Ah, but the cake was delivered, a student brought incredible Thai food to class, we ate, we worked, we appreciated, and we said goodnight.
So, mid-week, a humpday, I offered a traditional acrostic for my students, Crandall style.
PAMMAPAMP, 2022
A 5-Stanza Poem
Bryan Ripley Crandall
I.
M emories. are fickle sprites, buzzing around in
A lignment of meaning and stardust -
P ainted dreams with flashbacks of
P eople, places, and things (are we nouns) we once knew.
I am, because we are. In this together. Just one community
N estled for a moment in serendipitous spaces,
G rouped as allies, amped as a team, this temporary tribe.
A nd so he we are as the results of another semester…
M ore seeds planted in gardens we’ve yet to see, more
P layfulness and tomfoolery of words, brain turds, and
I magination, as we read the word & the world, both
N ear and far, naming what it is we think we know.
G iants provide these shoulders. Upon them we stand.
II.
A nd there are always Fairfield turkeys.
L ollygagging poultry gobbling at our purposes in
L ife. These parking spaces can be a lot,
Y et there are always songs for protection.
F riendship, I believe, is like this, too.
R elationships built from family, friends, and the
E xistence (persistence) of what the tea leaves tell us —-
E nter the road. There’s a box, some tress, a key. We
L ook to the Tarot for answers…the signs, the semiotics. Coincidence
A nd chance. What am I supposed to learn from this?
N othing? Everything? What about this Connecticut, or the
D eleware, the Maryland, and the Virginia. Is this what the story is about?
III.
P eople. They rush everywhere, each with their own secret care.
A nd I can’t help but hum that song along the Mersey,
M i fe está con los grandes.
E verywhere, The Whatever, the ferries carrying
L aughter, pain, nostalgia, hope, and surprise…
A ll the joy of perros cachorros. La
M agia llega de la punta de los dedos
A s these ideas, thoughts, and possibilities
D rip from my mind to these fingertips,
R eminding me (you/us) “We write to know what we think,”
I nternalizing ourselves externally upon the page (sometimes with rage),
G radually unraveling exactly who we are…what we might be…
A cross blank canvases we become, stunning, allowing
L anguage to weave a voice of one with the humanity of many.
IV.
M emories may lie, sure, but they also offer elm trees.
I, for one, believe in the bark beetle, the canopy and the roots.
M ens sana in corpore sano, and
I love sounds that embody eternity.
L ook at shorelines, how the waves lap
O ver and over again with a cosmic rhythm, stars bathe
U nder sunlight and, sometimes, beam from Mr. Moon.
G rowth depends on this. Seeing. Thinking. Reflection.
H arvesting these memories with such tides, creating music & singing
L yrics to live by. Longing to be amused. Entertained.
I n the end, we might live forever through the
N otebooks we leave behind. These thoughts. The sketches. Such possibilities.
V.
C ollectively, we’ve become. We are. We were. We will be.
O n Tuesday afternoons (or is that evenings?) we have
M apped and amped temporary blueprints …
P lanning, printing, drafting, believing, and revising for a while.
O h, the places, Seuss, we went…the places still to go.
S o… it comes to a finale, or is that a beginning,
I n the exact moment when we were just getting the party started.
N ow we need lights, more pens, even better questions for the
G atherings of students we’ve still to meet…but whom we’ll touch.
T ommorow and tomorrow and tomorrow,
O h, that’s the way it goes, Macbeth, these tales (I’m such an idiot),
G o in tandem with the temporary bonds of time, the
E xistential randomness of the single moment, the ever-evolving
T ask of asking, “Who am I? Who are you? Who are we together?”
H ere, however, in this fork in the road,
E ach of us. One spoon (maybe a knife) to empty the ocean. Teaching,
R eaching forward with the power of our words. Write?
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