Brian Callahan
Brian Callahan teaches English and Media Literacy at Pilgrim High School in Warwick. As an editor of both his high school and college literary magazines, Brian has attempted to make poetry an integral part of his academic life.
Brian led a poetry roundtable group at the Warwick Public Library, as well as an outreach poetry program at the Rhode Island Chapter of the Multiple Sclerosis Society. As a member of the Rhode Island Agentive Teachers, Brian has co-facilitated workshops using poetry slam to teach Social Justice.
Brian led a poetry roundtable group at the Warwick Public Library, as well as an outreach poetry program at the Rhode Island Chapter of the Multiple Sclerosis Society. As a member of the Rhode Island Agentive Teachers, Brian has co-facilitated workshops using poetry slam to teach Social Justice.
|
The Transformative Power of Necco Wafers
At four simply chewing on the lemon yellow discs would transform me into a crime fighting super cop as I leapt from worn out pieces of mismatched furniture, karate chopping invisible invincible bandits like Hong Kong Phooey-- binding then with handcuffs made of recycled tinfoil. At six the entire cylindrical pack became my lightsaber as I joined Han and Luke and Chewy in the Cantina bar moving stealthily through my sister’s bedroom wielding my plasma Excalibur with precise elegance so no foe could escape our legion, not even Cynthia, the doll who could talk her way out of any fix who, with purple velvet bellbottoms, was just as ominous as Greedo, the socially inept bounty hunter, Labria, with be-deviled horns and a bright red overbite, and Wuher, the bartender whose bulbous nose reminded me of too many uncles I knew wasting work days surrounded by cases of Schlitz and half scratched lottery tickets. At eight the orange powdered circles rocketed me to Houston and I, in my backyard, with hands like sandpaper gripping an invisible Louisville Slugger with two outs in the ninth down by two with runners at the corners, would take Nolan Ryan's caustic fastball deep into the bright white lights of the Astrodome, and as I rounded our dilapidated garage, the bees from my neighbor’s beautifully manicured rose garden would celebrate my victory with a cacophony of joyful buzzing. And at ten a burnt umber cinnamon candy would remove from my face all of the Barbasol shaving cream I had piled against my cheeks like dad did when I would stare through the crack of our bathroom door, and with each slow, smooth stroke I would remove another layer of youth until I looked down and saw my own son-- wondering if his dreams would taste as good as mine. Brian Callahan March 2013 |
Salvation in the Background
In Flemish painter Quinten Massys' "The Crucifixion" when your eyes finish scanning the beautifully frail yet symmetrically perfect body of Christ-- his pristine pedicured feet, his bloodless palmy stigmata, the blue-greenness of the crown of thorns which matched his gall-stained lips which matched his swollen bruised knees with which he hauled his wooden calling card, when your eyes finish scrutinizing those who were there: the virgin-- stoic in blue, Saint John draped in red-- looking up at Christ, his fingers intertwined the way a 1950s mad scientist would hold them just before he told the world where the damsel in distress was hidden, thinking that no one would ever find her in time, never imagining that he was revealing evil's secrets much like Saint John himself would after his exile to Patmos where he penned the mysteries of Revelation, after you gaze upon the three Marys: Magdalene-- the assumed prostitute kneeling beside a lone gap-toothed skull her clean white fingers clutching for Christ's perfectly staked feet and Mary of Clopas and Mary Salome one looking upward in horror the other looking downward a wry smile, her hands clutched unsympathetically. When you finally move to its background-- the place where a painting's puzzle muses microscopic thrills-- there you will see a man, walking bent back, holding a long white ladder. I wonder what he's planning? Is he hunting for souvenirs? Will he graffiti the sign of the cross? Maybe he wants to see Christ open an eye, give him a wink, float to Earth, smite his oppressors, and get the girl in the end. Or maybe he's just a workin' stiff, a simple man who never reads the paper, who was headin' off to paint the home of some random Roman gladiator-- but quit because he got tired of the one percenters thinking only they could occupy salvation. Brian Callahan January 2012 |
