Dreaming and Waking

2007-10-23T21:42:00.000-05:00

My teacher pulled me aside. She wore a knit dress--pink, orange, yellow, and brown. Her hair was piled blond on her head with a giant gold pair of tweezers sticking out of it. She leaned down near my face, near my eyelashes, and said (smell of coffee), "Sean, what is the one invention . . . what one thing that we can't even dream of today on this red and golden afternoon of 1972 will people be most happy about having on some damp night in October of your 43rd year? Will we have purple hover cars? Will we be able to feed the world? Will women rule? Will the war be over?"

I blinked my eyes. I thought to myself.

"Well," I said, "everyone will be most happy about being able to have their phones with them at all times. Yes, they will all carry their phones with them at all times."

"Oh."

"Yep."

Tiny Poem

2007-05-30T11:44:00.000-05:00

Love Song to My House

What kind of world is this
where bananas wait on my fridge
and the music fits the rain—
Long loops of shadow and
bass, cymbal groove. My life
rests today in this glowing
house. The coffee on the counter
sings its message: Hey! Kid!
Get it while it’s hot!

Ear Junk

2007-05-28T18:31:00.001-05:00

My Life Sometimes

2007-05-23T19:47:00.000-05:00

Market

2006-02-23T23:29:00.000-06:00

Market
Originally uploaded by sbchapm.

This is one of my favorite pictures from Greece.

This Particular Sunday: A Monument

2005-11-27T19:53:00.000-06:00

Is being built northeast of town
on a rusted field of birds and grass.
Thickets hum dark past the verge.

A seahorse cloud floats
over a shell of dusty leaves
talking above us.

The monument
to this particular Sunday
grows in the shadows tonight,
a moonplant.

As the orchestras of Italy
practice the first few bars
of the monument
to this particular Sunday,

gaffers tilt the stars.

Site

2005-11-13T22:59:00.000-06:00

From the website Overheard in New York I give you this.

It Wasn't Work, It Was an Audition

Guy #1: You look really familiar to me; what do you do?
Guy #2: I'm an actor, poet, musician...
Guy #1: No...Did you ever work at Bloomingdale's?
Guy #2: ...Yes.

Jack's Dogs

2005-11-07T07:41:00.000-06:00

Jack's Dogs
Originally uploaded by sbchapm.

This is just a crazy picture of my friend's three dogs. The brown one was quite patient with the two like migraine dogs.

Driving from Eureka on 23

2005-11-07T07:40:00.000-06:00

Driving from Eureka on 23
Originally uploaded by sbchapm.

I took this driving back from Eureka on one of the most beautiful drives of my life.

My house

2005-11-07T07:39:00.000-06:00

My house
Originally uploaded by sbchapm.

Hey y'all! This is my living room furniture! Yes!

Tiniester Poem of the Day

2005-10-10T23:22:00.000-05:00

Asteredux

Stars without pride
become
gin on the tongue

Tiniest Poem of the Day

2005-10-10T22:58:00.000-05:00

You Spoke on the Phone

On the dark lawn
the stars spin softly
in their darkened bed

And the stars fall
silent above the sleeping
babies of Kansas

While dreaming
a star stretches
and holds her lover

The starlight
shatters like knives
above rounded rocks

The weeds grow
fat with light
from falling stars

And the wash of stars
lights the earth
from inside

You as light flew
honey and smoke
you spoke on the phone

(http://www.johnharveyphoto.com/ for more great photos)

A Poet I Like Declines

2005-09-22T05:46:00.000-05:00

I got this forward from a friend. Thanks, friend. Find poems by Sharon Olds online; she's a great poet. And poet's can write letters as well.

Laura Bush
First Lady
The White House

Dear Mrs. Bush,

I am writing to let you know why I am not able to accept your kind invitation to give a presentation at the National Book Festival on September 24, or to attend your dinner at the Library of Congress or the breakfast at the White House.

In one way, it's a very appealing invitation. The idea of speaking at a festival attended by 85,000 people is inspiring! The possibility of finding new readers is exciting for a poet in personal terms, and in terms of the desire that poetry serve its constituents--all of us who need the pleasure, and the inner and outer news, it delivers.

And the concept of a community of readers and writers has long been dear to my heart. As a professor of creative writing in the graduate school of a major university, I have had the chance to be a part of some magnificent outreach writing workshops in which our students have become teachers. Over the years, they have taught in a variety of settings: a women's prison, several New York City public high schools, an oncology ward for children. Our initial program, at a 900-bed state hospital for the severely physically challenged, has been running now for twenty years, creating along the way lasting friendships between young MFA candidates and their students--long-term residents at the hospital who, in their humor, courage and wisdom, become our teachers.

When you have witnessed someone nonspeaking and almost nonmoving spell out, with a toe, on a big plastic alphabet chart, letter by letter, his new poem, you have experienced, close up, the passion and essentialness of writing. When you have held up a small cardboard alphabet card for a writer who is completely nonspeaking and nonmoving (except for the eyes), and pointed first to the A, then the B, then C, then D, until you get to the first letter of the first word of the first line of the poem she has been composing in her head all week, and she lifts her eyes when that letter is touched to say yes, you feel with a fresh immediacy the human drive for creation, self-expression, accuracy, honesty and wit--and the importance of writing, which celebrates the value of each person's unique story and song.

So the prospect of a festival of books seemed wonderful to me. I thought of the opportunity to talk about how to start up an outreach program. I thought of the chance to sell some books, sign some books and meet some of the citizens of Washington, DC. I thought that I could try to find a way, even as your guest, with respect, to speak about my deep feeling that we should not have invaded Iraq, and to declare my belief that the wish to invade another culture and another country--with the resultant loss of life and limb for our brave soldiers, and for the noncombatants in their home terrain--did not come out of our democracy but was instead a decision made "at the top" and forced on the people by distorted language, and by untruths. I hoped to express the fear that we have begun to live in the shadows of tyranny and religious chauvinism--the opposites of the liberty, tolerance and diversity our nation aspires to.

I tried to see my way clear to attend the festival in order to bear witness--as an American who loves her country and its principles and its writing--against this undeclared and devastating war.

But I could not face the idea of breaking bread with you. I knew that if I sat down to eat with you, it would feel to me as if I were condoning what I see to be the wild, highhanded actions of the Bush Administration.

What kept coming to the fore of my mind was that I would be taking food from the hand of the First Lady who represents the Administration that unleashed this war and that wills its continuation, even to the extent of permitting "extraordinary rendition": flying people to other countries where they will be tortured for us.

So many Americans who had felt pride in our country now feel anguish and shame, for the current regime of blood, wounds and fire. I thought of the clean linens at your table, the shining knives and the flames of the candles, and I could not stomach it.

Sincerely,

SHARON OLDS

A Little Fat Man with a Notepad in His Hand

2005-09-11T19:21:00.000-05:00

There's a swelling in my throat the more I hear, and I wanted to say something for my friends down south. I'm disgusted with my country and encouraged by it. I hope we can keep paying attention. Here're two songs by Randy Newman whom I've been listening to lately. I love you all.

Louisiana 1927

What has happened down here is the wind have changed
Clouds roll in from the north and it started to rain
Rained real hard and rained for a real long time
Six feet of water in the streets of Evangeline

The river rose all day
The river rose all night
Some people got lost in the flood
Some people got away alright
The river have busted through cleard down to Plaquemines
Six feet of water in the streets of Evangelne

Louisiana, Louisiana
They're tyrin' to wash us away
They're tryin' to wash us away
Louisiana, Louisiana
They're tryin' to wash us away
They're tryin' to wash us away

President Coolidge came down in a railroad train
With a little fat man with a note-pad in his hand
The President say, "Little fat man isn't it a shame
what the river has done
To this poor cracker's land."

Mr. President Have Pity on the Working Man

We've taken all you've given
But it's gettin' hard to make a livin'
Mr. President have pity on the working man

We're not asking you to love us
You may place yourself high above us
Mr. President have pity on the working man

I know it may sound funny
But people ev'ry where are runnin' out of money
We just can't make it by ourself

It is cold and the wind is blowing
We need something to keep us gong
Mr. President have pity on the working man

Maybe you've cheated
Maybe you've lied
Maybe you have lost your mind
Maybe you're only thinking 'bout yourself

Too late to run. Too late to cry now
The time has come for us to say good-bye now
Mr. President have pity on the working man
Mr. President have pity on the working man

Poem of the Day

2005-07-12T22:12:00.000-05:00

Political Song for an Old Man to Sing

From the distant fields behind his house
comes the sound of thunder and quiet shush
of falling rain. Inside, he regards his image
in the tarnished mirror which hangs
on the dining room wall. His mind unfurls
and he's President again, standing
somber under flags which whip and drain
of life above his head. Decorated men
speak in languages he's never heard
and a translator whispers into his ear
abstractions like hope, dream and peace.
There's a joke he remembers about a clown
eating in a diner--the President smiles, nods
and the cameras click like breaking twigs.
In the dining room, he looks past his face
to the sheets of rain flipping in the field.
On the porch, he tilts his head, walks
into the downpour, arcs of light
popping above, and listens to the voices
of the rain speak of beautiful boys and girls
of deserts and the failing light from the west.
He raises his face to the water, arms wide
at his side and the afternoon breaks
into the comforting sound of applause.

Poem of the Day

2005-06-27T20:38:00.000-05:00

Mythologies

Abigail the Able Minded

drove a cart into the fields west
of town. The villagers saw her
as she found the lost calf
fed it, returned it to the flock.

Olbie the Obese

hungered for fame while still
in the womb. Inhaling whole realms
he paused to sketch a fork.
It was really nice
the remaining said.

Terrence the Terse

jerk.

Cerious the Furrow-browed poor speller

scrawled a note demanding
one denizen of eggs
and when the puzzled farmer
was brought before him
he again began to cry.
He insisted on writing his own
history which began:
"I fell god." This ensured
a handsome advance.

Hilarious the Glinting

made his enemies laugh
until their insides boiled.
He is necessarily storied.

Tacitus the Quick

"I" was all he ever said.

Poem of the Day

2005-06-24T21:34:00.000-05:00

My Baby is a Red Radio

I thought I saw my baby
hovering over the market
holding a clove of garlic
in her fist. She dressed
like the baby Jesus, in cloud
and consequence.

I feigned something in my eye--
an old trick of mine--asked
a stranger the price of eggplant
and walked down the street,
my baby crying above
the indifferent world.

When I woke the ground
was papered and pungent
but the sky clear with blue
that went on and on.

And you're in a library reading
with a smirk but there's a crumb
on your collar, and a hair
from my beard curls buried
in the crack between floorboards.

And you're my baby in bluejeans
the color of pulsing veins. You're
a song I remember when it warms
through the honeyed tubes
of the dusty red Zenith.

I saw my baby on the bus
dressed as an old woman, crying
and cursing us, laughing
into her broken coat. I followed
to her house your house.

My baby went to sleep on a bed
lit by light from the moon
we used to share.

Low Rent Poem of the Day

2005-06-23T22:20:00.000-05:00

The Best Beer

Hitching across Oklahoma in July heat
I scuffed my shoes beside the highway.
In the woods on 62 a rusting truck
pulled off the road and the driver handed me
a Sunday beer. He didn't call me "Bub"
and didn't offer me a ride, but we talked
as the sun began to fade, about wanting
and not getting, about people helping
each other out. A bird called in the distance
he tipped his hat, got into the truck
and I headed home to Fayetteville.

Poem of the Day

2005-06-22T22:15:00.000-05:00

The Saddest Song in the World

Was sung today by 12 year old Violet Small
in white stockings with a dirt stain on one knee.

The song was sung into a sour November wind
but no one heard as she dropped her head

adjusted her collar and sang like a million cellos
burning by the ocean, sifting to the sea.

Her tears reflected the stars, the moon
and the blue light from 7816 televisions

playing popular tragedies with theme songs
and muted graphics fading to gray.

Violet whispered the last verse
lit by candles in an empty church

on a quiet street, bell rusting to the dust
of a billion chords. She closed her eyes

dabbed at her cheeks and stumbled past
a crying dog beside her father's final house.

Poem of the Day

2005-06-21T21:24:00.000-05:00

Song Without Notes for the Shadows to Sing on the Longest Day of the Year

The blackbirds sulk, and the stars go blue
on the longest day of the year.

A woman walked by in a tattered gold suit
on the longest day of the year.

The tv sets all fade to gray
dim fireflies knit her name
the fading light will spark her eyes
on the longest day of the year.

On the longest day of the year
we sing, on the longest day of the year;
in the fading light, you'll lose your heart
on the longest day of the year.

The Cubs win the game in the top of the eighth
on the longest day of the year.

A jet flies by while the pilot sleeps
on the longest day of the year.

The tiger stirs in the fading zoo
while the monkeys shriek my name.
My mother stirs her tea to cool
on the longest day of the year.

On the longest day of the year
we sing, on the longest day of the year;
in the fading light, I'll lose my heart
on the longest day of the year.

Poem of the Day

2005-06-20T22:39:00.000-05:00

Summer in North Little Rock

Summer of poodles clicking hardwood,
candied oranges from Melrose Grocery
who delivered bleeding bones for the shepherds
out back. Summer of big clouds and no rain
of flystrip heat and no wind. North Little Rock
the froggy scent of wet earth and trains.
Summer of Grandfather sleepwatching the Cardinals
of my talcumed grandmother smoking Kools
on the road to McCain. Summer of cut-offs
and religion, smiling women looming
with cookiebreath and Christ smiling
from the ivory plastic lightswitch.
Campbell soup summer of hunnybuns
and sweet water from the river Jordan
rusting the lid--salvation on the neighbor's
television set. A dollar for malt balls hidden
in sweating palms on the way to the Boy's Club
where we caught a fever from the water
from the screaming black boys who spoke
a language my brother and I had never heard,
bloodlight fear of the electric wire
in the German shepherds' pen. Static pop
of linoleum, soap operas of desperate lovers
and my grandparents in separate rooms.
Summer of Jesus, patient and disappointed
hanging on the bedroom wall.

Poem of the Day

2005-06-17T21:50:00.000-05:00

Why I'm a Cubs Fan

Because the ivy turns from brown to green
and the grooved fields of Illinois play songs
in the spring. Because one day the girl
cracking jokes at the back of the class
will wink and toss me a kiss. Because I stood
in the dust with sweat on my lip, waiting
for my name. Because the most hopeful man
I ever knew imagined each woman the lost queen
of Australia. Because at dusk I wait
for the rarest bird to land, shuddering and safe
in my tiny outstretched hand.

Poem of the Day

2005-06-16T22:25:00.000-05:00

A City Lit with Fireflies

The waxed face of the priest intones.
Birds fly the rafters as the sun gives up
while night watchmen weep to their elbows
and the women tremble under dry sheets.
In the town square, bayonettes cut the moon
to ribbons of light. Darkness feathers
the streets to shadow. The priest stumbles home
from the candled room, the evening like wine
on his lips. The baker sings a song of night
shakes a cloud of sugar from his hip.
He sings some words, a prayer for love
and wanders his town alone.

Poem of the Day

2005-06-15T16:09:00.000-05:00

When The World Began

Green fists of hail
punch the ground
between her house

and the pale ocean.
She stands silent
over her dog while
her man checks
the news, sips tea
from a china cup.

In his sleep Alfred
dreams of masters,
chasing dancing
leashes in the rain.

The man realizes
words are symbols
of his boredom
and his wife drops
tears on the coat
of the silent dog.

Poem of the Day

2005-06-14T22:29:00.000-05:00

Kisses of the Union: All the Way to Arkansas

Drunken flies buzzed my ear
as I whispered to her mouth,
"Guess the state" and kissed her
my idea of Tennessee--
its long-night drive
and its whiskey breath,
its rusted roadside wrecks
and burning barns.

"Alabama?" she drawled
into my neck and dropped
a scuffed shoe
on the concrete floor. "My turn"
she said with two blinks
and a serious laugh.

And so I am here,
driving through bugs
breaking like pills
on my windshield
driving through the moon
splashed on the macadam
all the way to Arkansas.

Poem of the Fortnight

2005-06-14T00:05:00.000-05:00

Poetry 101

Talk softly
when you speak
of the rain

The moon
is mean
and true

A purple iris--
the poor poem's
tattered flag

No Poem, perhaps because it's a holiday?

2005-05-30T21:11:00.000-05:00

But you should read some of these--
they may break your heart.

http://postsecret.blogspot.com/

Love,
Sean

No Poem, Just Living

2005-05-27T07:06:00.000-05:00

But I talked a lot about poems
and that's got to be worth something.
I'm in Carbondale and had dinner
with Beth and Andy last night--
trout, creamed spinach, mashed potatoes
and turnips (really amazing).
I'm at Rodney's now, and I'm off
to Pittsburgh this morning--
first a breakfast at Mary Lou's.
I'm very happy I stopped here as
I love these people--thanks to all.
As far as poetry--uh, the sun rose
this morning like a really close star.

More later.

This is Not a Poem

2005-05-26T06:41:00.000-05:00

I'm hitting the road for Pittsburgh this morning, so updates will be random. Thanks for all the comments. More later.

--Sean

Poem of the Day

2005-05-25T15:20:00.000-05:00

We Can't Even Think of a Word That Rhymes
--thanks to James for the idea

My brother and I ran home
to crank the KEG as loud
as our blood demanded.

Calling the DJ to beg
for Alice Cooper--
the only one to understand
this revolt in our chests,

this euphoria explained
with those triplets pounding
through the final call:
"School's out completely!"

We needed something
to blow out this rage,
this tattered thrill
of closure and uncertainty.
We had no bongs, no girls,
no cars, no magazines to help.

Two weeks later, we'd growl
around the house searching
for anything to kill the sugared
days of summer, the drag
of the sun, the stunted
grass in the back yard--
the damnable endless days.

But for those few minutes
we forgot the torpor
on summer's horizon.

We danced around the couch
blood crashing in our veins,
fists in the air screaming,
"school's out for summer!
school's out forever!"

Poem of the Day

2005-05-24T21:55:00.000-05:00

The Poem of the Day

hides in the wings breathing,
checking the shine on his boots.
The poem of the day waits
for his friend to stop yammering
in the green light of the stage.

He turns to his images:
a glass of tea sweats on a side table,
a tired waitress sleeps on the floor,
a hawk floats above in the dark.
The applause dies.

"Good job, pal," he mutters
as the other poem passes
into the darkness of the wings.

The announcer takes the stage.
The poem stubs his cigarette
nudges the waitress with his boot
and walks into the light.

Poem of the Day

2005-05-23T17:00:00.000-05:00

Suicide: A Primer

A shower of falling leaves
from the sideyard maples

A wave

A thousand arcs of sunlight
an eclipse through the trees

Her mouth

The falling notes of an ambulance
as it cries past your house

The perfectly pitched curve
of her hip as she sleeps

The universe of ants

The neighbor's boy as he reaches
for the spring falling rain

An orange

Snow drifting the beams
of a slower falling barn

Sunlight trout motionless
in the cool of a spring

A bruise

The laughter of a girl
just six lockers down

Silence after a symphony
hear the blood in your veins

You must first learn
to forget these things.

Weekends Off

2005-05-21T21:45:00.000-05:00

I'm really liking this poem a day thing, but I think I'll allow myself weekends free from poetry pressure. Congratulations to all the students at ASMSA--this last year has been wonderful, so thanks for all you've done, and thanks especially to several students who took time out to make me feel welcome at ASMSA. You all amaze me. Thanks.

Poem of the Day

2005-05-20T17:56:00.000-05:00

Verse Chorus Bridge

Your burned out eyes
and tattered Levi's with stains
of days and cigarette burns call
like a fireline chorus of Les Paul lust.

Love sings in your spit slurs
you slam dance queen
you white line on a pinball machine
you wandering danger.

Distortion stutters Marshall stack
and I want you back
with your e string shrill
and your bass line bump.

Poem of the Day

2005-05-19T15:32:00.000-05:00

Your Death: Essay Questions

You once turned a crying woman
from your darkened apartment
for no reason. Discuss.

Burning houses excite you
almost sexually. What does fire
represent in the poem of your life?

When rain slaps the pavement,
does the narrator (you)
miss your father? Why or Why not?

After a game of basketball
one cloudy afternoon, you mumbled
"I love you." Explain.

When you have finished the test
put down your pencil and leave the room
as quietly as you can.

Poem of the Day

2005-05-18T15:32:00.000-05:00

Summer Storm in Fayetteville

Motionless under a glass bell of heat,
my brother and I lie on a slab of stone
playing death. The nighthawks swerve
above our heads and the cicadas sing
neon in the locust trees in the darkening
back yard. Our parents gin mumble
Coltrane and Nixon while the storm
gathers far west of town--long
reeds of water sweeping down streets
and fields. The bell breaks with light
and thunder tumbles the air. Nighthawks
scatter to the trees at the far edge
of the world. Raindrops spin in our wake.

Poem of the Day

2005-05-17T19:37:00.000-05:00

Like This

she said, and put her fingers to her mouth.
Evening settled in my blood and kissed
her eyelids shut. Flashing in unison
in the meadow under the sickle moon, fireflies
signaled the end of summer.

The leaves become watches--
their yellowed hands fall under your chair
as you creak the time down
creak the time down as the leaves
become watches, their fat stems
feeding the time down like this,
she said.

Poem of the Day

2005-05-16T16:34:00.000-05:00

The Change Machine

Breathing into the brown hair of a stranger
at the Gas and Go, I lost sight of your razor
pants and hairline cracks behind the ATM.

Your delicious tongue called out fresh
languages in your sleep under shuffling air
too hot to fall again for hours.

That's days gone. Under the rising sun
by the Greyhound terminal in Memphis
a corkscrew kid--bluejeans, a smirk--

laughs like a change machine. They come slow
at first: a rose, a river, some blood
falls down. The leaves in dusk light

cascade to the storm drain, your smile
fades into the dark of blown candles
molten, wild to be found.

Poem of the Day

2005-05-15T21:51:00.000-05:00

Poem for Laurie Anderson

It happens often when I rise
three prong outlets shriek surprise

In every room throughout the house
they stare as if they just found out

about the burglar who is me
but empty sockets cannot flee

they wait till night and lights are out
their eyes cry sparks behind the couch

My Precious Time

2005-05-15T15:01:00.000-05:00

ABC just advertised a program "so emotional it takes two hours to tell!"

Free Music

2005-04-15T09:04:00.000-05:00

One of the best sites for free and generally legal downloads of music is the Salon site above. The editor has consistantly good taste, and if you hate the song, throw away. You might have to wait for an ad in order to access this part of the site but it's worth it. In particular in the April 14th installment is a song by Squeak E. Clean and Karen O (this is why I mention generally legal---you get the choice of legal or not) with cellos and accoustic guitar, strange rhythmic backgrounds and addictive vocals by Karen O of the Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs. Apparently this song is in a Adidas ad right now. There's a new EP by David Garza who was the chosen boy of JR's back in the day. Not to mention a free song from Spoon, one of my favorite bands right now. Talk to you later. Leave a note if you have any love.

Side One

2005-04-13T18:58:00.000-05:00

We played Pink Flag by Wire up in Fayetteville a few weeks ago. We rocked fair amazing, but here's the deal. You could really tell, listening again and again to the CD, where the first side of the original album ended. It's organized like a small set at a show: start interesting, build, relax, build, build, kick ass. Or something like that. So, when you're programming a CD, everything is different, you have a bigger canvas, I guess. Anyway, the whole point is this. The first side of Tonights the Night by Neil Young is one of the greatest things ever. If you don't have a copy of it, you really need it. If you do, you need to get a glass of wine and listen to it.
.

Photo Fun

2005-04-13T18:12:00.000-05:00

Most of you might have seen this already, but if not here it is. You type any word or words into the search slot, and it searches for photos on Flickr with those keywords. From there you can just pick up different pictures off the desktop and go to the photographers photo book. It's like finding an infinite number of cast off photo albums in the dumpster.

Poor Andrew Motion

2005-04-07T07:53:00.000-05:00

It's a tough job. Motion has to write a poem for the upcoming royal wedding. Here's a clever article from the NYTimes including this bit: "But the royal poems invariably attract the most attention, and the most sniping. Poets as a group tend to be thin-skinned, jealous and suspicious, and the elevation of one to such a public post invariably opens the door to everyone else's rude comments."

Sorry registration required for NYT.

Smiling Dogs and Easter Eggs

2005-04-05T20:52:00.000-05:00

This is my favorite picture I've seen in awhile. For one, it has my nieces in it, for another, LOOK AT THAT FREAKIN' DOG! I do believe this dog is grinning in an unsettling way. I love this. Tell me I'm crazy.

Free TV

2005-04-05T20:29:00.000-05:00

I'm cheap. I admit it. This is a site devoted to free computer tv. I don't have cable, so it's really nice to know this is here. Right now they're showing, Phantom from Space on one channel and Mau Mau Sex Sex on another. This last thing isn't as interesting as it sounds. But last night they were streaming When We Were Kings and Reefer Madness--uh, this is a bad movie. I saw it at the Union one night along time ago with a bunch of freshmen too high to realize the true badness of this film. There are some great scenes from time to time. Anyway, they have pretty good horror and space movies--movies produced for a buck eighty during the cold war/nuclear heyday. Enjoy.

Writing about Drugs

2005-04-05T20:23:00.000-05:00

As per James' request, I'm going to try to start posting here some of the things I find on the internets rather than sending to him alone. Call him unselfish. This is a piece I found through Metafilter.com, and the reason I put it up, is this guy can write. I'm amazed at his ability to be so honest, funny, horrifying and truthful all about Drugs which, judging by a whole ream of writing is really hard to write about. Don't do drugs. Here he talks about his childhood attempts to get high from drinking mead from a recipe from the library: "I kept my mead in a pair of empty plastic Coke bottles. Every day I'd have to twist the cap off and release the carbon dioxide, or the stuff would explode. On New Years Eve I poured my first glass. It was warm, almost hot. It wasnt sweet at all--it tasted like some kind of milky lard. I couldn't drink it at first, but I made myself chug the stuff. Im not sure what happened, but all of a sudden it was dark outside, I thought I heard Dick Clark talking about his balls, and I couldn't stand up."

Driving a Snake

2005-03-17T20:29:00.000-06:00

Hello. I just got back from being part of a 60 foot long snake. I was a member of McHooligans, and we had St. Patrick on stilts with a censor and stick, belly dancers, a gymnast and the aforementioned snake a la Chinese Dragon. We used hula hoops spaced throughout the thing which had a pretty scary box/papier mache head with a red stick tongue. We kicked ass and scared some kids. I was second back from the head, and we had some pretty sweet maneuvers, zigging AND zagging a bit as St. Patrick drove us from Ireland under the watchful eyes of George Wendt, televisions' Norm from Cheers. Poor guy. Apparently he was up partying until three am, and then he had to Marshall. The parade was the shortest in the world being all of 50 feet long--the length of one block. That's the angle. You gotta have an angle.

Fix and Return

2005-03-05T21:37:00.000-06:00

I'm trying to shape this up for The Chronicle. Any comments on the truth etc. would be helpful:

The Art of Not Leaving
by Sean Chapman
approx 1100 words

For many students, from the moment I open my mouth on that first fall day, the class becomes about leaving, about getting out with a letter which symbolizes their understanding of the material (or, some believe, their understanding of my views on the material). But for some students with loftier goals, the next several weeks are about becoming better and more complicated human beings, about coming in contact with ideas and thoughts they can’t yet put into words, and they thrill to the task, actually worried that it will end too soon. I worry about the ending as well because it has become a regular reminder of my own stasis.

My belief going into my first teaching job was that it was an honest way to make money without waiting tables, a way to exchange ideas, energize tired minds and grow and develop as a person. What I found at the end of that first semester was much more complicated than human development, although I think that happened too. What I found was a deep sorrow and helplessness that I hadn’t felt since an older kid swam me out to a raft at Lake Weddington, and I couldn’t swim back. I just sat on that raft staring through tears at all the kids, screaming and running on the beach.

I had assumed, during those weeks of training that graduate students undergo before being allowed in the classroom, that the main problem with teaching was much more simple, that a teacher’s biggest pitfall was becoming too complacent in the classroom. I had a teacher in college who was so predictable that often the class would know his jokes and mannerisms related to specific poems before we walked into the room, and I didn’t want to become him.

I had the impression that each year I would be facing a revolving roomful of kids, each with a different name and face, but that they would basically stay the same—they’d come from the same schools, have the same wishes, want the same things. I would be changing, growing, coming to understand the intricacies of the human mind, the human condition. I would be changing into an almost unrecognizable person—more complicated and sensitive and wise.

During my first fall in front of the classroom, I got so attached to one of my freshman composition classes and they to me, that by Halloween, the class came dressed as me—khaki pants, white t-shirt. When the semester suddenly ended a month and a half later, in many ways I had become one of them, sharing their jokes and joys and sorrows, and when they filed out with a promise to stay in touch, I had a feeling that I’d been left by my classmates to stick it out alone in this big room, to quietly watch them disperse into the great wooded campus of Carbondale, Illinois. Maybe I was just being too sensitive I thought; this feeling will wear off by next semester, but in the spring it was still there. I was trapped in the amber light of the classroom, and they were free to wander off. Opposite of what I’d expected, I stayed the same; the students kept changing.

It wasn’t complacency in my teaching that was the problem. I kept trying to find new ways to make the material current and engaging. I tried to make The Odyssey exciting to these kids who’ve been inundated with high-budget films since they were babies. I tried to make the poems of Blake spark with the same electrical energy that drew me to them. So I have managed so far to avoid becoming a books-on-tape teacher, mindlessly restating past lectures, but what I haven’t avoided is becoming my own tragic character, trapped on an urn, silently watching the world change around him.

Occasionally, I run into former students out on the town with their parents celebrating their graduation, and it seems to me that I just had them in class, could still remember their alarmed faces when I explained my absence policy. I shake their hands, tell their parents a pleasant story about their children and walk them to their car. I find a big part of me wanting to jump into the leaving car, to see what this world has to offer. One of the most difficult elements of teaching for me is learning to separate my students (on their way to finding their lives) from myself (having found my life).

I get too close, get too caught up in their lives. When my students leave, I am learning that many of them are heading to where I already am. I know what I want from my life, have decided part of my future already.

In the last several years, I have been teaching young poets down at Arkansas Governor’s School—a six week intensive school where eleventh graders come to learn about the history of thought, the complications of life, and line-breaks. The summer starts with nervous introductions and quiet readings, but by the end, we’re hugging each other goodbye, trading poems, and quoting lines of verse; I’ve taught there for five years now, and I can hardly speak by the end of that final day when I have to wish them well in the world. But I’m not choked up now by sorrow at my inertness, I am choked up by a joy and a thrill that I was able to affect such wonderful students and that I am lucky enough to meet students who in turn affect me. So, I’m getting better, learning each year how better to deal with the feeling of non-movement.

Perhaps there’s a professional distance that I haven’t yet learned—I was horrified to hear from a doctor friend that MDs have a term for someone hovering near death in the hospital: they’re “circling the drain.” This terminology, this distance, is needed in the hospital where attachment can be a weight which can affect your work. And maybe that’s what you develop as you teach—after years of working at a school, you get used to the ebb and flow of wonderful, funny and talented people. You develop that necessary distance. And when that final day of the semester comes, you just get in your car, drive home and begin thinking what you’ll do differently next time you teach that class.

Essay Question

2005-02-14T18:39:00.000-06:00

All wars become a battle between abstract ideas and concrete images. Discuss.

First Lines

2005-02-05T22:08:00.000-06:00

"I was married at the time but was seeing a woman whose husband worked the late night shift at KBRW. He could never catch us, but his voice crowded my dreams."

First Lines

2005-02-05T22:05:00.000-06:00

"This morning, my dog growled from the foot of my bed, and I saw in his wet mouth, the tops of someone's dentures."

I know, I know "fake, fake, fake"

2005-01-27T15:59:00.000-06:00

But hell, have you seen the illustration here? Man.

Same Site, Different Funny

2005-01-26T10:47:00.000-06:00

Another great quote from this site which promotes a Creationist Science Fair is too great: "This is also the first year that Muslim students from the Al-Jannah Islamic school have been invited to participate; two of their students presented a project on human anatomy entitled 'Allah (SWT) Created Me' which, while it was found ineligible for a prize due to a number of Biblical inconsistencies, did win a special Interfaith Outreach ribbon."

I Pray That Brat Lynda Gets a Cold

2005-01-25T18:36:00.000-06:00

I can't really say much more about this site than it can.

"1st Place: "Using Prayer To Microevolve Latent Antibiotic Resistance In Bacteria"

Eileen Hyde and Lynda Morgan (grades 10 & 11) did a project showing how the power of prayer can unlock the latent genes in bacteria, allowing them to microevolve antibiotic resistance. Escherichia coli bacteria cultured in agar filled petri dishes were subjected to the antibiotics tetracycline and chlorotetracycline. The bacteria cultures were divided into two groups, one group (A) received prayer while the other (B) didn't. The prayer was as follows: "Dear Lord, please allow the bacteria in Group A to unlock the antibiotic-resistant genes that You saw fit to give them at the time of Creation. Amen." The process was repeated for five generations, with the prayer being given at the start of each generation. In the end, Group A was significantly more resistant than Group B to both antibiotics."

Please check out some of the others: "My Uncle Is A Man Named Steve (Not A Monkey)" (although perhaps her Uncle is a man named Steven from the pic). You decide.

Merry Christmas

2004-12-25T13:24:00.000-06:00

Hey everyone. Merry Christmas.

Hoe Lee Cow

2004-12-17T23:35:00.000-06:00

Man, Tony Tost hipped me to this. You can listen to Adam read his poem, or click above to hear me stumble over an early draft of a poem--I blame the stumble on gin, the early draft on poor book keeping. Man. Get ready for more, people.

The Mall

2004-12-17T20:49:00.000-06:00

I went there. To the mall. I am not sure I'll be able to go again. Today, as I walked past the Santa with gin blossoms (is there a more pleasant sounding dangerous warning sign of alchoholism?) and watched a little kid sitting there before the flash, I saw the future of the picture. I've been thinking this way for awhile now, and I need to stop. Essentially what happens is that the photo flashes forward through time in my mind: displayed under blinking lights, cracked on the corner, in a drawer, under a newspaper, yellowed, cracked through the middle. And then it ends in some corner of a backyard with a chainlink fence. Lately, this is happening with people, but in both directions. I imagine the old folks spiraling back to cribs and the eight year olds growing stooped and cragged. Anyway, that's not why I am not sure if I can go back to the mall, and I love malls basically. It's that all the retail guys just freak me out now. They didn't use to. They all have to be so hungry and uncious. Anyway, all this rushing around of folks with scowls on their faces maybe because they hate shopping, or I don't know, it could be anything, but it all felt so sick and dangerous. I just wanted to hug them or go outside and lie down or watch 400 Blows , but I didn't.

My solution to the existential crisis was to buy a wireless card for the PC and a quilt. But I did get them both at places where no one asked me if I needed to buy anything.

The Mighty Squash

2004-12-17T13:16:00.000-06:00

I'm done with grading! I'm done with grading! So, here's what I'm eating right now on December 17th at 1:17 in the afternoon: spaghetti squash which I baked the night before (40 mins or so at 350) and scraped out. Then I added pesto from the store and chopped pecans that I student got me for Christmas. How great does that sound? I'm all about the spaghetti squash right now--Kirsten had it with red sauce, I know it would be great in a casserole as well. All right -- first bite: great texture stuff going on, crunchy pecans, nice almost crispness in the squash as well. Now, some Natural Light . . . delicious. I exhaled like on tv saying, "ahhhh." So, the nuts are just a little extra fat if you're looking for that sort of thing. I think thinking about texture is good though. Perhaps all cooking is science and texture: acid/base (I watched a whole show on balance of acid/base once), how cheeses break and how to fix them. All that's science. So, I have made a great base, but I'm missing the acid, so I'd go with a spinach salad with vinagrette or something. I made a dressing in Greece that I've been meaning to try again with vinegar, oil, orange juice, lemon and sugar over spinach that was great. Acid and Base is why dressings are good I guess. Or you could balance this with some nice white wine.

Anyway, all is well. Ben, Julie, Elena and Emily will be here tomorrow, then up to Fayetteville. I'm cooking spinach lasagna tomorrow, and I might try that dressing again for them. I hope all is well.

Soup

2004-12-12T20:37:00.000-06:00

I made some vegetable soup tonight: cabbage, carrots, potatoes, turnips, celery, tomatoes, rosemary, basil and pepper flakes. I am reminded, almost every time I make vegetable soup, of kindergarten. We made a big pot of soup in class once, and looking back, that seems like a strange thing to do. I was in charge of peeling potatoes. Other things I remember from Bates: We had a contest where we jumped over a "creek" which was represented by two ropes, and the teacher kept making the creek wider, so that eventually, you'd get your shoes "wet." This was all a ploy to get us up to speed on the shoe tying process. Also, I remember learning how to bow to the little girls in the class, and they learned how to curtsy, and I kind of remember learning how to curtsy as well. That's weird isn't it? The curtsy is a dying art for sure. I'm trying to create an atmosphere of Christmas here, so even if it's 60 degrees outside, I'm in here making steamy soup listening to Eartha Kitt sing "Santa Baby" which I heard while driving to a post party party last night on the radio. I downloaded it today to put in the Christmas CD I'm making. I did a tiny bit of recording last night on the PC.

Nothing

2004-12-10T19:30:00.001-06:00

Building Nothing Out of Something is just so perfect for me right now, the candles just blown out, a bit of red wine in a pretty glass. I just arranged my photos, or I did as much as I could. Nostalgia is too short of a word for it--it makes me so proud and sad and lonely. Wondering how to organize a life in pictures, I started by grouping them into piles of people: girlfriends, boy friends, family, then groups at certain times. Then I switched to just clumping them together in years. And I then thought I'd just collect all the pictures that made me look nice. You all look nice. There's an amazing picture of Missi in there I found. I think she's resting on the brink of the Grand Canyon. And several nice ones of Kirsten's hand, blocking the camera.

I played at Coffeehouse at the school yesterday evening. I played "Wonderful" and Marty and I sang "Your Cheatin' Heart" and "I wanna be sedated." We didn't do our songs as well as we could, but they liked them, and they were so nice and quiet when I was singing "Wonderful."

I haven't even been thinking about writing lately. I can't imagine writing a poem, but I have been thinking of essays. I'm not ready to write one, but at least I've starting thinking about them. Before the break is over, I want to get something done. Perhaps I'll revise the thing that James liked so much from Greece. I think I'm exhausted from work, but when I look back at the week, I can't think what I've done that's so tiring. Teaching is strange work in that you're always on--it's sort of like taking a problem-solving test for eight hours every day. So, yeah, that's why I'm tired.

I'll try to update this site, and when I finally get a camera and buy some room, I'll be posting some pictures from Hot Springs because it's really lovely here: old dead buildings and steam rising off the hillside.

2004-12-07T22:39:00.000-06:00

"Dear Santa Claus, how have you been? Did you have a nice Summer? . . . All is want is wha-- what I have coming to me. All I want is my fair share." Man, how I love this show.

2004-11-06T19:18:00.000-06:00

Well, I've decided to start doing a blog which is just about me and my thoughts. I can't see any harm. By writing down occassional thoughts and ideas for poems or essays, I hope I'll begin writing more. This is mainly for lil' ol' me, but feel free to hang out and give me some feedback.