Creative Writing Student Spotlight: Alex Sandwell

By: Sandra Chalmers

Posted: 11/3/09

As Literature and Writings major, Alex Sandwell's writings are inspired by nature, feminism, philosophy, psychology and even history. The ranges of his muse give his writings a dimension of unique quality and a view of surrealism.

"What drives me to want to write is that I've always felt as though I see things that no one else sees and it drives me nuts to have to keep some things to myself, so I want to share it with others," said Sandwell.

Born and raised in Southern California, Sandwell also aspires to be a novelist and eventually earn his teaching credential to share his perspectives as a high school English teacher.

"My desire to teach writing and reading stems from my general love of books," he said.

1.My Rostron

They lifted you up like the survivors you lifted up (from the sea)
They made you the yardstick against which all future ship masters would be measured
They labeled you unusually heroic for your interest in humanity
But anyone of indifferent ethical capacity would, or should have done what you did
Mr. Cottam's lifting you to the situation tempted you to tell him off
But alertness boiled away all sleep to give way to a score of commands
To save one life, save one life, save two thousand lives
We're putting on steam boys and steaming north like hell
Shoving out of the Gulf Stream and seeing to that calamity which doth befell
Our brethren, our brothers in the sea
Fifty-eight miles away
The mountainous monsters of ice threaten you but mustn't intimidate you
What must be tumbling through fifteen hundred minds as their temporary residence vanishes?
Is someone coming to help me?
You're coming but will come too late
Yet you did not wait, did not wait too long
When the night fades into day, it takes the darkness of the past five or six hours with it
But like a scar that merely becomes less pronounced and doesn't leave entirely
The night will live in the psyches of those you've saved
And there's nothing you can do

2. Wake Him Before the Morning Bell

The nightmares of Auschwitz have not flesh nor slick on him, sick
The greenness of illness from the black and white gone green
Not enough sleep, this heat, it gives him a headache
But all this is but a tincture of the black hole of misery
A tincture of black like that on a bathtub not well-scrubbed
For which the commandant punishes his erring slave
Wake him before the morning bell
With cold water dousing his fine face and greasy hair
As if rinsing the heat of the day away
(By a method that is however pleasant if done in another context)
Makes love with heat and torture to produce the offspring of misery
Douse the fire hose in his face
He cries, he laughs,
He loves to feel human