Chapel Music

Fred Chappell: In Memoriam

News travels fast—until it hits LA traffic. Which would explain why I only just learned about the death of Fred Chappell last month. In all my years, I never met anyone who so fully epitomized the concept of the “Man of Letters.” I probably still have somewhere the letter of recommendation he wrote for me when I left UNC-G, touting my ineffable virtues—he was, after all, a master storyteller. Because to be honest, I was a bit of an ass back then. OK, that’s not entirely fair; I was a complete ass back then. So much so that I squandered my access to such a brilliant mind. Partly due to scheduling conflicts, mostly due to my sense of inadequacy, I held off until my final semester before enrolling in an independent study with him. And being hands-down the least prolific member of my class, I did not produce much work to discuss in our weekly meetings. I should’ve realized that discussing my own work would be the least instructive thing we could do—far better to discuss just about anything he cared to hold forth on. He was exceedingly generous. Following the publication of my first book, I finagled a reading at UNC-G. Naturally, he was there, even though he was on the cusp of retirement (“No more in ’04” was his boisterous motto).

Narcissus and Echo

Shall the water not remember Ember
my hand’s slow gestures, tracing above of
its mirror my half-imaginary airy
portrait? My only belonging longing;
is my beauty, which I take ache
away and then return, as love of
teasing playfully the one being unbeing.
whose gratitude I treasure Is your
moves me. I live apart heart
from myself, yet cannot not
live apart. In the water’s tone stone?
that brilliant silence, a flower Hour,
whispers my name with such slight light:
moment, it seems filament of air, fare
the world become cloudswell. well.