Like a sculptor chiseling stone into being, Malcolm Randall creates meaning with words; he shapes them, massages them, and relishes in their beauty. I first met Malcolm when I invited him into my language arts classroom and then witnessed his indelible passion once again when he captivated an audience of English teachers. Told through both poetry and prose, The Malchemist: Apprentice" is Malcolm's first book, a poignant story of Malcolm's search for self-acceptance and ultimately, of his discovery of the gold within himself" -Jean Lamar, 2009 Florida Teacher of the Year
the malchemist
"apprentice"By malcolm randallAuthorHouse
Copyright © 2011 Malcolm Randall
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4634-1347-7Contents
Introduction..................................................ixHis Eye Is on the Sparrow.....................................1Mrs. Hayes....................................................3An American's Dream...........................................6Mackeechant...................................................10Season of Myself..............................................12Fall..........................................................15The Clown.....................................................16Undetected....................................................17Tupperware....................................................18Sweet Carmen..................................................20Carmen's Burana...............................................22Lot in Life...................................................24Bathroom Wall #1..............................................27Liberty County................................................29Excuse Me.....................................................32The Past......................................................35Winter........................................................39Timeless Beauty...............................................40Mona's Smile..................................................41Threatening Skies.............................................43Something for Nothing (Poetic Palindrome).....................45Homeschooled..................................................46Forever?......................................................47You Will See..................................................48Stars Roll Down...............................................49Procession....................................................50Bottle Up Love................................................52I Dreamed of Death............................................53Stretched.....................................................54Spring........................................................57Metaphoric Breeze.............................................58Gifted........................................................60Before........................................................63Passion.......................................................66In the Evening Dew............................................68Rat Race......................................................70Reverence of Love.............................................71Summer........................................................75Sina's Voyage.................................................76Shape of Believing............................................79Bathroom Wall #2 (The Mushroom)...............................81Regards to Saturn (An Artist's Prayer)........................83The Love Button...............................................84Acknowledgments...............................................87Recommended Reading...........................................90Recommended Journal...........................................92Recommended Exercise DVDs.....................................93Recommended NPR Shows.........................................94North Carolina Public Radio...................................95
Chapter One
Fall
The Clown The makeup's on
As I prepare
To mesmerize my
Crowd out there.
The lights go on.
I spin on stage.
The cheers arise.
The organ plays.
I am your fool
And that's okay,
'Cause with your smile
You make my day.
If it pleases you
I'll trip and fall
Flat on my face.
I'll do it all.
Yet with every trick
I always know
When it comes to you
I'm just the show.
A captive crowd
I'll never gain.
A thousand laughs
Won't hide the pain.
But for a moment
I'll forget that when
The lights go out
I'll be me again.
With makeup off
And curtain down,
You'll go home
And I'm still the clown.
Undetected I have chosen silence over death—
A death of my views, shot down
By eyes devoid of art.
I have opted for drowning
Instead of your strangulation,
For when air passes from
My chest into water and
Is replaced by water,
I have still won.
With water in my soul
There is still something left.
You would have me be empty,
Just as you would have me be you.
But to be you I would be empty.
Yet in being me I am full.
Yes, I breathe color
In place of your air.
What of air can you see?
What of air can you smell?
Have you ever closed
Your eyes to see the color?
If this was how you viewed me,
Oh, the colors you'd see.
But, with your eyes wide open
I pass by you, undetected.
Tupperware How are you there
In your Tupperware,
Swirled?
Occasionally faking
To burp the stagnation,
Aching
To be released from
Your self-contained
World.
They pack you and
Stack you in seals
With no intent for
Breaking,
Unless they (k)nead
You for baking.
But it's only
When the recipe
Calls for you,
And it's just in parts.
With a dash of your hopes
You'll be grated,
Elated
To be in the mix.
It becomes your fix
When you hold no clue
That it is you
Who should be the product.
Or are you the process,
With no concern
For the product?
But wait—
You're not ready for flambé.
So back you go,
Tupperware in tow,
To the frigidity
You accept to be.
No hope to see
That low temperatures
And plasticity
Keep what's in you
From rising to
What's in me.
Sweet Carmen
My summer working at Greyfield Inn on Cumberland Island was inarguably one of the most satisfying and educational experiences I have had. As fall closed, one of my companions began growing excited about the upcoming visit of some friends. She told me that her friend Carmen had just been diagnosed with terminal lupus and was in the midst of coming to terms with the news. We agreed to plan a fun-filled weekend, as was our tradition for visitors.
When the boat arrived, carrying our anticipated guest, I was introduced to Carmen and was immediately taken by her quiet strength. The weather cooperated to provide fruition of our plans, which gave me the opportunity to relax on the beach and get to know her.
A few days into the visit, I was struck by the fact that Carmen never complained of feeling ill, nor did she broach the subject of her illness. There was no sense of melancholy in her words, and the insights that played into her conversations were solely uplifting. I pondered for many days (since we were the same age) what it must feel like to contemplate my mortality, to be told that there is an invader in my body and it was going to win.
One evening, while watching the sunset, we began talking about change. I had long ago assumed the position of the Cumberland barber, so I came up with a great idea. I asked her if she would be interested in getting a haircut that evening. I felt a night of beauty was in order. At first, she was hesitant to give my scissors permission to cut the long brown hair that she kept in a braid. After a moment, she seemed to draw into herself, and then she quietly responded, "What am I holding on to? It's just hair." Not a moment later, she agreed.
I asked her to select some music and incense, and then we all made our way to my room. I gathered the necessary accoutrements for our session and lit some candles. With atmosphere set, I began cutting. The conversation flowed effortlessly between us while music played. As her hair fell away, she began to relax in the moment. The thought crossed my mind that when a person has a terminal illness, others are sometimes afraid to get physically close to that person. Ignoring that thought, I took this opportunity to run my fingers through Carmen's hair, commenting on how beautiful she was—not because I felt sorry for her, but because it was the absolute truth. My friends and I ended up pampering her for about four hours. I cannot describe the love that we experienced during those moments.
The human touch is one of the most powerful medicines our species can administer. Yet, we have become a society of people who are afraid of our fellow man. I don't live in a fantasy world where people should indiscriminately allow others into their personal space, but I believe a genuine affection between people can overcome boundaries that no amount of money or power can equal.
Carmen's Burana Strange what lies
Behind ivory eyes
That stare intently
From onyx canyons.
As questions raise
I see the face
Of eternal lights'
Companion. And
In her dreams
Lie requiem themes
Of incandescent measure.
I hear them bringing forth
Unmeasured meanings or
Moments for forever.
What's that in her laughter?
Could chimes have
Called so sweet
To bring forth
My own merriment—
Childlike, bittersweet?
To capture for a moment,
To never have again,
The former passing moment
Of whom you could have been.
While realizing all fortuitously
That fortune has been played,
You come to see the reality of
Who you are, have been, stayed.
This understanding
Gives answers
For which scholars
Have searched afar:
The greatest gift
You can give yourself
Is loving who you are.
Lot in Life Beware ...
Or be aware
Of one who means no harm
While causing great damage.
For if you manage
To rise above the peril,
It is to be sure
That there will
Be less of you than before.
And what's more ...
If it's with the heart they play,
Most likely
It's with the soul you'll pay
The day
That inevitability arrives
(Never like you planned it).
So please over-stand it.
With no regrets, hand it
To the higher power
In the telling hour
When your strength lies
Only in your memory.
Generally,
This means you've given
The eyes that see
To your blind hopes
That be the surrogate
For the delicate nature
Dwelling within the
Current definition of
The nomenclature
Spoken of as love.
How curious the sensation,
When one experiences the elevation
In the realization of an equation,
Complete without solution.
Succumb to this fusion
And amid the dark,
I'll spill verse to spark
Concepts that heal.
To serve as a pill, that will
Be the remedy, if through
Faith you've the ability
To swallow this prophecy,
I render
With the most tender hopes
That truth floats
To the surface,
When love's solution recoils
And emotionally purges
The vinegar from
Life's waters.
And
For future matters,
Quenching lies in the latter,
For the former serves only to pickle
When you're enslaved
To the fickle ways
Of a careless one's games—
When no matter which door
You choose ... you lose,
As long as it is
With them you play.
Sad to say,
But it's no new news.
It's up to you to loose the noose.
End-the-train, manifest-the-caboose ...
Hell, derail the tracks
By accepting the facts.
And when you walk—
For the fear of salt—
Never look back.
Bathroom Wall #1 It scares people
When you break
From the norm,
Because if you
Succeed at you,
You give them
No excuse for
Failing at them.
Liberty County
In South Carolina, my friends and I daydreamed about moving to Florida to open a surf shop. The summer before tenth grade, a pastor from Florida came to lead a revival at my dad's church. I told him of my daydreams and wondered if he could recommend my father to a church in the Sunshine State. Soon after the revival, my dad began receiving job offers from churches there. It wasn't long before he accepted a position. It was a rural town, so geographically it wasn't quite what I had hoped for, but I always enjoyed the prospect of a new place to live. The plus side was that it was only forty-five minutes from Panama City Beach, but the downside was that forty-five minutes had us living in the middle of the woods.
I thought it best to attempt to blend in with my surroundings, so I joined the football team, thus securing my place in the popular crowd. It wasn't long, however, before I began to realize that in this town, nonconformity was not an option. It didn't take much struggling, under the confines of camouflage, before I started feeling a distinct unrest in my soul. Every day I felt more alien, which made it difficult to forge an identity in a place where a man's rite of passage is killing his first deer. At the same time, a different confusion began to rear its ugly head: I found myself questioning the existence of God.
These conflicting feelings sank me into a depth of sadness that I had never before experienced. I began, to the best of my ability, to explore other beliefs to see if they held any weight. This effort consisted of sneaking over to the new age section of the bookstore in Tallahassee to quickly scan over books before my parents could notice. The few times that I could pin someone down to have a conversation and express my feelings, all I got was "Just have faith." I felt I was getting nowhere, so I gave up, sinking even deeper into the mire of my frustration. I began to wear black, expressing outwardly what I felt inwardly, which only served to raise even more eyebrows at what was already perceived as my increasingly odd behavior.
One day, as I began to reach the end of my rope, I recalled Mrs. Bethany, my church youth director's wife, telling our youth group that if anyone ever needed a friend to turn to, we could always call her at home. So I looked up her number and gave her a call. Soon I was spilling out my confusion. I told her about all of the books I had been reading and asked her why I should believe in good rather than evil. I finally had someone I could trust, so I held nothing back. After quite a while, I finished. She asked if she could pray with me, and I gladly accepted. When I got off the phone with her, I felt relieved. Finally, someone had listened.
The next day in school, I felt better than I had in months. In second period, I sat behind the girl who I was taking to the prom. She was the pretty cheerleader type. About midway through class, she turned to me and whispered, "I need to talk to you after class." I thought to myself, You don't say something like that to someone and expect them to wait until class is over!
"Tell me now," I asked politely.
"I can't go to the prom with you," she whispered. I thought she was joking.
"Why?" I questioned.
"Mrs. Bethany called my mom last night and told her that you worship the devil. Mama says she won't buy my dress if I go to the prom with a devil worshipper."
My heart sank into my stomach. It began to dawn on me that she was serious. As the day progressed, I found out that more and more of my friends' parents had also received phone calls from her. Mrs. Bethany also called my English teacher and the school librarian, who also called my classmates' parents, spreading the rumor further. I wondered if I had brought this on in some way by dressing and acting differently. But, seriously, a devil worshipper? This was more than I was prepared to handle at sixteen years of age. In a matter of twenty- four hours, I had lost all my friends.
This threw me right back into the straits of confusion. I became angry with God because I misinterpreted the actions of ordinary human beings with the intentions of a perfect God. As a result, I was blown further away from my perception of God than I had ever been before. Like a toddler asserting independence, I became defiant, which only served to reinforce the opinions of those around me.
Not long afterward, I quit high school. Eventually, I obtained my GED and attempted college for a semester. But, in the end, I took off traveling—in search of myself.
For years, I wouldn't talk to anyone about God. If someone attempted to broach the subject, I would immediately become defensive. I wasn't able to orchestrate a response to all of this until I was twenty-three years old. "Excuse Me" was less a lashing out toward organized religion and more of a personal closure. I hope when people read this, rather than passing judgment, they will see how damaging "religion" can be to a young person when it is thrown at him like stones. I have always understood that God is the purest manifestation of love. All else is the Pharisee.
Excuse Me Excuse me,
I hate to be a bother.
There's just something
I need to know.
It seems of late
I tend to ponder
From whence I came
To where I go.
My simplest questions,
I've noticed, conjure
Up unanswered fear.
Could my brain,
In fact, be the
Dominate of the
Two in question here?
That in question
Lies the question:
Should my questions
I hold back?
My desire is for
An answer, not
A theological attack.
I'm quite aware
God loves me and
Doesn't want me
To go to hell.
Though, it's only you
Who seems so sure
That I'm really
Going there.
Now I often wonder,
If in hell,
Do my demons
Resemble you?
Well, there's a thought—
I'm already here.
Could the devil,
In fact, be you?
For never on their
Hardest drugs
Have I seen
Someone baked
To the point that
They caught the spirit
Spoken in tongues
Or even shaked.
So judge not
Lest I judge you.
I don't miss with
Stones I throw. See,
I've known more
Respectable crack fiends—
And seen less
Promiscuous hos.
If you'd like to
See real evil
There's a mirror
In the back.
There you'll find
That you're the tool
Your devil uses
For attack.
And if you'd like
To kill true evil,
I know a way
You can stop it—
Line your Pharisees
In front of your temple
And shoot 'em
In the pocket.
The Past With love mistaken,
And my convictions shaken,
I realize my heart has been taken
Without my consent. And
Before you I lay helpless,
A man trained to be selfless,
To be abandoned by the selfish
Nonchalance of your ways.
I remember all too vividly
Words spoken so tenderly
And emotions that rendered me
Helpless to your charms,
Which blinded my eyes
To what lay in your lies
Or what's behind your disguise
That you wear for the world.
Who was I before you?
I think I was a man who
Spun a poetic web to
Catch my artistic fly.
But what I got was a spider
With ill intentions inside her
Whose hold on me grew tighter
With each passing day.
And though my heart back,
I can't take it,
And this feeling,
Just can't shake it.
Baby, please don't mistake it.
Your venom grows weak.
A new man's evolving
With new concepts of loving
That are solutions to the solving
Of this problem you are.
So don't be so surprised when
I don't so suddenly give in
To your manipulative misgivings
You use to keep me in check.
And if one day you understand
The wealth you had in your hands
That you took to be
"Just another man,"
Please don't waste my time.
'Cause it's time that I'm short of.
It has passed, as has love.
The only loser I think of
You'll find in reflection
In the mirror on the wall,
Shattered by the
Wreckage of the fall
Of a love
That we now call
The past.
Chapter Two
Winter
Timeless Beauty
Sometimes I go for months without writing a poem, and then, out of nowhere, inspiration hits me like a runaway train. On some occasions, I feel it coming on for hours before it happens. Other times it sneaks up and tackles me, just as it did when I wrote the poem "Mona's Smile."
I had been doing a bit of shopping at a grocery store and just walked through the exit doors to go to my car. At that moment, I noticed a couple walking in my direction on their way into the store. My eyes were immediately drawn to a dark bruise that ran down the side of the woman's face, offset by her swollen lip. The size of the marks seemingly fit the dimensions of her companion's hands. Stunned, I wondered why a man would raise his hand in violence toward a woman.
By the time I reached my car, I had begun to physically shake. I started my car and began to drive away, but before I reached the other side of the parking lot, words began to bombard me. All I could find to write on was a wadded-up Hardee's bag.
This particular poem became a comparison of a battered woman to Leonardo da Vinci's immortal Mona Lisa. On innumerable occasions, I have overheard people questioning the thoughts behind Mona Lisa's reticent smile. This poem is my interpretation of that question.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from the malchemistby malcolm randall Copyright © 2011 by Malcolm Randall. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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