hearts
with our fists
we turn these burning eyes towards
the truth
we are our own
survival
we unwrap these parachutes
we tug on these seams
once more, before
we leap
pacific
Sitting here alone on the fine powder sand
looking into the placid sea
reflections of the tangerine sun in its
mist and with each pounding wave
feelings its power
tasting its breath upon me
wondering what it would be like to drown
they say it's peaceful
but how would they know
And then I remember the reason why I am here, escape
searching for answers that I couldn't find
at the bottom of the bottle
in my filthy hands
temporary offset to my problems
holding them off like snarling dogs
until they break the barrier and rip me apart
into tiny little pieces
I laugh, and I take another sip
that could never happen
the seagulls all shriek in agreement
they seem to know more about the sea
than I could ever come to understand
and so I ask them
along with the ocean
and everything
and nothing all at once
What is this vast
nothingness
from which we thrive
beyond the brink where land meets sky and the
two become one
where the clouds and the mist and
the death and the power and the mercy of it all
combine
into beauty
so deep and fragile yet in titanic proportion
to our lives
but knowing that it is so huge, so eternal
it puzzles me why I can't reach out and touch a piece of it
I can only catch a glimpse
as the sun sinks into the abyss
of blue turned black
beyond the blurred horizon
The salty air stings my scraped face
but that is a little price to pay for being privileged
to even breath it
as I'm stuck here
with these chemicals, this alcohol
drugs to numb the feeling of hopelessness
futility and loss
glass container of which my worries pour out
into another disguise
in a search for answers to the classic question
of our purpose
and I know that here is the closest I'll ever get to finding them
those answers
but they still hide behind the clouds, away from me
and in a sudden admittance of my inability to understand
in utter appall I reach to hurl the bottle into the ocean
never again to see the light of day
save for the spare reflection from the water and into the depths
but I stop
wiping the sand off my hands
hesitate
and reconsider
knowing now that the shoreline and this ocean
are just as sacred
as any cathedral
and to desecrate it would be to desecrate
my only chance
And I yell at the top of my lungs, into the nothingness
where are the answers to all of this
how could this happen
what is the purpose
who's in charge here
there must be something more out there
but I can't seem to find it on this beach
and the last sliver of sun disappears
as if it's trying to hide from me
my screams
now there's tears streaming down
my scraped-up face
and in my fury
I reach down and grab a handful of that sand
so fine
the gold dust of the ocean's
treasure
and coil my arm back
preparing to throw it
rejecting its false beauty
that it had so easily
deluded me with
as if it had the answers to the questions that I ask
But now a bell rings inside my head and
I remember suddenly
the Buddhist proverb
the search for God is like searching for an ox
while riding an ox
and I see the bottle laying there
abject in the sand, and the horizon
deep bluish black now surrounding me
sea and sky fused together in a twist of fate
and I look down at my hands
and let the grains
fall through
one by one
every single word
in cold blood
we kill the voice inside of our head
that says
don't listen to them
the part of us
that knows
we destroy it before it can warn us
soon enough we're left to discover
to sort through the ashes
for a clue
between everything we were and everything that was
caught in between two pasts and two futures
learning slowly to change
these unresisting colors
we've been painted in
searching
between cracks in sidewalks
and lines in stories
we hesitantly find
that we are everything we thought
we were not
we are everything that we
do not know
and happiness is suddenly a refusal
to admit to the deepest part of us
fighting against our training
going back against the grain is not easy
and it can take a lifetime
to become
who you were
all along
grandpa
five times is too many
times to hit the same key in a row
my migrant fingers working their way
up and down this black and white skeleton spine
marrying discord and harmony in a
twisted memento of the past
i remember how
he sat and as the world stopped to rest for the night
sang it a lullaby with bony fingers and cigar smoke
watching the lanterns as they faded into midnight
i'd sit down, invisible, and not say a word
and i'd listen
the blues springing to life from that aching wood
groaning out each bourbon-soaked melody
and in the pale silence of late evening
i could hear him
sing the sun to sleep
soft crooning melting away reality into
the material of our dreams
and the curtains flowed with the breeze
like they were angels dancing
in the moonlight
i was here again, and i was performing
pounding out each forlorn melody with meticulous detail
cracking the code and opening up the depths
the same place every night he sat with the window open
waiting for angels, for demons,
and everything in between
and i know i can't work the same magic
like he did so many full moons ago
placing knobby fingers on ivory
the notes one by one forming a midnight serenade
for this ethereal audience
of constellations
urban haiku
I.
when the streetlights gleam
and soft stars reign the twilight
the world will transform
II.
we all wish for peace
our prayers die slow, silent deaths
and now we are trapped
III.
the school is closed now
old boards cover glass windows
so much left to learn
IV.
the gunshot pierces
the deep blanket of the night
i wake in shadows
V.
ask the youth sprawled out
on the curb caked with red blood
if the stars still shine
"Writing has affected my life very positively as a student. High school is a time full of
chaos and unleashed emotion, and I tend to think a lot about things and have a lot of ideas,
so poetry just kind of happens naturally for me. Writing, especially poetry, always prompts
me to look at my life a bit more objectively, rather than this subjective "me first" mindset
that plagues American society."--Andrew David King, High School Student, California.
chaos and unleashed emotion, and I tend to think a lot about things and have a lot of ideas,
so poetry just kind of happens naturally for me. Writing, especially poetry, always prompts
me to look at my life a bit more objectively, rather than this subjective "me first" mindset
that plagues American society."--Andrew David King, High School Student, California.