Son of Stephen is an old idea. In 1994, Doctor Stephen Gardner had me in his poetry class. The first half of the class was filled with many students writing poetry, including myself, followed by a large portfolio project. During this time, myself and many other students were mentored by one of the most caring and correct professors to teach. His own style of proper teaching, and guidance guided more than a number of people into the realm of poetry and writing, and pushed us to do the best we could. I was lucky at this time to have been in a class with such talented individuals as John Lowery and Monica Garvin Dees. Jannette Giles Hypes was also in my class, and my connection to Stephen Gardner strengthened my connection to many other students, including Clay Morton and many other people.
There was an unspoken connection between writing students, and we celebrated each other and felt proud to have been taught by the professors of USC-Aiken.
After leaving the University of South Carolina at Aiken, I ventured forward into the world of Academia, where I went to graduate school.
Back home Stephen Gardner continued what he'd always done, mentor, guide and teach aspiring students and from that teaching, he inspired so many students to strive for excellence.
Son of Stephen, or maybe I should say, Sons and Daughters of Stephen exists to pay homage and honor Stephen Gardner, who taught us so much beyond being simply a teacher. He was like a father to so many.
These blog posts highlight through poetry, (Some of Stephen's own and some inspired by Stephen), essay and visuals the skill that Stephen Gardner mentored in people.
I welcome any student of Stephen's to submit something personal to this blog, so Stephen's legacy and family live on.
Contributions
Jannette Giles's "Late June."
Jannette Giles's " "Raking."
James Enelow's "Darkness into Light: An Introduction to Why He Doesn't Sleep."
James's intro complete with poem links to the Stephen Gardners poems that inspired and the poems written in homage to Stephen's original work.
James Enelow's "For Doctor Stephen Gardner Who loved His Students."
Contributors
Saturday, July 5, 2014
Thursday, July 3, 2014
Late June (Poems for Stephen Gardner)
Late June
For Stephen L. Gardner
More than seven months since I lifted your hand
from the hospital bed, my thumb petting its warm
dry back, rougher than imagined, trying to coax
out the coma through the pores, summer arrived:
heat before the Solstice, pouring in on the ferns,
exploding the lilies, open-mouths of spotted petals,
stamen reddish brown as the psoriasis on your skin.
Because there is no gravesite to visit, headstone
to trace with fingers pressed in to carved out words,
I memorialize you often and in strange places: once,
my tires crunched an ice cream cone, sweet and brittle
on asphalt. I imagined ashes stuck in tire tread, traveling.
At night, curled in the hospital recliner, your breath
too rhythmic to be natural, I searched for the silence
I could sleep in. Some moments you were present
as someone resting; in others, the room was empty
of you: I questioned your consciousness, how much
you were seeing, hearing of this room full of wife,
mother, friends, me—somewhere between student
and daughter, never one and not the other.
In your last days I wondered if I was doing it right,
questioned the proper vigils to take: hand holding,
consoling, praying, reading Roethke—sure familiar
vibrations of words would reach, maybe even wake,
you. When they didn’t, I went back to rubbing, this time
the thumbs, letting gravity and the natural bend
of your fingers hold my hand in return.
Now, when June turns to July and fireflies are lazy,
dotting the shadowy undersides of maple leaves,
I return to writing poems. It is what you taught me.
It keeps you close. Syllables bloom into stanzas,
wrap the page in pigment and ash.
Contributors
Jannette Hypes is a graduate of USC-Aiken where she studied poetry and life with Dr. Stephen Gardner who later became her stepfather by some strange and wonderful twist of fate. Although a South Carolina native, she became an East Tennessean in 1998. Her poetry has appeared in Breathing the Same Air: An East Tennessee Anthology (Celtic Cat Publishing, 2001); The Southern Poetry Anthology, Volume I: South Carolina (Texas Review, 2007); Outscapes: Writings on Fences and Frontiers (Knoxville Writers’ Guild, 2008); The Southern Poetry Anthology, Volume III: Contemporary Appalachia (Texas Review, 2011); and most recently The Southern Poetry Anthology, Volume VI: Tennessee (Texas Review Press, 2013).
Tribute Poems for Stephen Gardner
Raking
For Stephen L. Gardner
To clear this land could take months.
Readying for winter, so leaves won’t freeze
To clear this land could take months.
Readying for winter, so leaves won’t freeze
then mold in the thaw of spring, I row
through this backyard pushing piles
large as my car street-side. Red-browns
on top, wet-black underneath, heavier
than they ought to be. Trees are empty,
even of birds. Shoulders tighten, burn;
palms tingle in spots sure to whiten, peel,
leave skin rich-pink and ripe to air like grass
pale beneath leaves: newborn and dying
together. In this place, this half-worked
yard of bare oak and splaying dogwood,
everything speaks your distant and holy
language: glass chimes clink, catch sun,
dazzle bark with bending light. A ribbon
of blackbirds finds wind, glides away.
by Jannette Giles
Friday, June 27, 2014
For Doctor Stephen Gardner Who Loved His Students
Stephen Gardner is my mentor.
Even now, I write this with shaky hands, and I am inconsolable, and I want to sleep and cry until the world melts away.
Once, I told him he was my mentor, and I he turned away from me and tried to change the subject because I was a long-haired kid with scant ability in English and lots of trouble with grammar. To make things worse, I was a journalist, but the truth is my heart had already turned away from journalism. In my heart, I betrayed Journalism for the beauty of poetry and literature which moved me, but I never voiced clear enough.
Under Stephen’s teaching, my heart soared in ways that journalism failed to move me--even to a remote twitter, nor could I explain in some ways how lines written by the strange men and women called poets made me cry, shiver and wish inside that I could write like them.
Perhaps it was that no teacher before him cared for me, or that I was unaware of this “love” before Doctor Gardner. When later others came forward--Dr. Davidson who was tough but fair--Dr. Bell, who seemed like a mom that all the neighborhood kids could run to--Dr. Claxon who was always encouraging.
But Doctor Stephen Gardner was the ultimate hero to me. He radiated something that was subdued and sublime. He spoke with a southern accent that made me feel good to be a southerner and to be male.
He radiated a machismo, not that other professors turned against my maleness, but there was something of an adult responsibility in him that made me want to be responsible. He gave me a key to his office, and that key saved me once when someone was hounding me, and I was able to simply disappear.
Such a brazen act could never be talked about, but sometimes when I needed to be alone, and the world was too much, I could go to Doctor Gardner's office and hide.
There I could read old “Millhoppers” or Richard Hugo Poems, and pull down copies from his journal collections and poems. No other professor ever allowed this.
One other professor once let me use one of her books as long as I stayed in her office. I had no pen or paper, so I dared to use her computer to type some notes. As you may have guessed, she caught me and once again, I spent an undeserved hour being told I was irresponsible and rude. Events such as this made me turn from journalism as if it were a plague victim.
In contrast, Stephen never hesitated to loan me books. Stephen allowed me to use his computer. Stephen was neither petty, nor obtuse over trivial matters, but when it mattered Stephen was there. When I asked him about graduate school, he helped me pick out choices, and then with a open and direct hand pointed to a ¼ page ad for McNeese State, which essentially said we only want to see your poetry. And at that moment, I wanted to go. My heart was set--I had to get into that program. There was no other choice.
Three other programs wanted me, but I wanted McNeese. And when McNeese came through, I called Doctor Gardner at his home. He was the third to know, and he knew my heart was set, even though I think he might have suggested NC State or Kansas State University, his words uplifted,“I know your heart is at McNeese.” That was one of his greatest talents. He knew the hearts of his students.
Stephen let me read his signed copies, including his Jim Peterson book, and his own Honor’s Thesis of poems, which I copied behind his back and knew he would tell me not to read, not to model myself after, but he was wrong. He was just as talented as anyone he pointed me too, but he had what every hotshot slick poetry MFA Student today lacks—modesty.
And that is why Stephen Gardner is my mentor and why I am now inconsolable, shaky and unable to sleep though I have reached that age where morning writing is my true time, and where even now as I write this I will soon fall into bed and weep until the world melts away.
Even now, I write this with shaky hands, and I am inconsolable, and I want to sleep and cry until the world melts away.
Once, I told him he was my mentor, and I he turned away from me and tried to change the subject because I was a long-haired kid with scant ability in English and lots of trouble with grammar. To make things worse, I was a journalist, but the truth is my heart had already turned away from journalism. In my heart, I betrayed Journalism for the beauty of poetry and literature which moved me, but I never voiced clear enough.
Under Stephen’s teaching, my heart soared in ways that journalism failed to move me--even to a remote twitter, nor could I explain in some ways how lines written by the strange men and women called poets made me cry, shiver and wish inside that I could write like them.
Perhaps it was that no teacher before him cared for me, or that I was unaware of this “love” before Doctor Gardner. When later others came forward--Dr. Davidson who was tough but fair--Dr. Bell, who seemed like a mom that all the neighborhood kids could run to--Dr. Claxon who was always encouraging.
But Doctor Stephen Gardner was the ultimate hero to me. He radiated something that was subdued and sublime. He spoke with a southern accent that made me feel good to be a southerner and to be male.
He radiated a machismo, not that other professors turned against my maleness, but there was something of an adult responsibility in him that made me want to be responsible. He gave me a key to his office, and that key saved me once when someone was hounding me, and I was able to simply disappear.
Such a brazen act could never be talked about, but sometimes when I needed to be alone, and the world was too much, I could go to Doctor Gardner's office and hide.
There I could read old “Millhoppers” or Richard Hugo Poems, and pull down copies from his journal collections and poems. No other professor ever allowed this.
One other professor once let me use one of her books as long as I stayed in her office. I had no pen or paper, so I dared to use her computer to type some notes. As you may have guessed, she caught me and once again, I spent an undeserved hour being told I was irresponsible and rude. Events such as this made me turn from journalism as if it were a plague victim.
In contrast, Stephen never hesitated to loan me books. Stephen allowed me to use his computer. Stephen was neither petty, nor obtuse over trivial matters, but when it mattered Stephen was there. When I asked him about graduate school, he helped me pick out choices, and then with a open and direct hand pointed to a ¼ page ad for McNeese State, which essentially said we only want to see your poetry. And at that moment, I wanted to go. My heart was set--I had to get into that program. There was no other choice.
Three other programs wanted me, but I wanted McNeese. And when McNeese came through, I called Doctor Gardner at his home. He was the third to know, and he knew my heart was set, even though I think he might have suggested NC State or Kansas State University, his words uplifted,“I know your heart is at McNeese.” That was one of his greatest talents. He knew the hearts of his students.
Stephen let me read his signed copies, including his Jim Peterson book, and his own Honor’s Thesis of poems, which I copied behind his back and knew he would tell me not to read, not to model myself after, but he was wrong. He was just as talented as anyone he pointed me too, but he had what every hotshot slick poetry MFA Student today lacks—modesty.
And that is why Stephen Gardner is my mentor and why I am now inconsolable, shaky and unable to sleep though I have reached that age where morning writing is my true time, and where even now as I write this I will soon fall into bed and weep until the world melts away.
After Months of Intense Therapy He Tries to Rebuild His Life
He wakes up each night
At 2 a.m. sweating.
Sleep is a luxury for him.
It hasn't always been this way.
Rolling in his bed
He looks out the window.
He's had the same feeling
Night after night. And before
When he bellowed Fe, Fi, Fo, Fum
Any problems in a mile radius
Seemed to disappear. So now
When he wakes,
Instead of opening his mouth,
He'll draw tight the window
And lock all the doors.
Then, with sleede ridden eyes,
He'll go outside to his garden
In the clouds, his pick and spade heavy.
With meticulous hands, he
Will set about his work,
And with practiced,
Precise skill he buries himself.
Among the weeds he searches
With focused scanning eyes
For any type of stalk
That might begin to spell trouble.
Towards 4.a.m
He starts deeper digging,
And hsi brow is now coated with
The first layer of topsoil.
He clutches at roots,
Becoming one with the earth,
His fingers still burrowing
In search of dark beans.
Later he returns to his bed
Slowly plodding the sheets, he
Melds to the mattress, ruffles
His pillow and tries to forget.
His life's been rebuilt,
So there isn't a chance
That anything or anybody
Might get him this time.
And hes' hidden his gold
Where it cannot be found.
He has bought some soft sandals
So nobody can hear him coming.
At 2 a.m. sweating.
Sleep is a luxury for him.
It hasn't always been this way.
Rolling in his bed
He looks out the window.
He's had the same feeling
Night after night. And before
When he bellowed Fe, Fi, Fo, Fum
Any problems in a mile radius
Seemed to disappear. So now
When he wakes,
Instead of opening his mouth,
He'll draw tight the window
And lock all the doors.
Then, with sleede ridden eyes,
He'll go outside to his garden
In the clouds, his pick and spade heavy.
With meticulous hands, he
Will set about his work,
And with practiced,
Precise skill he buries himself.
Among the weeds he searches
With focused scanning eyes
For any type of stalk
That might begin to spell trouble.
Towards 4.a.m
He starts deeper digging,
And hsi brow is now coated with
The first layer of topsoil.
He clutches at roots,
Becoming one with the earth,
His fingers still burrowing
In search of dark beans.
Later he returns to his bed
Slowly plodding the sheets, he
Melds to the mattress, ruffles
His pillow and tries to forget.
His life's been rebuilt,
So there isn't a chance
That anything or anybody
Might get him this time.
And hes' hidden his gold
Where it cannot be found.
He has bought some soft sandals
So nobody can hear him coming.
After Months of Intense Therapy He Tries to Rebuild His Life
He wakes up each night
At 2 a.m. sweating.
Sleep is a luxury for him.
It hasn't always been this way.
Rolling in his bed
He looks out the window.
He's had the same feeling
Night after night. And before
When he bellowed Fe, Fi, Fo, Fum
Any problems in a mile radius
Seemed to disappear. So now
When he wakes,
Instead of opening his mouth,
He'll draw tight the window
And lock all the doors.
Then, with sleede ridden eyes,
He'll go outside to his garden
In the clouds, his pick and spade heavy.
With meticulous hands, he
Will set about his work,
And with practiced,
Precise skill he buries himself.
Among the weeds he searches
With focused scanning eyes
For any type of stalk
That might begin to spell trouble.
Towards 4.a.m
He starts deeper digging,
And hsi brow is now coated with
The first layer of topsoil.
He clutches at roots,
Becoming one with the earth,
His fingers still burrowing
In search of dark beans.
Later he returns to his bed
Slowly plodding the sheets, he
Melds to the mattress, ruffles
His pillow and tries to forget.
His life's been rebuilt,
So there isn't a chance
That anything or anybody
Might get him this time.
And hes' hidden his gold
Where it cannot be found.
He has bought some soft sandals
So nobody can hear him coming.
At 2 a.m. sweating.
Sleep is a luxury for him.
It hasn't always been this way.
Rolling in his bed
He looks out the window.
He's had the same feeling
Night after night. And before
When he bellowed Fe, Fi, Fo, Fum
Any problems in a mile radius
Seemed to disappear. So now
When he wakes,
Instead of opening his mouth,
He'll draw tight the window
And lock all the doors.
Then, with sleede ridden eyes,
He'll go outside to his garden
In the clouds, his pick and spade heavy.
With meticulous hands, he
Will set about his work,
And with practiced,
Precise skill he buries himself.
Among the weeds he searches
With focused scanning eyes
For any type of stalk
That might begin to spell trouble.
Towards 4.a.m
He starts deeper digging,
And hsi brow is now coated with
The first layer of topsoil.
He clutches at roots,
Becoming one with the earth,
His fingers still burrowing
In search of dark beans.
Later he returns to his bed
Slowly plodding the sheets, he
Melds to the mattress, ruffles
His pillow and tries to forget.
His life's been rebuilt,
So there isn't a chance
That anything or anybody
Might get him this time.
And hes' hidden his gold
Where it cannot be found.
He has bought some soft sandals
So nobody can hear him coming.
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