Liz Starnes has left a new comment on your post "From Matt...":
I’ve always felt that Davey got the very best of our family’s traits. Like our father, he could make or do anything and do it well – from practical tasks like painting houses and growing gardens to artistic pursuits such as writing poetry and drawing portraits. I don't have Davey's way with people or the written word but I am lucky enough to share a few things in common with him like a love of nature, reading, movies and particularly, animals. The last correspondence I received from Davey was a card and handwritten letter of condolence about the loss of my beloved dog Maggie on May 3.
While I was helping last week with the sad task of sorting through and packing Davey’s things, I found an envelope of photographs in the desk drawer at his house. The first photo in the stack was one of his famous “one-armed” shots where he would hold the camera at arm’s length and capture himself and as many other subjects as possible in the frame. Davey and Maggie are together and he is wearing a huge grin as she is leaning in to lick his face. I will treasure this picture of two gentle, loving souls who were taken from me much too soon.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
From Matt...
Uncle Davey once told me, "We are but a sum of contradictions.", so to sum up his memory would certainly be a fruitless effort. If I had only a few words to attempt to describe Davey I would use the following.
"Out beyond ideas of right doing and wrong doing, there is a field. I'll meet you there." Rumi - 13th Century Poet
In his presence there was an unspoken invitation to join him on this non-judgemental, level playing field.
His energy vibrated at a level slighty above most of us, but infecting us all. As a testament to this, since my arrival in Savannah it has been cloudy and rainy. I think it was the tears of sorrow from all who knew him sending our sadness into this world of possibilities. Today however, as the cars began to roll into the funeral home the sun came out and by the time the service began was in full bloom. Perhaps it was this collective grouping of folks whose lives he had touched that brought about a smiling sunny day. The power of positive energy? I think so.
When I was a child, he was James Dean to me. Quiet, mysterious and just across the line of delinquincy. As a teenager he became Clint Eastwood. Rugged and somewhat hardened by life, but hiding a heart of gold. As an adult Davey became Davey. Insightful, charismatic and sharing.
I'm grateful that my Wife and daughters were able to experience you. They all love you greatly. My daughters visit to Savannah with you brought back tales of the man known by all of Savannah. "Dad, everyone in Savannah knows Uncle Davey, even the guys sleeping on park benches!" The depth of their admiration became apparent when their talk of marrying daddy when they grew up was replaced with, "I hope I find a person as wonderful as Uncle Davey someday." I hope they can too.
I will, of course, miss your presence, but I shall not miss Davey. He is and has been alive in us all for sometime.
Love, Matt
Matthew David Rose (Lowell, MI)
"Out beyond ideas of right doing and wrong doing, there is a field. I'll meet you there." Rumi - 13th Century Poet
In his presence there was an unspoken invitation to join him on this non-judgemental, level playing field.
His energy vibrated at a level slighty above most of us, but infecting us all. As a testament to this, since my arrival in Savannah it has been cloudy and rainy. I think it was the tears of sorrow from all who knew him sending our sadness into this world of possibilities. Today however, as the cars began to roll into the funeral home the sun came out and by the time the service began was in full bloom. Perhaps it was this collective grouping of folks whose lives he had touched that brought about a smiling sunny day. The power of positive energy? I think so.
When I was a child, he was James Dean to me. Quiet, mysterious and just across the line of delinquincy. As a teenager he became Clint Eastwood. Rugged and somewhat hardened by life, but hiding a heart of gold. As an adult Davey became Davey. Insightful, charismatic and sharing.
I'm grateful that my Wife and daughters were able to experience you. They all love you greatly. My daughters visit to Savannah with you brought back tales of the man known by all of Savannah. "Dad, everyone in Savannah knows Uncle Davey, even the guys sleeping on park benches!" The depth of their admiration became apparent when their talk of marrying daddy when they grew up was replaced with, "I hope I find a person as wonderful as Uncle Davey someday." I hope they can too.
I will, of course, miss your presence, but I shall not miss Davey. He is and has been alive in us all for sometime.
Love, Matt
Matthew David Rose (Lowell, MI)
From Jim Fisher...
For those of us who could not make it to David's funeral, I thank Mary Marwitz, Laura Milner, and Eric Nelson for their loving words. I thank Georgia Southern University and the Department of Writing and Linguistics for creating this forum. By reading these messages, I feel that I was there with you and that I got to know David even better. Some wise man once said you can count your really good friends on one hand. This may be true for most people, but not for David Starnes. It was my privilege to have edited his chapbook of poetry, "Original Skin," published here in Port Angeles, Washington. The final poem he chose for the book was this:
Climbing Mount Angeles Again
Thirty Years Later
With half the world squared off against
the other half, we summoned the old faith
that the earth remains quite round, a circus,
yes, always about to heave apart,
to burst into flames, but still a circle,
still at 360 sweet degrees.
We required a higher point of view.
First the gradual zigzag, and in those
initial steps of our ascent I left
behind the store I minded of desire.
I wished for nothing more to wish for
than my body still above ground, with my path
so plainly marked, how could my eyes have strayed
from all the turning, all the roundness at the top?
David has made his final climb. I cherish the words and poems he left behind and hope to hold a collection of his recent work to guide me on my own "zigzag ascent."
Posted by Jim Fisher to Words for David Starnes at May 23, 2007 10:43 AM
Climbing Mount Angeles Again
Thirty Years Later
With half the world squared off against
the other half, we summoned the old faith
that the earth remains quite round, a circus,
yes, always about to heave apart,
to burst into flames, but still a circle,
still at 360 sweet degrees.
We required a higher point of view.
First the gradual zigzag, and in those
initial steps of our ascent I left
behind the store I minded of desire.
I wished for nothing more to wish for
than my body still above ground, with my path
so plainly marked, how could my eyes have strayed
from all the turning, all the roundness at the top?
David has made his final climb. I cherish the words and poems he left behind and hope to hold a collection of his recent work to guide me on my own "zigzag ascent."
Posted by Jim Fisher to Words for David Starnes at May 23, 2007 10:43 AM
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Laura Milner’s remarks and poetry for David's memorial service
I fell in love with David—and told him so that same night—nine years ago upon hearing him read his poem, “Whitmanesque,” at the Black Box Theater at Georgia Southern. He later re-named the poem “On Democracy.” I’d like to read it now from his chapbook, Original Skin:
Say yes to Nancy Reagan, yes to Molly Bloom
yes to the smackwarm drug of poetry, yes to love.
Say no to William Bennett and The Book of Virtues
yes to Mack Sennett and the comedy of vice.
Say no to The Celestine Prophecy
yes to celestial bodies in our believing hands.
Say no to Demi Moore, yes to the demi-urges of Jeane Moreau.
Say no to George Bush, yes to Daffy Duck for President.
Say no to Dan Quayle and Dan Rather, yes to Dante
yes to dancing in the dark, yes to love.
Say no to Al Gore, yes to Edward Gorey
no to Nixon and Kissinger, yes to Laurel and Hardy
no to Ronald Reagan, yes to Red Ryder.
Say yes to America, no to the American way.
Say no to yes men, ad men, con men, governing men
yes to nomenclatures of the heart, yes to women, yes to love.
Say no to Arnold Schwarzenegger and Norman Schwarzkopf
yes to Franz Schubert and Albert Schweitzer.
Say no to Sylvester Stallone, yes to Sylvester the Cat
no to the military mindset, to uniformity, to rank and file
no to the institutionalization of homophobia
no to the pent-up agony of the Pentagon
no to Rambo, yes to Rimbaud
yes to the risk of giving, yes to love.
Say no to beauty contests, smiling awards, wonders of witlessness
no to fascism disguised as fashion, no to the political
yes to the poetical, yes to motion, yes to love.
Say hey and yea to Willy Mays, Lou Gehrig, Jackie Robinson
say nay to Deion Sanders, Pete Rose, Roberto Alomar
oh no to O.J. Simpson, yes to Homer Simpson
no to Dennis Rodman, yes to Robert Johnson.
Say yes to Emily Dickinson, Herman Melville, Buster Keaton
Hank Williams, Roy Orbison, Patsy Cline, Robert Crumb.
Say yes to fear, no to despair.
Say no at last to hatred, to injustice
yes to the juices of love.
Say yes at last to Walt Whitman, yes to yawp
yes to the blast of language
yes to the blooming word.
1997
David embodied the spirit of Walt Whitman. He knew the names of workers at the print shop, cafe, bookstore, and campus post office; he visited the post office several times a week and helped himself to the gardenias growing nearby. I understand that the folks over there are grieving. David knew his students and continued teaching because of how alive he felt in the classroom. He knew how to talk with children, teen-agers, old people, plants, and animals to evoke their best qualities. At least once every semester, we would sneak away to Tybee for a beach day when we didn’t have classes. I cherish those days together, those long, leisurely conversations. We walked miles around Mill Creek Park, danced our legs off at parties, listened to music loud on Friday nights, co-hosted open-mic poetry readings, swapped stories about students who challenged and/or inspired us, drank tea in the afternoons, had picnics by the lake, and literally leaned against each other as if in a comedy routine as we walked across campus.
I don’t know what I’ll do without him. I’m glad I don’t have to figure it out alone.
Loss has a way of opening our hearts to new friendships. In his dying, the Poet Starneate gave us the gift of each other. In these first five days without him, I have bonded with his parents, Jackie and David Sr., his sisters, Liz and Toni, and several of you here today. He loved you all. Since Sunday, I have felt David’s presence each time the breeze blew the wind chimes outside his kitchen window as Mary, Eric, and I searched his house for important papers or clothes for his burial.
David is taking great pleasure in our gathering together in one place, rekindling his mighty spirit with our words, tears, bodies. I ask you to hold in your heart the woman whose car hit David’s head-on, as I believe he would have compassion for her and wish for her recovery.
Let us read responsively an excerpt from Whitman’s “Song of Myself,” printed in your bulletin. Please read the italicized print after I read the plain font:
Has anyone supposed it lucky to be born?
I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know it.
I pass death with the dying and birth with the new wash’d babe,
And am not contain’d between my hat and boots,
And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and everyone good,
The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.
You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.
Say yes to Nancy Reagan, yes to Molly Bloom
yes to the smackwarm drug of poetry, yes to love.
Say no to William Bennett and The Book of Virtues
yes to Mack Sennett and the comedy of vice.
Say no to The Celestine Prophecy
yes to celestial bodies in our believing hands.
Say no to Demi Moore, yes to the demi-urges of Jeane Moreau.
Say no to George Bush, yes to Daffy Duck for President.
Say no to Dan Quayle and Dan Rather, yes to Dante
yes to dancing in the dark, yes to love.
Say no to Al Gore, yes to Edward Gorey
no to Nixon and Kissinger, yes to Laurel and Hardy
no to Ronald Reagan, yes to Red Ryder.
Say yes to America, no to the American way.
Say no to yes men, ad men, con men, governing men
yes to nomenclatures of the heart, yes to women, yes to love.
Say no to Arnold Schwarzenegger and Norman Schwarzkopf
yes to Franz Schubert and Albert Schweitzer.
Say no to Sylvester Stallone, yes to Sylvester the Cat
no to the military mindset, to uniformity, to rank and file
no to the institutionalization of homophobia
no to the pent-up agony of the Pentagon
no to Rambo, yes to Rimbaud
yes to the risk of giving, yes to love.
Say no to beauty contests, smiling awards, wonders of witlessness
no to fascism disguised as fashion, no to the political
yes to the poetical, yes to motion, yes to love.
Say hey and yea to Willy Mays, Lou Gehrig, Jackie Robinson
say nay to Deion Sanders, Pete Rose, Roberto Alomar
oh no to O.J. Simpson, yes to Homer Simpson
no to Dennis Rodman, yes to Robert Johnson.
Say yes to Emily Dickinson, Herman Melville, Buster Keaton
Hank Williams, Roy Orbison, Patsy Cline, Robert Crumb.
Say yes to fear, no to despair.
Say no at last to hatred, to injustice
yes to the juices of love.
Say yes at last to Walt Whitman, yes to yawp
yes to the blast of language
yes to the blooming word.
1997
David embodied the spirit of Walt Whitman. He knew the names of workers at the print shop, cafe, bookstore, and campus post office; he visited the post office several times a week and helped himself to the gardenias growing nearby. I understand that the folks over there are grieving. David knew his students and continued teaching because of how alive he felt in the classroom. He knew how to talk with children, teen-agers, old people, plants, and animals to evoke their best qualities. At least once every semester, we would sneak away to Tybee for a beach day when we didn’t have classes. I cherish those days together, those long, leisurely conversations. We walked miles around Mill Creek Park, danced our legs off at parties, listened to music loud on Friday nights, co-hosted open-mic poetry readings, swapped stories about students who challenged and/or inspired us, drank tea in the afternoons, had picnics by the lake, and literally leaned against each other as if in a comedy routine as we walked across campus.
I don’t know what I’ll do without him. I’m glad I don’t have to figure it out alone.
Loss has a way of opening our hearts to new friendships. In his dying, the Poet Starneate gave us the gift of each other. In these first five days without him, I have bonded with his parents, Jackie and David Sr., his sisters, Liz and Toni, and several of you here today. He loved you all. Since Sunday, I have felt David’s presence each time the breeze blew the wind chimes outside his kitchen window as Mary, Eric, and I searched his house for important papers or clothes for his burial.
David is taking great pleasure in our gathering together in one place, rekindling his mighty spirit with our words, tears, bodies. I ask you to hold in your heart the woman whose car hit David’s head-on, as I believe he would have compassion for her and wish for her recovery.
Let us read responsively an excerpt from Whitman’s “Song of Myself,” printed in your bulletin. Please read the italicized print after I read the plain font:
Has anyone supposed it lucky to be born?
I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know it.
I pass death with the dying and birth with the new wash’d babe,
And am not contain’d between my hat and boots,
And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and everyone good,
The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.
You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.
Mary Marwitz's Remarks at David's memorial service
Good morning.
We are here today because we love David Starnes. We’re here to bear witness to that love and to a life lived with passion, generosity and wit. One of his friends said long ago in Colorado that David “farmed love.” It is a perfect description of the process by which he cultivated his life.
His passions were nature, cinema, and music. He could carry on full conversations made up entirely of lines from various movies, from “On the Waterfront” to “Bonnie and Clyde” to “Five Easy Pieces” to “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf.”
We're here because we miss him terribly. News of his death Sunday brought a common reaction: “This is too much to bear.” David understood fragility–he appreciated it and always responded to it with gentleness. Perhaps he recognized it in himself and so was particularly compassionate with others who were hurting or vulnerable.
We’re here because David lived many lives and shared them with us; he packed as much into his 64 years as others might do in twice the time. Let me offer a partial list of the jobs he held, in no particular order:
Staff, Port Angeles Public Library
Clerk, Tyee Used Book Store
Dishwasher
Gardener
FM91 Public radio personality and jazz programmer
Short order cook
Group home attendant
Sketch artist
Caretaker, Wassau Island
Painter
Teacher, South College and Georgia Southern University
Poet and Keeper of the Word
He was a traditional romantic as well as an emotional one–he loved the past, mystery, things of the spirit and things of nature. He favored emotion over rationality. He celebrated beauty in the smallest events– clutching his heart as he spoke of a niece’s snaggle-toothed smile or the fragrance of new gardenias.
We’re here because David loved to give gifts, but like Denys Finch Hatton in “Out of Africa,” not at Christmas. Our lives are full of the gifts he gave us. His radio voice, his piercing eyes, his ambling walk, his ready quip. How to teach our students, paint our houses, water our plants, walk our dogs, watch foreign films, listen to music, go to concerts, walk the beach, be a romantic.
We are here to be together, as we miss him and celebrate his life and remember him well.
We are here today because we love David Starnes. We’re here to bear witness to that love and to a life lived with passion, generosity and wit. One of his friends said long ago in Colorado that David “farmed love.” It is a perfect description of the process by which he cultivated his life.
His passions were nature, cinema, and music. He could carry on full conversations made up entirely of lines from various movies, from “On the Waterfront” to “Bonnie and Clyde” to “Five Easy Pieces” to “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf.”
We're here because we miss him terribly. News of his death Sunday brought a common reaction: “This is too much to bear.” David understood fragility–he appreciated it and always responded to it with gentleness. Perhaps he recognized it in himself and so was particularly compassionate with others who were hurting or vulnerable.
We’re here because David lived many lives and shared them with us; he packed as much into his 64 years as others might do in twice the time. Let me offer a partial list of the jobs he held, in no particular order:
Staff, Port Angeles Public Library
Clerk, Tyee Used Book Store
Dishwasher
Gardener
FM91 Public radio personality and jazz programmer
Short order cook
Group home attendant
Sketch artist
Caretaker, Wassau Island
Painter
Teacher, South College and Georgia Southern University
Poet and Keeper of the Word
He was a traditional romantic as well as an emotional one–he loved the past, mystery, things of the spirit and things of nature. He favored emotion over rationality. He celebrated beauty in the smallest events– clutching his heart as he spoke of a niece’s snaggle-toothed smile or the fragrance of new gardenias.
We’re here because David loved to give gifts, but like Denys Finch Hatton in “Out of Africa,” not at Christmas. Our lives are full of the gifts he gave us. His radio voice, his piercing eyes, his ambling walk, his ready quip. How to teach our students, paint our houses, water our plants, walk our dogs, watch foreign films, listen to music, go to concerts, walk the beach, be a romantic.
We are here to be together, as we miss him and celebrate his life and remember him well.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Eric Nelson's Eulogy for David
A few people have asked me for a copy of the eulogy for David I gave at his memorial service on May 18. I’m posting it here for those people and for any others who might want to read it. EN
LUCKY: A eulogy for David Starnes by Eric Nelson
A couple of years ago as I was walking the breezeway from the Newton building classrooms to my office, I was startled by a sudden blast of synchronized yelling that was incomprehensible but, judging by the tone and intensity – wildly profane. I turned to see a group of students standing on the grass outside Newton just as the yelling turned to group laughter, smiles, backslapping. The students were facing David, who held a camera in his hand.
Later I asked David what that scene was all about. He told me that at the end of every semester he took a photo of his classes, and that he prepared them by saying, “on the count of three, everybody yell your favorite curse word.” From that day on, at the end of each semester I looked forward to being treated to the joyous, cacophonous, wonderfully irreverent sound of David’s students letting loose a primal whoop of profanity as he snapped their picture for posterity.
It was classic David – first in his closeness to his students, second in his wry, subversive sense of humor, and finally in his ability to bring people together and keep them together.Which, of course, is what is happening today as we all come together, some of us from as far away as Washington State, California, Vermont, Colorado, Michigan, and Virginia, to be with David and with each other to share our stories – to remember what he meant to us, to grieve together, to be joyous together, and, if necessary, to yell out our favorite curse words at the unfairness of what happened to him.
One of David’s and my favorite students, Kayvon Gerami, said to me in an email – every Writing major who didn’t have him is deprived. Kayvon is right, but as I said to him when I wrote back: not just every Writing major, but every person who didn’t know David is deprived. So I want all of us here, and all of those who knew David but could not be here, to celebrate the fact that we are the lucky ones – the ones who knew David and whose lives are better for it; we are the ones who keep David’s idealism, grace, generosity, humor, eloquence, compassion and artistic spirit alive and active in the world.
Talking to David was always a deep and resonant experience. I think my best memories of David are of the two of us – sometimes the three of us when either Richard Flynn or Peter Christopher was with us – driving to pick up or drop off a visiting writer at the Savannah airport, or at a college in Macon or Valdosta. Or the times we made the 3 ½ hour drive to Atlanta just to hear a poet give a reading and then turn around and drive back to Statesboro the same night so we wouldn’t miss our classes the next day.
One time in particular, David and I decided, pretty much at the last minute, to go to Atlanta to see then poet-laureate Billy Collins. The trip up went fast because we talked nearly non-stop about – what else – poetry, music, teaching – the triumvirate of our conversations. I remember we thrashed out the problem of who was the better band, Beatles or Stones; which Joni Mitchell album was the best; which Ian McEwan novel was the most powerful; whether or not Billy Collins’ poetry would stand the test of time.
We went to the reading, stopped for a late dinner on the way out of Atlanta, and then began the long drive home, still talking, talking, talking. We talked so intently that when I suddenly realized that I had long ago missed the exit for Statesboro and we were only a few miles from the Savannah city limits, we had to yell our favorite curse words loudly and repeatedly.
I don’t know what subject we were on when we missed the Statesboro exit, but obviously it was incredibly engrossing. By the time we got ourselves turned around and back to Statesboro, we’d added almost two extra hours to our road trip. I remember saying to David: we must never tell anyone that we did this. But I guess it is ok now to confess openly what all of us know: being with David took you – literally and figuratively – to places you didn’t expect to go.
I met David in 1998 when he was a graduate student in my poetry writing workshop at Georgia Southern. He was working on his M.A. in English at the time, but it wasn’t long before David became less like a student and more like a co-teacher. The stunning beauty and quality of his own poems, along with his careful and caring responses to the poems of the other students (all of whom were in their early twenties at most) made David’s opinion highly valued by everyone, including, or especially, me.
Although he was the student, I learned a great deal about teaching from David. While he and I almost always agreed on the strengths and weaknesses of a poem under discussion, I found myself often wishing that I had framed my remarks more in the manner that David framed his. He was honest in his comments, but he always found a way to be supportive, non-judgmental, and illuminating.
It was still early in the semester when I commented to a student that her poem contained striking and original images, but that the poem was so fragmented as to be nearly incoherent. David’s comment about the poem was that it reminded him of pieces of brightly colored beach glass found randomly on the sand, each piece intriguing and interesting in itself, suggesting its own story, but the shards hadn’t yet been taken home, examined, cleaned, and put together into a collection that all fit together.
As he spoke, his eyes and hands gestured in a way that transported all of us to the beach to see, to pick up, to inspect and pocket each piece of glass. When I glanced at the rest of the class, I noticed that all of them – and me – were nodding our heads in understanding. I have always thought of that time as the “what He said” moment, for after that day I would wait for David to comment on a poem, and when students turned to me for my response, I often simply pointed to David and responded, “Yeah, what he said.”
In retrospect, it doesn’t surprise me that David used the analogy of a “collection” to talk about that student’s poem. As most, if not all, of us know, David was a collector – a collector of small, exquisite, delicate things that did not require much, if any money, to collect. It was as if he collected those things that were overlooked by the rest of us – things that seemed too insignificant or valueless – but in David’s eyes, these were the things that needed the most attention and the greatest care. As Mary Marwitz said in passing one day this week, “nothing was too small for his affection.”
First at his townhouse on Valley Court and then at his house outside of town, David became the curator of mini-museums and museums of the miniature. He had collections of postcards, of seashsells, of feathers, of birdsnests, of family photographs, of old fountain pens, of Lone Ranger ephemera, of baseballs he found on his walks at Mill Creek Park. And of course, there was his beloved collection of music, especially the old LPs that he looked for at yard sales and junk stores. And also his books, which not only filled his bookcases, but were arranged on tables and other flat surfaces like heirlooms.
I wonder if David’s life wasn’t itself a collection, a collage of sorts, of the kind we saw in the visitation room earlier this morning – the photographs from different periods of his life, different jobs, different people, David with a beard, without one, in his James Dean pose, his Clint Eastwood look, his Merry Prankster abandon, his tweedy professorial posture – all of these images appearing before us not in any sequential or chronological order but in the circular, reiterative way of a life lived fully -- the images and the poetry overlapping; the young David and the older David standing next to each other, touching each other, seeping across time and place to show us that his life was all of a piece.
Whether he was returning to the land, as he did in the 1970s, or returning to the classroom, as he did in the 1990s, his idealism remained constant; and his greatest collection – his circulating collection of acquaintances who became friends, friends who became lovers, lovers who became friends, friends who remained friends – that collection grew and grew.
As we know, the things we collect reveal much about who we are. Clearly David’s collections tell us of his love of nature, of art, of literature, of music, and, I think most importantly, of friends. We are lucky to be one of David’s carefully selected, developed, and nurtured collections. It spans generations and geography, and it will endure for a very long time. And so will David.
LUCKY: A eulogy for David Starnes by Eric Nelson
A couple of years ago as I was walking the breezeway from the Newton building classrooms to my office, I was startled by a sudden blast of synchronized yelling that was incomprehensible but, judging by the tone and intensity – wildly profane. I turned to see a group of students standing on the grass outside Newton just as the yelling turned to group laughter, smiles, backslapping. The students were facing David, who held a camera in his hand.
Later I asked David what that scene was all about. He told me that at the end of every semester he took a photo of his classes, and that he prepared them by saying, “on the count of three, everybody yell your favorite curse word.” From that day on, at the end of each semester I looked forward to being treated to the joyous, cacophonous, wonderfully irreverent sound of David’s students letting loose a primal whoop of profanity as he snapped their picture for posterity.
It was classic David – first in his closeness to his students, second in his wry, subversive sense of humor, and finally in his ability to bring people together and keep them together.Which, of course, is what is happening today as we all come together, some of us from as far away as Washington State, California, Vermont, Colorado, Michigan, and Virginia, to be with David and with each other to share our stories – to remember what he meant to us, to grieve together, to be joyous together, and, if necessary, to yell out our favorite curse words at the unfairness of what happened to him.
One of David’s and my favorite students, Kayvon Gerami, said to me in an email – every Writing major who didn’t have him is deprived. Kayvon is right, but as I said to him when I wrote back: not just every Writing major, but every person who didn’t know David is deprived. So I want all of us here, and all of those who knew David but could not be here, to celebrate the fact that we are the lucky ones – the ones who knew David and whose lives are better for it; we are the ones who keep David’s idealism, grace, generosity, humor, eloquence, compassion and artistic spirit alive and active in the world.
Talking to David was always a deep and resonant experience. I think my best memories of David are of the two of us – sometimes the three of us when either Richard Flynn or Peter Christopher was with us – driving to pick up or drop off a visiting writer at the Savannah airport, or at a college in Macon or Valdosta. Or the times we made the 3 ½ hour drive to Atlanta just to hear a poet give a reading and then turn around and drive back to Statesboro the same night so we wouldn’t miss our classes the next day.
One time in particular, David and I decided, pretty much at the last minute, to go to Atlanta to see then poet-laureate Billy Collins. The trip up went fast because we talked nearly non-stop about – what else – poetry, music, teaching – the triumvirate of our conversations. I remember we thrashed out the problem of who was the better band, Beatles or Stones; which Joni Mitchell album was the best; which Ian McEwan novel was the most powerful; whether or not Billy Collins’ poetry would stand the test of time.
We went to the reading, stopped for a late dinner on the way out of Atlanta, and then began the long drive home, still talking, talking, talking. We talked so intently that when I suddenly realized that I had long ago missed the exit for Statesboro and we were only a few miles from the Savannah city limits, we had to yell our favorite curse words loudly and repeatedly.
I don’t know what subject we were on when we missed the Statesboro exit, but obviously it was incredibly engrossing. By the time we got ourselves turned around and back to Statesboro, we’d added almost two extra hours to our road trip. I remember saying to David: we must never tell anyone that we did this. But I guess it is ok now to confess openly what all of us know: being with David took you – literally and figuratively – to places you didn’t expect to go.
I met David in 1998 when he was a graduate student in my poetry writing workshop at Georgia Southern. He was working on his M.A. in English at the time, but it wasn’t long before David became less like a student and more like a co-teacher. The stunning beauty and quality of his own poems, along with his careful and caring responses to the poems of the other students (all of whom were in their early twenties at most) made David’s opinion highly valued by everyone, including, or especially, me.
Although he was the student, I learned a great deal about teaching from David. While he and I almost always agreed on the strengths and weaknesses of a poem under discussion, I found myself often wishing that I had framed my remarks more in the manner that David framed his. He was honest in his comments, but he always found a way to be supportive, non-judgmental, and illuminating.
It was still early in the semester when I commented to a student that her poem contained striking and original images, but that the poem was so fragmented as to be nearly incoherent. David’s comment about the poem was that it reminded him of pieces of brightly colored beach glass found randomly on the sand, each piece intriguing and interesting in itself, suggesting its own story, but the shards hadn’t yet been taken home, examined, cleaned, and put together into a collection that all fit together.
As he spoke, his eyes and hands gestured in a way that transported all of us to the beach to see, to pick up, to inspect and pocket each piece of glass. When I glanced at the rest of the class, I noticed that all of them – and me – were nodding our heads in understanding. I have always thought of that time as the “what He said” moment, for after that day I would wait for David to comment on a poem, and when students turned to me for my response, I often simply pointed to David and responded, “Yeah, what he said.”
In retrospect, it doesn’t surprise me that David used the analogy of a “collection” to talk about that student’s poem. As most, if not all, of us know, David was a collector – a collector of small, exquisite, delicate things that did not require much, if any money, to collect. It was as if he collected those things that were overlooked by the rest of us – things that seemed too insignificant or valueless – but in David’s eyes, these were the things that needed the most attention and the greatest care. As Mary Marwitz said in passing one day this week, “nothing was too small for his affection.”
First at his townhouse on Valley Court and then at his house outside of town, David became the curator of mini-museums and museums of the miniature. He had collections of postcards, of seashsells, of feathers, of birdsnests, of family photographs, of old fountain pens, of Lone Ranger ephemera, of baseballs he found on his walks at Mill Creek Park. And of course, there was his beloved collection of music, especially the old LPs that he looked for at yard sales and junk stores. And also his books, which not only filled his bookcases, but were arranged on tables and other flat surfaces like heirlooms.
I wonder if David’s life wasn’t itself a collection, a collage of sorts, of the kind we saw in the visitation room earlier this morning – the photographs from different periods of his life, different jobs, different people, David with a beard, without one, in his James Dean pose, his Clint Eastwood look, his Merry Prankster abandon, his tweedy professorial posture – all of these images appearing before us not in any sequential or chronological order but in the circular, reiterative way of a life lived fully -- the images and the poetry overlapping; the young David and the older David standing next to each other, touching each other, seeping across time and place to show us that his life was all of a piece.
Whether he was returning to the land, as he did in the 1970s, or returning to the classroom, as he did in the 1990s, his idealism remained constant; and his greatest collection – his circulating collection of acquaintances who became friends, friends who became lovers, lovers who became friends, friends who remained friends – that collection grew and grew.
As we know, the things we collect reveal much about who we are. Clearly David’s collections tell us of his love of nature, of art, of literature, of music, and, I think most importantly, of friends. We are lucky to be one of David’s carefully selected, developed, and nurtured collections. It spans generations and geography, and it will endure for a very long time. And so will David.
From Tom Kidder...
The last verse of the last poem in David's "Earth Days" I read as his good-bye to all who loved him. He writes about New Years Eve at our home in Vermont.
Tonight we posed before the hanging clock whose hands
already stalked the faint new year. We inched
them back for the sake of authenticity,
our glasses raised before the camera in a toast
to lives of borrowed time, time compromised, time held
apart from time. We drank to days on earth
reduced to this freestanding house, these rooms
we separated to, after goodnights, goodnights
as good as blessings, best as prayers into space.
I sleep on this as light begins to break
upon the arbitrary stars and planets.
Posted by Tom Kidder to Words for David Starnes at May 21, 2007 5:11 AM
Tonight we posed before the hanging clock whose hands
already stalked the faint new year. We inched
them back for the sake of authenticity,
our glasses raised before the camera in a toast
to lives of borrowed time, time compromised, time held
apart from time. We drank to days on earth
reduced to this freestanding house, these rooms
we separated to, after goodnights, goodnights
as good as blessings, best as prayers into space.
I sleep on this as light begins to break
upon the arbitrary stars and planets.
Posted by Tom Kidder to Words for David Starnes at May 21, 2007 5:11 AM
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
From Amanda Gilbert...
Amanda Gilbert said...
How do you express your grief for a man you knew so little about? even though i only knew little about dr. starnes i still love him. Kayvon and I would meet him before one his classes and drink coffee and kayvon would share his writings with him. Starnes would always make time to ask me about my life and my day which let me know how genuine of a person he was. I would always hear wonderful stories about him from kayvon and i always enjoyed hearing those stories.
I wanted to write on this thing since i heard of his tragic death on monday but i couldnt bring myself to. My thought are jumbled, im not exactly sure how i feel. All i know is i miss him, a lot. I havent stopped thinking about this man for days, as im sure a lot of people are in the same boat as i.
how do you deal with a death like this? its not fair and it makes me angry.
David Starnes was a sweet, thoughtful, and very handsome man. there arent enough adjectives in the world to describe him.
It goes without saying....
We will be missing you.
Posted by Amanda Gilbert to Words for David Starnes at May 16, 2007 6:17 AM
How do you express your grief for a man you knew so little about? even though i only knew little about dr. starnes i still love him. Kayvon and I would meet him before one his classes and drink coffee and kayvon would share his writings with him. Starnes would always make time to ask me about my life and my day which let me know how genuine of a person he was. I would always hear wonderful stories about him from kayvon and i always enjoyed hearing those stories.
I wanted to write on this thing since i heard of his tragic death on monday but i couldnt bring myself to. My thought are jumbled, im not exactly sure how i feel. All i know is i miss him, a lot. I havent stopped thinking about this man for days, as im sure a lot of people are in the same boat as i.
how do you deal with a death like this? its not fair and it makes me angry.
David Starnes was a sweet, thoughtful, and very handsome man. there arent enough adjectives in the world to describe him.
It goes without saying....
We will be missing you.
Posted by Amanda Gilbert to Words for David Starnes at May 16, 2007 6:17 AM
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
From Connie...
I would like to share a 'David moment' that exemplifies his great sensitivity and heart. I picked him up by the bookstore one day to give him a lift to the Newton building. He had three magnolia blossoms in his hands and gave me one. He said he picked them every year and passed them out to people because they were so perfect and fragile and short-lived. How like him to be observant and to also share with others.
I feel as stunned as all of us who knew him and the Twain aphorism that keeps running through my mind is "Let me so live my life, that when I die, even the undertaker shall mourn."What a great loss this is.
Posted by connie to Words for David Starnes at May 15, 2007 1:35 PM
I feel as stunned as all of us who knew him and the Twain aphorism that keeps running through my mind is "Let me so live my life, that when I die, even the undertaker shall mourn."What a great loss this is.
Posted by connie to Words for David Starnes at May 15, 2007 1:35 PM
Mr. Starnes had a passion for teaching that shined through from his passion for his students. I learned so much not only through the things that he taught me, but the appreciation he let me have for myself. He supported me and showed me the beautiful things i was capable of. I honestly think some of the most important things i gleaned from college were from him: he gave me hope and direction and allowed me to believe in myself. As I've always known, I'll never forget him.
Posted by Anonymous to Words for David Starnes at May 15, 2007 7:44 AM
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Posted by Anonymous to Words for David Starnes at May 15, 2007 7:44 AM
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From Amanda...
I never had a class with David Starnes, nor did I spend much time with him, but the Writing & Linguistics Department is such a tight-knit group that any loss among us is felt strongly by everyone. I regret that I didn't know him better, as it was always apparent that he was one of those truly good people who inspired many. I am saddened by the loss of this writer, teacher and friend. May he live on in the memories of those who love him.
Posted by Amanda to Words for David Starnes at May 15, 2007 5:56 AM
Posted by Amanda to Words for David Starnes at May 15, 2007 5:56 AM
Monday, May 14, 2007
From Kayvon...
Kayvon said...
I can hardly breathe through my tears and sorrow but to you Mr Starnes, I write this.
I love you. And so many times I asked god why you couldn't have been my dad. Such a great man, a respectable man, a gentle man. You are truley larger than life. From the first day I entered your Everyday Creative Writing class,I was soothed by your soft voice and encouraged by your greatness. I will hold the poetry you have signed for me, and the CD you gave me close to me and in my heart forever. I will miss you so dearly and i truley believe that anyone entering the writing department from here on out will be deprived. Deprived of an idol, a mentor, a Hercules of words, a man who's every word strummed the heart strings of even the coldest souls.
I came by your office everytime I was on campus, but missed our last appointment, and i will regret that for the rest of my existence.
You brought the writer out of me.
You unveiled a talent and a passion that lived deep inside me. Before meeting you, I was a Macho Man, terrified of revealing the soft hearted poet inside. But you showed me that the greatest of men are poets. You are forever my mentor, and forever my idol. I will miss you for as long as my hand does write.
God bless you Mr. Starnes.
May 14, 2007 3:52 PM
I can hardly breathe through my tears and sorrow but to you Mr Starnes, I write this.
I love you. And so many times I asked god why you couldn't have been my dad. Such a great man, a respectable man, a gentle man. You are truley larger than life. From the first day I entered your Everyday Creative Writing class,I was soothed by your soft voice and encouraged by your greatness. I will hold the poetry you have signed for me, and the CD you gave me close to me and in my heart forever. I will miss you so dearly and i truley believe that anyone entering the writing department from here on out will be deprived. Deprived of an idol, a mentor, a Hercules of words, a man who's every word strummed the heart strings of even the coldest souls.
I came by your office everytime I was on campus, but missed our last appointment, and i will regret that for the rest of my existence.
You brought the writer out of me.
You unveiled a talent and a passion that lived deep inside me. Before meeting you, I was a Macho Man, terrified of revealing the soft hearted poet inside. But you showed me that the greatest of men are poets. You are forever my mentor, and forever my idol. I will miss you for as long as my hand does write.
God bless you Mr. Starnes.
May 14, 2007 3:52 PM
From Thomas Klein
Thomas Klein said...
I am shocked, stunned and very sad. I was on I-16 yesterday when this happened. I was driving to Savannah when I saw the police cruisers and the ambulance zipping by in the opposite lanes, and I took a detour to avoid the traffic jam when I came back to Statesboro. Little did I know that this was David Starnes that had the accident.
I loved David Starnes. He was gentle and kind and always seemed cool and relaxed. His voice was a pleasure to hear every time. He was a great jazz fan like me and we sometimes talked for hours about the music. He truly lived life in the key of blue (the musical notes, not the sadness). I will miss him so much.
May 14, 2007 2:21 PM
I am shocked, stunned and very sad. I was on I-16 yesterday when this happened. I was driving to Savannah when I saw the police cruisers and the ambulance zipping by in the opposite lanes, and I took a detour to avoid the traffic jam when I came back to Statesboro. Little did I know that this was David Starnes that had the accident.
I loved David Starnes. He was gentle and kind and always seemed cool and relaxed. His voice was a pleasure to hear every time. He was a great jazz fan like me and we sometimes talked for hours about the music. He truly lived life in the key of blue (the musical notes, not the sadness). I will miss him so much.
May 14, 2007 2:21 PM
From Theresa Welford
I remember that David is a warm, friendly man with a wonderful voice and a big, hearty laugh. He finds such joy in words, books, poetry, friendship, people, nature, life. (I am simply not going to use past-tense verbs when I talk about him. It's too soon, and it's too final.)
He is utterly dedicated to teaching and to his students. I can't even count the number of times I've asked his former students about him and have gotten this reply: "Oh! Mr. Starnes! He's amazing!"
He is also one of the kindest men I've ever met, with a heart as big and deep as the ocean. After the slayings at Virginia Tech several weeks ago, David set up a memorial in the second-floor hallway of the Newton Building, complete with fresh flowers and selected poems. It was beautiful and touching, and it attests to David's compassion and tenderness.
And his crazy-gorgeous collage in honor of National Poetry Month this year! What fun he had assembling it. For a few weeks, it seems that every time I left my office, David was in the hallway, standing on a chair, adding more and more pictures of poets, backed by sheet after sheet of colorful paper. I think he stopped only because he ran out of wall-space.
Since David is such a lover of poetry, it is fitting to end with a few lines from W. H. Auden's poem "In Memory of W. B. Yeats": "What instruments we have agree / The day of his death was a dark cold day...."
He is utterly dedicated to teaching and to his students. I can't even count the number of times I've asked his former students about him and have gotten this reply: "Oh! Mr. Starnes! He's amazing!"
He is also one of the kindest men I've ever met, with a heart as big and deep as the ocean. After the slayings at Virginia Tech several weeks ago, David set up a memorial in the second-floor hallway of the Newton Building, complete with fresh flowers and selected poems. It was beautiful and touching, and it attests to David's compassion and tenderness.
And his crazy-gorgeous collage in honor of National Poetry Month this year! What fun he had assembling it. For a few weeks, it seems that every time I left my office, David was in the hallway, standing on a chair, adding more and more pictures of poets, backed by sheet after sheet of colorful paper. I think he stopped only because he ran out of wall-space.
Since David is such a lover of poetry, it is fitting to end with a few lines from W. H. Auden's poem "In Memory of W. B. Yeats": "What instruments we have agree / The day of his death was a dark cold day...."
From Tina Whittle
I, too, am at a loss for words. So I will use David's, from his collection Original Skin:
From "Vanishing Acts"
Everything happens for no reason but
what we reduce it to, depending on
our losses at the deeper end and how
we face the vanishing of all we meant
to keep: from flesh and blood to love and more than love.
My students understand the seeds
of conflict necessary for a tale
that's worth telling,
worthy of their time.
What gets them, though, are tales that end without an end, with only loss, when loss is just the start.
Posted by Tina Whittle to Words for David Starnes at May 14, 2007 10:01 AM
From "Vanishing Acts"
Everything happens for no reason but
what we reduce it to, depending on
our losses at the deeper end and how
we face the vanishing of all we meant
to keep: from flesh and blood to love and more than love.
My students understand the seeds
of conflict necessary for a tale
that's worth telling,
worthy of their time.
What gets them, though, are tales that end without an end, with only loss, when loss is just the start.
Posted by Tina Whittle to Words for David Starnes at May 14, 2007 10:01 AM
Laura Valeri said...
I am writing this literally minutes from finding out about the accident, so I'm not sure I can articulate just yet how shocking and tragic his loss is to me. David was one of the first friends I made in this department. He knew how to make me laugh and feel at ease. He was always very complimentary of my writing, but I always felt he was a true talent and that I had a lot to learn from him. I was always inpsired by his accomplishments, how much he did for the community, for his students, for poetry. The last few times I spoke to David he told me he wanted to go back to school for an MFA in poetry. I was so happy for him because I knew that his talent both as a teacher and a poet deserved more nurturing and recognition. I am so certain that he would have achieved more than we can imagine. He was a quiet person, but always there for us, for his students. He was a great human being. I will miss him dearly, and I know many others will too. David was just a gift to us. My sadness is beyond words.
May 14, 2007 8:12 AM
May 14, 2007 8:12 AM
What do you remember about David?
Please add your comments, knowing the idea of being memorialized in cyberspace would have made David laugh.
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