"Tony Steinberg: Brave Seventh-Grade Viking Warrior," by TAYLOR MALI

Long time readers of this blog may know that I'm a big fan of Taylor Mali. I can watch his "What Teachers Make" video any time my willpower to become a teacher flags, and it perks me right back up.

Prepare for a few sniffles on this one, it's excellent.



Enjoy people who can truly put it down,

Bp

[via my soft-hearted Canukistani Operative "Yuri"]

Saul Williams -- poet stuck in my head

My Canukistani operative Yuri sent me the video below of Saul Williams performing a song in a style I'd never heard come out of him -- raucous, loud, poppy, industrial. At first I thought, "catchy" -- and then I kept re-listening to it. The beat is so simplistic, and yet that's part of why it works. This song was picked up for use in, of all things, a Nike commercial, which is giving it a second life. So, this post qualifies as a "songs stuck in my head" post.

Before more, here's the video:



Saul Williams has sick talent, he just keeps creating in whatever venue or medium he can get his hands on. He was known first as a slam poet, winning a grand slam championship at the Nuyorcian poets cafe. He starred in the indie film "Slam," getting many kudos for his performance, especially at Sundance. He, as evidenced above, does music and music/poetry projects as well. For his album The Inevitable Rise and Liberation of Niggy Tardust he even worked with Trent Reznor of Nine Inch Nails.

I've seen him live once, and would do so again in the drop of a hat. It was impressive. The stacatto, machine-gun style of his verse can wear me out, but there's no arguing his stage presence, far-reaching intellect and capacity with words.

Enjoy long introductions,

Bp

In response to cynicism -- a bit of poesy

My good friend wrote about cynicism recently on his blog. His post got me thinking, and commenting -- but I feel pretty inarticulate at the moment and so far haven't been able to explain myself well at his site.

Although this is many years old, I dug out a journal entry I wrote while up in a Fire Lookout in the Mt. Hood National Forest. I worked it over into a kind-of prose poem. In the comments on Stu's blog post, there is a bit of talk about the personal and the transpersonal, and I thought of this piece. I was young, but it still has some resonance.



---------

Journal Entry 10/04/93


I'm sitting on a large, rectangular rock, on a humpy beargrass slope, facing West. A small bird, wingbeats quick & powerful, just landed on a tree behind me. It spots me sitting here & begins chittering.

The Huckleberry & Fireweed are both a deep maroon red, where they haven't gone brown already. The butt of a hand-rolled cigarette looks like a dry, curled leaf next to my bootsole. I'll tip its ashes in honor of the star nation; pour the tobacco to the ground for mother earth; and shove the paper in my pocket.

Earlier today when the sun was low, but not yet down, the sky was all creams, grays, and salmon pinks. Smoke from a nearby wildfire provided the effect. The sunset's colors are still soft -- soft, rosy oranges. Looking up and east, the light loses itself amidst all the haze, going indigo & gray.

As if it knew the sun just went down, a cold wind pushes gently against my back. Small birds shift positions in the trees and bushes along the slope -- a little, imperative "whumph!" as they flare & settle on the branches.

Somewhere in this maze of colors & quiet sounds, I hope to enter.

Maybe in the drooping tip of a young Hemlock tree, or the curious, mouselike scratchings of a songbird in the bushes. Somewhere, in all this beauty & wildness, there is a door. That perfect synchronicity of memory & a glance; of a sound & a desire.

"Just once," I ask in earnest, "just once."

So I come and sit at these sunsets -- waiting.

When found, I realize the door was in my bootsole the whole time; in the cigarette butt, or in the blue stripes of my plaid shirt. But the realization fades quickly.

Until that moment stays, my greatest hopes lie with the wild beauties. With the crimson sunset rebounding off the gray boulder and sparrow song -- rebounding off the missing of loved ones, and the other small, acute desires.


-------------



Enjoy employing whatever means you have at your disposal to survive, or even flourish,

Bp

Poem -- Lust

This is another poem from a class I took in '05 or so. I believe the prompt on this was a "list" poem. I post it by request.

[if someone knows how to do tab stops in HTML would you please email me instructions? I'm dyin' ova here]

Enjoy

____________________



Lust



Saltine crackers for lunch.

A stickfire in a blizzard.

Raising peacocks when what you need is eggs.

Lottery tickets.

Most first dates.

Owning a house, but no furniture.

All of junior high.

The exact moment when,
brandishing your knife,
you realize that you are in a gunfight.

The Great Debaters -- trailer and question

Anyone see this? It seems to have slipped under my radar and I haven't seen it yet. I'm making it a point to see as many "teacher/inspirational" movies as I can, even if they are considered cheesy. I am using them for encouragement to keep on with my studies. I can only watch the Taylor Mali video so many times (dozens -- apparently).

If anyone's seen this let movie me know what you thought.

Ps/addendum: To be clear, I mean teacher movies not coach movies. I really can't stomach sports movies of that sort.




Enjoy sources of inspiration,

Bp

Worksite Poem

A few folks have requested more poems from my prehistory -- I came across this one looking for some scrap paper, figured it was a sign.

For a while, I was working on a series of poems all written during breaks at work. Most were written sitting in the work van. This is one.

Enjoy.

Worksite -- Boring, Oregon


If finned animals were swimming
down this hot asphalt street,

and if the parrot squawking inside the house there
was a tiny woman in a napolean coat
vexing an absent husband,

then I'd know this was a dream.

As it is --
wind curling around my ankles,
tarpaper softening in the sun,

I'm temporarily convinced otherwise.




Bp

Poem -- First Rain

Was out in The Shire again this weekend, helping The Luddites get their new shop set up. We worked in the rain, and in the snow. I was reminded of this poem I wrote almost 10 years ago when I was wiring new houses. [The formatting is more elaborate on my copy of this poem -- some day I'll have to learn how to introduce tab stops in HTML, but not tonight]

For The Luddites,





First Rain



Here it is --

Bright grey morning, almost warm.
Then sheets & sheets of rain pouring over this new roof.
First rain, introducing the long season.

Now, forests begin to smell like mushrooms,
elk stamp and steam in the cold trees.

This worksite smells of wet concrete,
wet flannel,
and cold feet.

These new houses are surrounded by moats of sticky mud,
extension cords smear it into hands & shirtsleeves
at the end of the day.

Apprentices complain,
and trout go off the bite.

Suddenly
candles at home,
hot meals,
and friendship

become startlingly more important
than long weekends and solitude.



('99 - '04)



Enjoy your artistic reminiscences,

Bp

The Stars are So Big -- a somber catch from the blogosphere

I was cruising Orblogs, a collection of Oregon-based or centered blogs (they post my blogs, which is very cool) when I came across this post. It is a simple post in a personal blog, I found it touching without being maudlin, and personal without being confessional. It is about a suicide bomber in Iraq, media, and living your life anyways. The quote from the second grader is just awesome -- staggeringly awesome.

Enjoy,

Bp

Hidden Genius: Meryn Cadell - The Sweater

This is more of a spoken-word piece than a music video. This lady is so smart it's scary. If you can remember back to junior high, this will be ... poignant. And funny -- darkly, painfully funny.

Poem: Assignment for a poetry class

We had to write a poem that mixed truth and lie, and write it about why we took that poetry class in the first place. It was at PCC Sylvania, with Tim Barnes, a few years ago when I took this class. I found Tim to be a great poetry writing teacher -- poetry is obviously his passion, and he inspires that in his students.

So this poem comes with caveats, as it is not a finished piece, nothing I would read at on stage or anything. But I found it amusing this morning when it showed up on my desk so I thought I'd throw it up here.

               Why I took Poetry Class


     I was a famous poet, see

     Published many times over -- 
          womens' underwear on the stage
          kinda stuff

     And then there was a terrible accident
          involving whales
          and a 2-stroke diesel engine -- 
          I won't go into it here 

     There were also electrocutions, 
          a good number of them -- 
          and chronic pain 

      After which I found myself
       less handsome, 
        older, 
          with shorn hair and a wonderful wife, 
          poetless
 

Video: Taylor Mali "what teachers make"

I freaking love this video. Inspires me to keep working hard to pursue my teaching career.

Plus, Taylor is a dam good spoken word artist.

Poem: "Deal"

[I considered starting another blog for poetry posts, but I figured they'd be few and far between, so I'd just inflict them on ya'll instead. This I found while cleaning up school papers from PCC Sylvania, where I took a great poetry class with Tim Barnes. Now, lets see if I can get this formatting right.]

                        Deal



Give me back the breathless, fertile body of my virginity. 

Give me back days of ant watching, 
      toe wiggling, 
               and grass chewing. 

Give me back little frogs in the back ditch, 
      the smell of bicycle chain grease, 
               and scabby, tanned little knees. 

Better yet, 

Give me back a mind wrought from storytelling, 
       and weather; 
              rock, and bone. 

Give me back bear grease, 
       stone tools, 
              and river baths. 

Give me back the simplicity of the rut, 
       the sturdiness of hooves, 
              the warmth of thick fur. 

Give me back my place in the net of the world, 

and I swear I'll hand over my plastics, 
       my petrol
              and concrete. 

I'll willingly surrender my cynicism, 
       my reticence, 
              and my precious restraint.

12/05