Hey Sylvia Plath! Get Your Act Together! April is National Poetry Month!

April is the month to celebrate poets and poetry, and so I will share one of my poems here (and please don't be intimidated by how good it is, as I teach creative writing, and so I have unbelievable creative powers) and I should warn you that this poem contains an "allusion" and that if you don't know how Sylvia Plath offed herself, then you might not understand all the "layers" of this masterpiece, which not only did I write myself (without the use of the internet) but I have also memorized in toto so that I can recite it to my classes after we read "Mirror":

Some Advice for Sylvia Plath


Get your head out of that oven
and cook us up another poem.

Poetry Versus Chemistry

High school drama . . . science teachers denounce the poetry festival . . . students are denied access to the dark artists of the pen because of quarterly reviews and quizzes in their real courses . . . tension between the departments . . . will all be forgiven by June?

Fishing For Anything

Last week at the dentist, I had to endure a full ninety minutes of drilling, pinching, poking, clamping, and lip-stretching, plus an additional ten minutes of biting into gooey and gross substances, and -- to make matters worse-- I wasn't in the good hands my normal dentist, a family friend who's been doing my teeth since I was six and still calls me "Davey" . . . or "Marc," if he mixes me up with my brother . . . but he was swamped and so I was given to the other dentist in the office . . . a young Asian lady who works with her own assistant . . . but this didn't faze me because I had adopted a new dental persona for this visit (though I nearly chickened-out and skipped the appointment entirely . . . I almost drove by the Milltown exit and started towards the beach . . . I really didn't want to waste a day-off at the dentist's office) but once I got it into my head that I was actually going to this appointment, despite some serious white-coat anxiety, then I decided to conquer my cowardice and become a new patient, a bad-ass patient, and so I kept saying to myself: Behave as if you are a bad-ass . . . a veteran of the war in Afghanistan . . . a member of a motorcycle gang . . . a guy who wrestles alligators . . . a  not a guy who likes to play soccer and tennis and reads poetry out loud for a living . . . and I pulled it off, I did a damn good job of it, I didn't complain, I only required one break (when I had to cough) and I didn't require any laughing gas or extra novocaine . . . and this was despite the fact that my dental team offered no encouragement whatsoever during the procedure -- these two were all business, they gave me no time frame -- unlike my dentist, who is constantly bantering, saying things like "Halfway done, Davey, just two more roots in there" -- but these two never said "boo," except when they chastised me for not raising my left hand high enough when I had to cough because I was drowning from my own phlegm . . . and so I endured ninety minutes of drilling without complaint, and when it was finally over, I expected a little something for the effort . . . maybe not total consciousness on my deathbed, maybe not a lollipop, but something . . . some acknowledgement that what I went through was painful, tedious, and uncomfortable, and that I handled it like a seriously bad-ass dude (but I guess a real bad-ass doesn't need confirmation that he's a bad-ass) but I got no such praise -- no compliment on my stoic attitude and uncomplaining mien -- and so I tried to fish for a little bit of appreciation . . . I said, "I hope I can talk tomorrow, or I won't be able to teach class," but this didn't work -- the mean assistant said, "You can talk now, you'll be fine," and then she left, and I realized that these two had no appreciation for my work, and probably expected people to behave the way I did . . . and so I will never behave that way again; next time I'm going to rinse every three minutes, take bathroom breaks, hit the gas, request a radio station, and generally bitch and gripe to my heart's content.

Watch Your Language

Last week, during the annual Poetry Festival at my high school, acclaimed poet BJ Ward spoke to my creative writing class about being sensitive to language-- he deconstructed the Pledge of Allegiance and wondered why the students were required to repeat it every morning if it was actually a pledge . . . a serious promise that is eternal . . . e.g. I have pledged to eat more tacos in 2011-- and since his presentation, I have been more alert to the words around me; for example, I noticed a Watch Children sign in Ward's hometown of Edison, and I wondered why they couldn't add the preposition "for" into the statement . . . Watch For Children isn't as ominous and ambiguous Watch Children, which could be advice from one pedophile to another, or a paranoid warning from a wary old person.

A Book For People Who Thought "The Road" Was Too Depressing

Station Eleven, by Emily St. John Mandel, adds nothing new to the apocalypse trope-- in fact, I think she keeps it simple on purpose: a killer virus wipes out the bulk of humanity-- but the book is deserving of all the accolades (National Book Award Finalist, Amazon Sci-fi Book of the Year) and then some . . . it's vivid and completely gripping from page one, it's beautifully written, and there are scenes of great violence and decay-- of course-- but unlike Cormac McCarthy's The Road, there are also moments of beauty and poetry and hope . . . it's The Walking Dead if the zombies were replaced by actors, musicians, and prophets; while it's not a super-idealistic noble-savage view of humanity, it's also not an illustration of Hobbes Leviathan . . . it's somewhere in between: more "literary" than hard sci-fi, but still a perfectly imagined world and I highly recommend it (especially, as an English teacher and a musician, because this book gives me hope that I might have some small but valuable role in a post-apocalyptic environment . . . "survival is insufficient").

Poetry Birthday Week!

Yesterday, we went to happy hour at the Golden Lion in Milltown to celebrate my birthday and the gang from work gave me some lovely presents, including a laminated original poem in my honor which contains all my favorite allusions . . .  I have hyperlinked them for your perusal:

All who know you, know you've got grit,
you always try your best to stay fit;
you teach your students with cunning and wit,
even Brady admits that your podcast is lit;
and even though you're hairy as shit
some might say you look like a homeless Brad Pitt--

so when you're old and grumbling about the difference between lie and lay
just comfort yourself with the butter you spray!

and they also presented me with my very own bottle of spray butter and a framed photo of faceswap Dave and Stacey where we look like Brad Pitt . . . the best gift was going to the Golden Lion in Milltown for the first time-- it's quite the dive, and has darts, two full sized shuffleboard tables, a nice back room pool table, and fantastic wings . . . I also learned an interesting piece of information: I knew the wings at the Golden Lion were fantastic because years ago, a regular used to bring them to the Park Pub all the time and we would feast on them-- I said as much to the bartender at the Golden Lion and she said, "Yeah, he was stealing those wings . . . that's why he got fired" and then she gave me a high five because I had eaten so many of those stolen wings; anyway, I'd like to thank all that attended, I had a great time and obviously left with my wife at the right moment: I was happily lubricated but not sloshed, and so Alex, Cat and I watched Fargo and went to bed early . . . meanwhile, the ladies closed the place (and we got there at 3 PM) but I guess once you turn 48, if you haven't learned something about alcohol consumption, then you're in serious trouble (the other thing I learned is the worst place to keep a valuable jewel is on a drunk woman's finger . . . why is that a thing?)

When In Doubt, Blame It On Your Wife

I certainly have no problem blaming things on my kids that are actually my own fault, but there are times when it's much more logical to throw your wife under the bus; last week, I had to take my mini-van to the dealer to get a key transmitter -- and it's already humiliating enough for me to deal with mechanics, because while I teach kids how to write poetry, mechanics get to use powerful pneumatic tools and have extremely manly work-clothes -- but to add insult to injury, when the guy in the overalls asked for my registration and insurance card so he could take down the VIN and some other information, I couldn't find either . . . I searched the glove compartment, the cup-holders, the ashtray, and the floor . . . but no luck, and I finally told him, "My wife drives this car and I don't know what she did with everything," but that's not true, I drive the mini-van, but I had no idea where any of that stuff actually was, and (after I called my wife) what I didn't realize is that there is a second glove little glove compartment above the big glove compartment, and that's where we keep that stuff . . . and the bright side is: at least this ignorance didn't occur when I was being pulled over by a cop for a moving violation.

Destroying the World (Creatively)

My newest episode of We Defy Augury is an epic adventure into apocalypses of all kinds; "Apocalypse New" is inspired by Walter M. Miller's classic post-apocalyptic religious sci-fi classic A Canticle for Leibowitz, but there's lots of cameos: Ziggy Stardust, Tyler Durden, Karen Thompson Walker, Rick Grimes, Sookie Stackhouse, Bill Compton . . . and even Kramer, to help with some poetry; I highly recommend the first novella in Canticle-- the Catholic Church, like a cockroach, is still hanging on six hundred years after a nuclear flame deluge-- and the monastery in honor of St. Leibowitz is trying to preserve some arcane and archaic knowledge from that old, destroyed world . . . then the book keeps going and going and going . . . you might want to listen to my podcast rather than reading the rest.

Girl Stuff

There has been discussion in the office of what appears manly and macho and what doesn't, perhaps we dwell on this because we're English teachers and we teach poetry so we're already a little defensive . . . and I claimed that I cannot type because typing is for girls (it's easier to say this than to admit the truth-- I'm spastic on the keyboard) and some folks took offense at this, but then we decided that Ernest Hemingway couldn't type either . . . because he was too drunk (although F. Scott Fitzgerald could put it away, yet I'm sure he could touch-type with the best of them) and now there's a juggling craze in the office because Stacey learned to juggle, and while I was accomplishing an astounding juggling feat (juggling three tennis balls off the wall while standing a good five feet away from aforementioned wall) someone remarked that I didn't look very macho doing this astounding feat-- touche-- and this reminds me (this sentence is so long, why stop now?) last week I saw a guy pull out of his driveway on a unicycle, and it made me want to get a unicycle . . . is a unicycle macho?

Diamond in the Instructions

I was channelling Ron Swanson the other night, drinking a scotch on the rocks while assembling a pub table and set of stools for the new and improved Greasetruck Studios, when I ran across this phrase in the instructions for cleaning the table-top . . . sometimes you find poetry in the least likely places: "treat surface with care, surface is resistant to scratches but is not scratch resistant."

Modernist Poetry Helps Your Backhand?

I'm nearly done with Timothy Gallwey's classic The Inner Game of Tennis: The Classic Guide to the Mental Side of Performance, and while I won't reveal any of the secrets I've learned (because I might have to play you in tennis) I will let you in on one thing: this is probably the only instructional tennis book that refers to T.S. Eliot's "The Hollow Men."

The chances are now even greater that there will be a split between memory of theory and memory of action. (I am reminded of the lines from "The Hollow Men," by T.S. Eliot: "Between the idea/ And the reality/ Between the motion/ and the act/ Falls the Shadow.")

Kickin' Off BHM with a Classic (by a white lady)

To kick off Black History Month, I read Harriet Beecher Stowe's classic anti-slavery novel Uncle Tom's Cabin. It is a melodrama, and surprisingly entertaining: dramatic, humorous, action-packed, tragic, and evocative by turns. And a little bit racist . . . but that comes with the territory. Stowe (and her characters) definitely throw some generalizations around about the African race, but they are always couched in their peculiar and horrible American predicament. And she certainly meant well.

There's also a lot of deepfelt Christianity, probably because the novel primarily functions as a persuasive tract, and-- as Annette Gordon Reed explains in her New Yorker piece “UNCLE TOM’S CABIN” AND THE ART OF PERSUASION: How Harriet Beecher Stowe helped precipitate the Civil War:

By the eighteen-thirties, Southerners were offering the country a new vision of slavery, as a positive good ordained by God and sanctioned by Scripture. Naturally, abolitionists in the North believed that the Bible told them the opposite: slavery offended the basic tenets of Christianity. Each claimed moral authority, hoping to win over the vast majority of citizens who were not activists on either side. Nothing would change in either direction without the support of these uncommitted and wavering citizens. They had to be persuaded that slavery, one way or another, had moral implications for everyone who lived on American soil.

This was the country that Harriet Beecher Stowe addressed in 1852 when she published “Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or Life Among the Lowly,” one of the most successful feats of persuasion in American history. Stowe’s novel shifted public opinion about slavery so dramatically that it has often been credited with fuelling the war that destroyed the peculiar institution. Nearly every consideration of Stowe mentions what Abraham Lincoln supposedly said when he met the diminutive New Englander: “Is this the little woman who made this great war?”

You can read all day and night about the merits and flaws of this novel. I read the book because Tyler Cowen mentioned how excellent it is, and I trust him. But opinions vary. One thing I can say for certain is that the derogative term "Uncle Tom" has been decoupled from the character in the novel.

Currently, "Uncle Tom" is a black person who sells out his race and is excessively obedient and servile to the powers that be. Even Urban Dictionary recognizes that this is a bastardization of the term. This is probably because of the many piss-poor overly melodramatic stage performances of the novel that made Uncle Tom into a fawning sycophant.

The "real" Uncle Tom is only servile to his faith, to Jesus and Christianity. He dies a martyr, at the hands of the wickedly callous slaveholder Simon LeGree, because he refuses to give information about Cassy and Emmeline (a pair of runaway slaves). LeGree whips him to death because Tom won't give in to his power . . . because Tom won't be servile to his master. Tom's faith enrages LeGree and causes him to destroy a valuable asset. 

James Baldwin was pissed off about Uncle Tom's passivity in the face of evil-- and this foreshadows the whole Malcolm X vs. MLK conflict over tactics in the Civil Rights Movement. Passive resistance vs. violent uprising. The high road vs. vengeance.

Stowe presents a colorful continuum of slaves and slave-owners. There are slaves escaping to Canada to work and be self-sufficient. Slaves escaping into the swamps, slaves crossing icy rivers by way of slippery floes. There is Sambo, a slave that terrorizes other slaves so that he can have some modicum of power. There are slaves being sold down-river, slaves being separated from their wives and children, slaves at market, slaves in the field, and slaves living in luxury in lavish homes. Slaves are sold for economic reasons and slaves are sold because their benevolent owners die.

There's also a wide variety of owners. The Shelby's are kind, especially Mrs. Shelby, but when push comes to shove they have to sell Tom to keep the farm. Then there are the typically callous and calculating slave-traders. The portrayal of Augustine St. Clare, the effete Southern Gentleman from Louisiana, who loves poetry and learning but can't seem to find faith is particularly affecting. He treats his slaves extraordinarily well, but can't find the moral compunction to free them. He embodies all the paradoxes of the Southern Man, civilized and kind, but he dies in a knife fight. And there's heroic little Eva and sickly, self-centered and abominable Marie.

St. Clare illustrates the powerful irony of the peculiar institution. He spoils his slaves and lets them have the run of his luxurious mansion. But in doing so, he allows the institution to carry on. He can't bring himself to take action, to become moral and faithful, despite the pleading of his Vermonter cousin Miss Ophelia (who grapples with and defeats prejudice of her own). If all owners were repugnant like Simon LeGree, the slaves would revolt and the abolitionists would have had all the fodder they needed to end the practice. But the benevolent owners actually did the cause harm, and Stowe points this out with the irony of St. Clare's character.

Controversial and stereotypical or not, Uncle Tom's Cabin is a novel full of memorable people-- and that's all you can ask for in a book. It may be intended more as a persuasive missive, the language is sometimes flowery, and the scenes can be overly-long-- little Eva's dying takes forever!-- but the book is well worth the time. The characters-- based on actual stories from Stowe's life and experience-- are larger than life. That's why they became stereotypes-- they are profound, abundant in American culture, and resonant-- and it's important to spend some time with the origin of these stock roles, not just the generative simplification and deterioration of them that time inevitably produces.

In the end, the book will make you contemplate the ultimate question: what is freedom? You could have been born a slave. You could have been born a battery in the Matrix. You could have been born a king or a queen or a serf or an untouchable. And once you are born, how much control do you really have over your fate? Do we deserve any of our gains? The very freedom to succeed, persevere, and accomplish is based on the fact that we are indeed born free, born into freedom. It didn't have to be this way. And-- not very long ago-- it wasn't a definite.

If you want to join my Black History Month book club, I've just gotten started on Walter Mosley's Devil in a Blue Dress. I plan on reading most of the Easy Rawlins sequence of novels. I might even do it before February ends-- it's a Leap Year.