the poetrysheet
whimsy, subversion, bowling
Number 460, Feb. 4, 2004
Edgar Lee Masters (1869–1950)
“Vigorous writing is
concise. A sentence should contain no unnecessary words, a paragraph no unnecessary
sentences, for the same reason that a drawing should have no unnecessary lines
and a machine no unnecessary parts. This requires not that the writer make all
his sentences short, or that he avoid all detail and treat his subjects only in
outline, but that every word tell.”
—William Strunk, Jr. and E.B. White, The Elements of Style
My favorite teacher was my grade school art teacher,
Mr. Swarm. That’s his real name—Swarm. But he wasn’t frenzied, like his name
implies. He was a calm, soft-spoken man with a huge afro and a talent for
communicating with children.
Steve Swarm was great because he gave us unlimited,
unrestricted assignments. During Halloween, we made construction-paper haunted
houses—three-dimensional art loaded with trap doors, ghosts from the windows,
gravestones in the yard, etc. We also once did an underwater scene drawing
(markers, crayons, pencil, anything else). Mine was a scuba diver wrestling a
giant octopus. There was a sunken ship on the bottom and, of course, a treasure
chest.
I had other great teachers K-12, and many phenomenal
professors in college. But my fondest memories were of Mr. Swarm and his art
classes. His rules were simple: share, be patient, don’t bother or criticize
anyone else’s work, talk quietly. It was even all right to cheat, in a sense,
because as long as you drew the object, it didn’t matter if you snagged the
idea from someone else’s work. Art is, after all, a series of ideas passed on
from one artist to another, with an original idea popping up only a thousand to
one against derivatives.
As I grew older, my criteria for a good teacher
changed. In middle school, a good teacher let me chew gum or talk or nap or lapse
in some other rule. In high school, a good teacher was one who related—who was
“cool” more so than “good.” Good professors in college were smart,
well-published, lax in form or dress, gave multiple choice exams, or got
high—mostly, an entire host of reasons that had nothing to do with their
teaching or my learning.
Many people believe the greatest teachers are leaders
of their religions. Jesus and Buddha, et al, had great things to say—just not
to me. Mr. Swarm touched, graced, and influenced me more than any one else with
his hornets-nest afro and his colored pencils. I respect the teachings of
everyone whose works I’ve read, but I most cherish those innocent and naïve
sessions in Robinson Elementary School, under the guidance of the leader of my
“religion,” Mr. Swarm.
Timelessness is a difficult achievement. Since Man
emerged from the trees, knowledge has been crucial to survival. My early art
classes didn’t teach me survival skills or many other skills for living, with
the exception of this: maintaining a state of mind. The euphoric trances I
experienced under Steve Swarm form, in total, the mental state I strive to
recreate each day. Sometimes I make it. Sometimes I can’t. But, every day, I
try.
Your humble servant Rev. David
DeChant writes “The Deacon’s Beacon,” for The Cabbagetown Neighbor, and contributes a
monthly column to the poetrysheet. As always, Reverend David can be reached at
404-822-4290.
Today’s poem:
in the city, night is dark, hard to see—
easier, then, in stars’ radiance,
a steady phosphorescent path
through a stretch of hardwood bubbling
with honey mushroom and jack-o-lantern
a clearing campfire strokes
oak canopy and click beetles
lumber over glowworms in the leaves
and after, when embers have died,
touchwood and foxfire aurora ground
and railroad worms ornament
hawthorn and crabapple
night, silver-crusted, moon flecked,
fireflied
incandesces horizons in heat lightning,
gleams, shines, radiates
send short poems, short thoughts, fictions, or
nonfictions to the poetrysheet, where whimsy, subversion, and improving our
collective night vision are our highest values
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