Porter Gulch Review 2012
Suraya Essi
INTRODUCTION
THE STAFF: Ignacio A. Alonso, Aubrey I. Alvarenga, Lillian A. Berger, Merri Camburn, Ralph C. Cardoza, Taylor L. Clark, Dennis A. Cluster,
Lauren S. Coffelt, Sean M. Costa, Alicia R. Flores Reyes, Bryan J. French,
Jasmine N. Glenn, Apryl J. Grady-Roush, Kayla M. Jimeson, John R. Kehoe,
Jessica L. MacDonald, Mark V. Mattina, Jonathan N. Powell, Lindsey K.
Ramirez, Maria D. Ramirez, Rachel E. Rosenthal, Hayley S. Starkweather,
Nick Surber, Natalie J. Toy, Olivia.Vallejo, Kelsie D.White.
Lindsay Shaffer
Porter Gulch Review is proud to be releasing its 27th anniversary edition this
year. Each spring semester, a special section of David Sullivan’s English 1B class
at Cabrillo College acts as the editorial board and production team of PGR. Hundreds of poetry, short story, screenplay, art and photography submissions from local writers, artists, teachers, students and other creative persons are sifted through
each year. The process can be very time consuming, but the hope is that the final
selections will be reflect the diversity of the audience and include many aspects
of the human condition which readers can connect with.
Thank you to everyone who submitted their work to PGR for the 2012 edition.
We were overwhelmed with worthy submissions and had a big pool of creative
talent to pull from. Congratulations to all the authors & artists who are being
published this year! A big thank you also goes out to the production crew for all
their time and hard work, without which this publication would not be possible.
Are you intrigued yet? Good because now it’s your chance to be published!
Whatever your medium, if you can get it on paper, we want to see it. Written
pieces should remain under 5,000 words and each author can submit up to 5
poems or 2 short stories. Photographers and artists are invited to submit up to 10
pieces—name and contact included. (Please include a short, playful bio, whether
you’re an artist or an author!)
How can I do this, you might be asking yourself… it’s easy! Submit your work
ELECTRONICALLY before December 1st, 2012. Please e-mail all submissions as
attachments to PGR@cabrillo.edu AND put them in the body of the email. All
submissions must include name & contact info along with a fun, but brief, bio
about yourself. Donations of any amount accepted! Please make checks out to
Cabrillo Foundation/PGR, and send to Cabrillo College Foundation, 6500 Soquel
Dr. Aptos, CA 95003. (Reference PGR on check, or donate online: http://www.
cabrillo.edu/associations/foundation/) Thanks for supporting PGR through these
trying years!
Jonathan Powell
Welcome to Porter Gulch Review 2012!
For Best Poets: Sky Smith & Barbara Leon
For Best Prose Writers: Fernando Gonzalez & Steven McGannon
For Best Photographer: Alex Surber
For Best Graphic Artist: Stacey Frank
To see submission critiques and book reviews written by the students, go to
the Cabrillo English Homepage and click on Porter Gulch Review 2012.
PGR 3
PGR 2
Drum roll please… and the winners are…
PRODUCTION CREW: Jonathan N. Powell, Nick Surber, Rachel
E. Rosenthal, Merri Camburn, Natalie J. Toy, Sean M. Costa.
Ignacio Alonoso
FRONT AND BACK COVER ART, 40
1, 80, 97
Suraya Essi
Jonathan Powell
3, 42, 43
Lindsay Shaffer
3, 22, 23, 78
Alissa Goldring
5, 6, 12, 13, 52, 101, 127, 133,
146, 147, 154, 161
Rachel Meisenheimer
7, 62, 69
David Resine
8, 9
Elizabeth Nissen
11
Donte Tidwell
14, 89, 93, 105
Eric Hasse
16, 17
Maria Garcia Teutsch
19
Keri Allen
21, 56, 135, 137
KOAK25, 26
29, 117
Stacey Frank
Don Monkerud 30, 46, 49, 52 91, 99, 111
Peggy Hansen
32, 82, 83, 88, 110, 115, 132, 144
Alex Surber
33, 44, 79, 85, 109, 119, 138, 141
Kim Sterling
37, 38
Klaus von Kries
45, 55, 115
Mandy Spitzer
50, 59, 74
Kelly Woods55
57
Sigrid McLaughlin
Katie Bode
61, 75, 84, 104
Lindsey Ramirez
75
Robyn Marshall
76, 90, 96
Angela Sarkisyan
86, 114, 148, 151
Phillip Wagner
92, 99
Virginia Draper
94, 98, 120
Sandra Vines95, 125
103, 159, 162
Helen MacKinlay
Anastasiia Zavalo
107, 114
Dan Linehan
112, 113
Peter Klembara
114
T. Mike Walker
129, 156
PGR 5
PGR 4
Artist Table of Contents
Alissa Goldring
(Haiku)
8
(Haiku)
9
(Haiku)
9
Clovers and Blue Moons
10
Teach me how to Fly
13
I see you
14
Tenacity
16
Apples
17
RJ
18
A Man and his Dogs
20
The Sea Plus the Sky
22
The Gift23
Ravens Say
24
The Boy Who Dreamed of Flying 28
August
30
Untranslatable Taste
31
Grannie’s Soup
32
Guardians and Shadows
33
The woman who found a magic... 37
The plump moon 38
Aubade
39
“She said that nothing ever makes...”40
The Language of Touch41
Her Gift
42
Forty-Two Kilometres
44
Ladies’ Man 45
The end of lucid dreaming
46
My Father’s Laws
48
Ephemera
49
A Sonnet:
50
Letters of Transit
51
Land of Milk and Honey
52
Highway 280 South 53
Sovereign
54
Why I Can’t Spare Any Change55
Out of Nothingness
56
Broken
58
First Love
60
Bowerbird 61
A Speculative Love
62
Before Work 73
Break up
74
How We Met
75
Memories of Marie A.
76
Erinnerung an die Marie A.
77
Love Even Here 78
Summer, 1968 79
Water Cycle 80
Brittle Things
82
Dawn to Dusk
84
PGR 7
James Maughn
Loren Rosen
Alice Daly
Fernando Gonzalez Adriana Torres-Martinez
Tawnya Sargent
Marie Boucher
Danusha Laméris
Erich “E. Mac” McIntosh
Barbara Leon
Jules Barivan
Len Anderson
Barbara Bloom
Zachary Micheli
Laura Bayless
Adela Najarro
Janine Theodore
Marcy Alancraig
Martha Clark Scala, LMFT
David Thorn
David Thorn
Roland Spies
Ken Weisner
Marina Romani
Helen MacKinlay
Ellen Hart
Chieun “Gloria” Kim
Barbara Bloom
Tilly Shaw
Winifred Baer
Debra Spencer
Jeanie Greensfelder Joyce M. Johnson
Maya Marie Weeks
Geneffa Popatia Jonker Marie Boucher
Sky Smith
Jeanie Greensfelder
Alice Daly
William Cass
Magdalena Montagne
Reeva Bradley
Nick Ibarra
Angelika Frebert
Bertolt Brecht
Joan Rose Staffen
Kim Scheiblauer
Chieun “Gloria” Kim
Kali J. Rubaii
Emily Bording
Julia Alter
“When I lie here in the brambles...” 85
Eden White
naked...
86
Micah Ford
Naked as the Day You were Born
87
Reeva Bradley
I like it when . . .
89
Reeva Bradley
Booty Call
90
Joyce M. Johnson
Central Park 91
Sky Smith
Bella Donna 92
Amy Michelson
You Were Not a Walk in the Park 93
J. Zimmerman
The Mermaid Appeals to her Judge 94
Marina Romani
Always the Crying 95
T. Mike Walker
Coffee Cantata98
Adela Najarro
Tap Dancing Toward Morning
100
Julia Alter
Carwash Poem
102
Fabiola Herrera Triana
Ternura 103
Rosie King
To be loved
104
Steven McGannon
The Tea House of War 105
Len Anderson
Ten Things You Need To Know... 110
Len Anderson
How To Dress for the End of the... 112
Steven McGannon
Vegetable Rights! 113
Ann Keniston
Deference
116
Sigrid McLaughlin
Full Moon in Winter
118
Robert S. Pesich
Nature Boy in Silicon Valley
126
Helen MacKinlay
Margaret’s Braids 127
David Zimmerman
My Constant Companion
128
Roland Spires
Windfarm
132
David Sudocz
It Rains Like Memories
133
Geneffa Popatia Jonker
Spoon Mischief
136
Velvet Cravillion
“i dont look you in the eye”
138
Sky Smith
Begging
139
Brandon Kett
If Not for You
140
Rachel R. Ramirez
August Night
142
Irene Reti
Peach Grief
144
Angelika Frebert In the white hospital room...
145
Bertolt Brecht Als ich in weißem Krankenzimmer...145
AUTHOR BIOS
148
ARTIST BIOS
157
Table of contents for student book reviews and critiques
162
Rachel Meisenheimer
PGR 6
Table of Contents
James Maughn
Alice Daly
Winter night downtown:
smells of many dinners
I won’t have with you
See, it’s how the trapeases a door to adorn­—
what we dangle from
Cold November rain
Falls on broken pumpkin pieces
And candy wrappers
PGR 9
PGR 8
David Resine
Loren Rosen
David Resine
A boy was trying to catch the moon with a fishing rod. He spent hours
casting his line into the dark-lit sky, endeavoring to entice the yawning
moon to take a bite at the hook he baited with grapes (because everyone
likes grapes, and they go especially well with cheese, which the moon is
full of), but the moon was not hungry, it seemed, and the boy went home to
try to find another way to catch it. When his grandpa would come visit, he
would sit the boy on his lap, and tell him the story of the man in the rocket that captured the moon, and how that man lived forever. His grandpa
would take him to the park and the aquarium and bought him ice cream
when he did well in class. He also taught him all the things a boy should
know, like how to tie his shoes, how to hold his breath, and how to catch a
fish. The boy loved his grandpa very much, but his grandpa had gone away
some time ago, the boy’s mother said it was “because he was too old and
too good for this earth.” The boy knew she was right, because his grandpa
would smell of earthly things and looked like he was carved out of stone,
but it still made him sad.
The boy’s mother was very sick, and the doctors said it would take a
miracle for her to get well again. The roses that had lived in her cheeks were
gone, and she was sleeping more than she ever had before. When the boy
got home he went upstairs to her room. The boy came close to her and pet
her hair, it was full and brown and soft, like cotton. He missed it when she
would get up early to make his breakfast, singing him songs as he sat at the
table, smiling, about things she remembered. The boy knew he had to catch
the moon, for his mother’s sake.
After he closed his mother’s bedroom door, the boy looked at his fingers and hands. They were calloused from patching up the fence and putting shingles on the roof yesterday. The last storm hadn’t been so bad, he
thought, as long as the big rains don’t come in early then everything will
be fine. The boy then went downstairs to have a bowl of cereal. After he
finished, he washed the dishes, cleaned the kitchen, turned off the lights,
and went upstairs. There’s a net in the garage, he thought, tomorrow, I’ll
catch it with the net. After he brushed his teeth and put the laundry away,
he went into his mother’s bedroom again. She was asleep, but she still
looked so tired, like if all the sleep in the world wouldn’t be enough rest
for her. He kissed her forehead and left the room, making sure to close the
door behind him.
The next night the boy went out to catch the moon with his net, but
the net didn’t work because the moon was too big. He went home to think
about what he could try next. The trampoline! Surely that would get me
close enough to reach the moon. After he had finished his dinner, the boy
went upstairs to check on his mother. She was still sleeping, but she seemed
even worse now than before. He went to bed wondering if the trampoline
would work. The next night the boy went out to a field and brought his
trampoline with him. He tried over and over to reach the moon but it was
too far away, so he sat on the
edge of the trampoline, sniffling. When he got home,
the boy went up to see how
his mother was doing. She
was still sleeping. The boy
crawled next to his mother
and nuzzled his way into her
arms. She was warm with the
breath of maternity, and the
boy felt as though he would
be consumed by her warmth
for the rest of his life regardless of where his mother
Elizabeth Nissen
was. The boy fell asleep clutching her hand, tear stains inking his face.
The next night the boy sat on a big hill under the moon, wondering
how something so big and so far away could be caught. The moon’s glow
illuminated the grass the boy sat on, making it appear as though the blades
were a platform of pale, green light. The boy got up and started walking
home when he saw a bright orb in the pond at the bottom of the hill. When
he came close to it, he saw that it was the moon’s reflection captured in the
water. The boy raced home, grinning. He went up to his mothers room and
pulled out a piece of paper. On the piece of paper was a moon, suspended
in a hand, that belonged to the boy. “Look!” The boy cried, “I caught it!”
The boy’s mother opened her eyes and smiled at the boy. They gleamed in
the dim lit room, their auburn haze welcoming yet distant, glossy with the
ominous coming of tears. She held him close and told him he had made
her very happy and that she loved him and would always be there to talk
to him, then she fell asleep again, and didn’t wake up. The boy sat next to
his mother for three days, holding her hand in his and singing to her all the
things he remembered. He wrapped her in his favorite blanket, the blue
one with the unicorn sitting on a cloud. The boy walked outside and sat
on the edge of the porch, in the distance, he could see a great storm cloud
gathering over the mountains.
PGR 11
Fernando Gonzalez
PGR 10
Clovers and Blue Moons
Adriana Torres-Martinez
Taken from a site... today, I try to link the words that leave my soul with
tears, words that in this moment couldn’t speak for the words that could
accompany this sadness for an absence not expected today. Nostalgia visits me again, bringing back memories of that great woman, a wonderful
woman, full of strength, full of vitality, full of life. Today it seems that the
words also say goodbye. I have much to say, but its absence mutes my
voice, captivates my mind, and I simply can’t. Abuelita, I want to tell you
this, and I know you will hear me because you have not gone and will
never go, because you’re in every beat, in every tear, in every sigh, you are
here right now, you’re alive. For your essence follows your memory, your
example, your courage and your efforts have been captured in our memories and written with golden letters in the heart. Abuelita, beloved, your
words will live in my soul. I will remember them every morning. Right
now the sadness takes the calm, but I mine your memory, your kisses, and
your hugs are an endless treasure. Grandmother, wonderful woman, you
have not gone, and never will, because they do not die when the heart
stops­—when you die. In memories you exist and you are present, you are
here, you are alive, for everyone, for me. I love you grandma, and when I
reach your side teach me to fly.
PGR 13
Tomado de un sitio... hoy, trato de enlazar las palabras que con lágrimas salen de mi alma, palabras que en este momento no quisieran decir
palabras que acompañaran ésta tristeza por una ausencia que no esperaba
hoy, la nostalgía me visita otra vez trayendo a la memoria recuerdos de
esa gran mujer una mujer maravillosa, llena de fuerza, llena de vitalidad,
llena de vida hoy, parece que las palabras también se despiden de mí tengo
tanto que decir pero su ausencia enmudece mi voz cautiva mi pensamiento
y sencillamente no puedo. Abuelita, esto te quiero decir, y sé que me escucharás porque no te has ido y nunca te irás porque estás en cada latido
en cada lágrima en cada suspiro Ahora mismo estás, estás viva, pues tu
esencia sigue tu recuerdo, tu ejemplo tu valor y tu esfuerzo han quedado
plasmados en nuestra memoria y escritos con letras doradas en el corazón.
Abuelita amada, tus palabras vivirán en mi alma las recordaré cada mañana, ahora mismo la tristeza me quita la calma pero hago muy mío tu
recuerdo, tus besos, tus abrazos son un tesoro interminable. Abuela, mujer
admirable, no te has ido, y nunca lo harás porque no se muere cuando
el corazón deja de latir se muere cuando en los recuerdos se deja de existir y tu estás presente, estás aquí, estás viva, para todos, para mí. Te amo
abuelita, y cuando llegue a tu lado enséñame a volar.
Teach me how to Fly
Alissa Goldring
Enséñame a Volar
Alissa Goldring
Adriana Torres-Martinez
PGR 12
I see you.
I held your hand a lifetime ago.
So small it fit in my palm like a silver dollar.
I wanted to hold you and steal you away from the emptiness
and hardship that lay before you.
You didn’t cry.
I hold your hand and cry for you.
I see you.
I fluffed the blankets high above the mattress
and listened to you giggle as they settled gently
over the top of you in your warm fuzzy footsy pj’s.
I scooped you up close to me and let you turn
the pages. I wanted to protect you from your protectors.
I wanted it different for you than it was.
You played grown-up games with devils.
You didn’t cry.
I tuck you into bed and cry for you.
PGR 15
Tawnya Sargent
PGR 14
I see you
I see you.
I picked you up from the park. I watched you
glance back at him with shy interest.
I see him jump off the high platform of the slide
and hear the crunch of gravel beneath his feet.
He runs to you and pulls one side of your dark curly pigtails.
He says “sorry” in a hurried tone and runs back to the playground.
You say, “that’s ok” smiling, and 2 years later
find your stomach dancing with the same butterflies
you had that day when she leans over and kisses you for the first time.
You were educated by experts with skilled hands and forked tongue.
You didn’t cry.
I pick you up and cry for you.
I see you.
The appearance of girls wearing each other’s shoes
and matching sparkle gel on each cheek. Adorned
in their fancy dress up clothes and telling the story
of how they were actually sisters and princesses
from a far off land. I smile as you grab the biscuits
and strawberry jam from the table and run upstairs
saying you are having a tea party and can’t come to dinner now.
You play the only games you know caged and isolated.
You don’t cry.
I call you near and cry for you.
I see you.
I hushed your evil self-loathing voices
and wrapped you close until the trembling stopped.
I kissed your forehead and whispered “you are forgiven.”
This is the truth kept from you. The lost, scared, and judging
rise up cloaked in cassocks casting piercing shadows.
You are shunned and whipped
with the sting of misinterpretations of my word.
You doubt your purity and my love for you.
You don’t cry.
I cry for you because it is sad, because
you are deserving, and because
someone should.
You
bang
demand
for
palliative
Yo
Tu
Nosotros
well
shoot
Tenemos
Para siempre.
as
calm,
Tenacious,
Your
Will
Desire
Do
Be
Have
Hold.
PGR 16
“Tener”:
in
To
To
Tu
You
Neither
dares
our
a
and
are
one
me,”
groan.
spirit,
live,
to
to
have
recommends
to
sedation”:
or
te
now.
me
peaceful,
promised.
Eric Hasse
Nothing
as
to
holding
of
tenemos.
turns
tender
bed,
fist,
end.
Nothing
Nothing
Nurse
“palliative
Nothing
palatable
“Might
You
nos
verb.
a
Tenacious
in
To
touch.
an
thrash
hand:
tenido,
verb
Spanish:
hold;
hold.
tienes.
on...
us
loosen
clasp.
to
hold
tend;
onto.
tengo,
tienes.
nos
Apples
One,
tossed
to
Aphrodite,
begins a war. Eve, that fateful bite
into
the
crisp
red
skin.
Distracted by the sight of golden apples
a virgin huntress loses a race
and
must
marry.
Each
apple
a
kind
of
failure.
The
body
calling
out
desire.
Isn’t
there
always
something
we
want
more
than
our
own
happiness?
A
pull
toward
the
Fall.
Haven’t we all loved too much?
Snow White bit into the flesh
laced
with
poison.
Love is something we fall into.
Fall, the time of ripening apples.
In
England
one
falls
pregnant.
Life
requires
collapse
holds
it
out
to
us
sweet and fragrant.
Danusha Laméris
be
in
PGR 17
Tenacity
should
Hand
Tener,
Teniendo.
Nosotros
Eric Hasse
Marie Boucher
Tenacity
So we progress like construction in the Nevada Desert
memories are demolished and best left as Stardust
bets that never should have been placed
we replaced three sheets
with sails to the wind
because motors are for those without the wind at their back
modern-day creationists
we use pencils and two-by -fours
to drawbridge our chests open into each other
the planet is the water underneath,
and there is not enough chlorine to clean it up
so we lean on each other,
we’re back to back champs
drown out the third wheel
plugged into black amps
we get wet and walk on the third rail
to wake up from short naps
I stand on third still
life is played on flat grass,
meaning the little ball will roll to the ends of the galaxy,
no downhill
no climb
only forward progress.
When someone says you’re too loud
prove it
promise to look into their eyes when you do
and use the same stare I use toward you
cuz its unbreakable
its devotion on mute
and remember
the difference between a Love and alone
is the feeling when it gets paid back
PGR 19
The walls you put up are suicide jumpers
I brought the wrecking crew to talk them down
I never take the easy way out
yet words always turn into double-doors when I talk about you
its natural,
still complex
Love described in one sentence
Seeing the results of your passion on payday
Our conversations telling stories we are not prepared to attend to.
We say we’re on the same page cuz we sit on libraries
we stand next to fires and talk about burning to death
laugh at questions about kissing,
cuz we have been climbing for so long that falling even for each other,
is moving backwards.
As for me?
I’m trying to find a place to hang my hat
wherever these darts pierce the map
and when I get there I’m building it out of bricks
I’m a mason
chasin’ four letters to the ends of the galaxy
I stay close to the pavement
your voice is my gravity
so I can plant my feet and say forget aiming for clouds or stars
Fuck aiming for anything
it only gives you a stopping point.
Maria Garcia Teutsch
Erich “E. Mac” McIntosh
PGR 18
RJ
Barbara Leon
A Man and his Dogs
For Ray Leon, 1933-2011
My brother’s house is thick with soot from the woodstove and hair from his two large dogs. They turned a neighbor’s hens to viscera, but lovingly tongue family and friends. catalogs and asthma meds, on either side, a dog, their three bodies breathing, the dogs’ breath even, my brother’s labored. Adirondack winds ice the room.
Red coals burn to ash.
He takes them to back roads where they run free. Pointing and leaping, they slink from ponds, slippery with mud and scum. He towels them down, heads home, the car reeking of wet dog. He tosses raw meat into their gaping jaws, cheaper than dog food, he says.
He lives alone. One wife moved on, then the next, his kids are in cities where he won’t go. He cashed in his pension but stocks his freezer with stream trout and venison he’s bagged.
He’s nearing the end of his life, so am I, but he’s further along. I imagine him nodding off by the cast iron stove, one gout-y leg on the table by his gun Keri Allen
PGR 21
PGR 20
Twice a day he loads them in his Jeep and drives through town where a poodle lives. They snarl and rise, hurl their spotted bodies at the doors. My brother laughs. Jules Barivan
Lindsay Shaffer
The Sea Plus the Sky
Airplanes swim in the sky.
Fish fly in the sea.
Curtains sway in the upside down
house. People talk above it.
PGR 22
Eels glide along the clouds.
Men work below ground.
Birdsongs awaken you.
Ten o’clock noon.
Around the world China sits
steaming in its night light.
Len Anderson
I was born
able to lift the gate latch
without a sound
and slip into the woods,
to follow creek beds
to crawdads, tadpoles,
dragonflies, and painted ladies,
ride my bike up a mountain
of moss, milkweed, and eucalyptus,
coast back down, braking only
to not pass the cars,
lie on the grass
in a snow of apricot blossoms,
become
cumulocirrus,
shelter snails and sow bugs
under the lid of my desk in school,
make friends with ants,
build a house
no one could break into,
no chores, no scoldings, no bullies to beat me.
Even in a room full of people,
if I suddenly found I was naked,
I could fade into a slight current of air
or the call of the mourning dove.
I was born
able to shinny down a rope
into a well.
Then the long climb upward.
Lindsay Shaffer
PGR 23
The Gift
Barbara Bloom
Ravens Say
You might as well have landed on the moon,
the ravens say, from high up in the cedars
or flying over the bay, chortling,
their wings whooshing through the still air.
They do seem to be laughing at me,
who have come back, no longer young,
to a place I can never get enough of,
a place that tests my strength
and finds me wanting.
Look at you, they accuse,
only now it’s my father speaking,
So clumsy with tools! How could you
be my daughter and not know
how to hold a hammer, how to keep the saw
from pinching?
I stare across the bay, to the rich man’s house
empty so far this season. There’s a mist
rising up from the trees, and the light
on the water forms straight silver lines
like shading in a black and white sketch.
What about this, I want to say,
what about noticing this, what about loving it?
PGR 25
PGR 24
I think the ravens are probably right,
this place will never be mine,
but, fumbling over my ancient propane stove,
heating the well water for my coffee,
I’m happy to have landed here,
no matter what they say.
KOAK
PGR 27
PGR 26
Many ages ago, in a land beyond the horizon, there was once a tiny
island that floated in the sky as if it were a cloud. On this tiny island there
was a tiny village. No one in this village had ever left the island. They were
content to go about their lives with no mind for the wider world. They
worked and played on this island, just as their fathers had, and their fathers
before them had. There was one boy, however, who was not content. This
boy wished to fly to distant lands and discover the world beyond his island
home.
“I will fly,” said the boy, “so I may travel the lands and hear the voices
of the kings.” The villagers thought the boy’s dream was foolish. “You will
not fly,” they said, “the gods gave you feet to walk upon the earth, not wings
to soar through the air.”
The boy was not discouraged by the words of the villagers. He was
determined to fly. While the other boys of the village played, he worked
hard to build a machine that could fly, as he could not fly himself. This flying machine was made of wood and metal, and had two wings, a tail, and
a small windmill upon its face. It was a strange machine, but the boy was
sure he could fly in it.
With his flying machine complete, the boy departed from the village,
and the island, that he had always called home, and left to travel the lands
and hear the voices of the kings. He visited their palaces on the highest
mountaintops and heard them speak. The kings spoke with voices of great
beauty and great wisdom, and so these voices became one with his own.
One day, as the boy was flying, strange figures appeared in the sky
before him. These figures wore the bodies of men, but flew on feathered
wings, white and radiant, like the wings of a dove. “We are the servants of
the gods.” They said. “The gods gave you feet to walk upon the earth, not
wings to soar through the air. You have defied the will of the gods, and for
that you shall be punished!” The servants of the gods attacked the boy’s flying machine. When it could no longer fly, it fell from the air and crashed
down upon the earth.
The boy was not discouraged. He dreamed of flying again someday,
so he began repairing his flying machine. Meanwhile, he built himself a hut
so he may be sheltered, hunted and grew crops so he may eat, and gathered
water from a nearby river so he may drink. The boy lived in harmony with
the earth, and so he learned of its ways, and grew closer to its spirit.
Many years passed, and by the time the boy had repaired his flying
machine, he had grown into a young man. The young man, having heard
the voices of the kings, now chose to travel the lands
and hear the voices of the people. He visited their
shacks in the lowest valleys and heard them speak.
The people spoke with voices of great beauty and
great wisdom, and so these voices became one with
his own.
One day, as the young man was flying, the
servants of the gods again appeared before him.
“The gods gave you feet so you may walk upon the
earth,” they said,” not wings to soar through the air.
You have defied the will of the gods, and for that you
shall be punished!” Again the servants of the gods
attacked the young man’s flying machine. When it
could no longer fly, it again fell from the air and
Stacey Frank
crashed down upon the earth.
This time, the young man crashed down near a village. The people
of this village accepted him as one of their own, and so he stayed in this
village for a long while. The young man married a young woman of the
village, and she bore him children. He built a house so his family may be
sheltered, hunted and grew crops so they may eat, and gathered water from
a nearby river so they may drink. The young man lived happily together
with his family, but he still dreamed of flying.
A great many years passed, and by the time the young man’s wife had
died, and his children had come of age, he had grown into an old man. On
his own again, the old man decided to repair his flying machine, and return
to the skies he had once traveled. Having heard the voices of the world, the
old man now flew across the lands, singing with the voices he had made
one with his own. His voice was like a mirror, reflecting the beauty and the
wisdom within all who heard him sing.
One day, as the old man was flying, the servants of the gods again
appeared before him. “The gods gave you feet so you may walk upon the
earth,” they said, “not wings to soar through the air. You have defied the will
of the gods, and for that you shall be punished!” Again the servants of the
gods attacked the old man’s flying machine. “No, not this time!” Shouted
the old man. “I will fly!” The old man jumped out of his flying machine as it
fell from the air. Just then, from his back sprouted a pair of feathered wings,
white and radiant, like the wings of a dove. The old man flew off into the
distance. The servants of the gods gave chase, but could not catch him.
Some say the boy who dreamed of flying still flies to this day, and still
sings with the voices of the world. We hear his songs now only as a whisper
carried by the winds.
PGR 29
Zachary Micheli
PGR 28
The Boy Who Dreamed of Flying Laura Bayless
that taste buds are wired straight to the dopamine
connections in the brain, the same spot where nicotine
August
One afternoon in August
a friend and I stood
under a blooming magnolia,
inhaled the thick perfume
and watched bees gather pollen
from the centers of unfolding petals.
PGR 30
In a patch of berry vines
rows of leafy hedges concealed
gems of yellow raspberries.
I reached in and plucked
one pale honey-colored jewel
that pulled free from its core
and placed it in my mouth.
Still warm late in the day,
its sweetness dissolved
the length of my tongue.
In pursuit of more
down along a green corridor
I gathered one after another
nectared gold treat,
rolled them from cheek to cheek,
let them melt
like sugar bubbles
in the sun of my mouth.
Adela Najarro
La comelóna smells the warm dreamy plate of rice,
beans, and chicken braised in tomato sauce knowing
dances, morphine sings, and cocaine crackles a hearty
howl. This is not gluttony or hunger. This is love on a plate.
The taste, the flavor, a zest for life. El gusto. Gusto
for life and language. Sometimes there is only one
way to say how we savor hands rolling masa into dough,
how the dough rounds into tortillas, how the tortillas puff
when ready. It is labor, the work done to survive, a job
accomplished so that we can step outside and praise
the sun caught pink in a strip of ethereal clouds. She is as
Spanish dictates. A nomenclature. A guilt free gourmand.
La comelóna picks up the fork as cheese strings itself
tight. When full with love, neurons fire over synapses.
On April 22nd, 2010, Emelia Guzman’s brain irradiated
and glowed through an MRI scan. First, she scanned
pictures of sex, then of the Virgin Mary, finally
she took in that mouthful and a rainbow of lights
cascaded through her frontal lobe. She swore an Angel
descended offering her marigolds, orchids, and pearls.
PGR 31
Don Monkerud
Untranslatable Taste
Janine Theodore
Grannie’s Soup
Stainless steel saucepan guarding at the stove
Olive oil of soft velvet skin
Blue and yellow dancing flames looking on
Sticky oil from peeled garlic clinging
To earthy fingers
Will not surrender.
Layers shed the red onion
Chopped into small slivers
Of desire
Reveal hidden crevices of beauty
Mustard seeds popping with emotion
Pepper the well-seasoned life.
Peggy Hansen
Guardians and Shadows
Excerpt from A Woman of Heart
Almost an hour it took to huff and puff up the big hill behind the
ranch. Through the grasses we followed a little trail and no stopping either.
“Hurry up, Mama!” Davy’s eyes were fixed on a big rock at the very top.
And nothing else would do, because from there, a boy could see all of
Petaluma. In that wild country, what belonged to no one we knew, he could
shout: “You are mine. I name you Slominski Rock!” Then Davy could sit
and rest, waiting for me to catch up. He could laugh at the smallness of his
brother and sister as they walked home from school.
“Like ants, Mama. Look at them. Aren’t we tall?”
I didn’t feel tall; I felt tired.
“Papa’s pointing,” Davy yelled. “He’s showing Mimi and Nate where
we are.” Davy pulled at my hand. “So beautiful. Like one of my dreams.”
Like a dream, the heat: rising up through the rock and warming our
tired bodies. And then a hawk, circling, so close we could hear its wings.
Marcy Alancraig
Alex Surber
PGR 33
PGR 32
Elegant turnips add surprised sweetness
And spice
Knife exposing tenderness
Red hot purple lips test the flavor
Give their reluctant kiss
Of approval telling
Carry on.
my legs. But your uncle wiggled away, unafraid to face that whole group of
strangers. A grin, even, he had on his brave face. Are you wondering, Shoshie,
what that smart boy knew that I didn’t? Me too, even after all these years.
We are Guardians, said the oldest. A wrinkled woman, blue tattoos
on her chin. Only a skirt of reeds she wore. A shell necklace. Let me tell you,
it didn’t cover much.
Oy vey, I gasped and quick put my hand over Davy’s eyes. I didn’t
want he should see her bare breasts.
But then, like the priest spirit, she made a motion with her hand and
started to grow solid. Stop, I cried out. Enough changing already! She nodded, but not before I saw her legs grow still and root into the dirt. And for a
second, all that age in her, it seemed like rings wrapped around her middle.
Then she got ghosty again. Thank you, I whispered. Better, I thought, Davy
should see breasts than watch her turn into a tree.
She laughed, as if she could hear me, and it sounded like the breeze
in the gum grove. A friendly noise it was, a purr, like what a cat makes to
show love.
We are Guardians, she said again, with a wink and nod at Davy.
When I was alive, my people were known as Winamabakeya, People Who
Belong to the Land.
Okay, okay, so maybe you think your grandma is making this up, or
like your mother, you want it should be the Alzheimer’s. Poor Gram, you
think, in her old age she’s lost whatever sense she ever had. Listen bubee,
the comfort in pretending this whole business is some kind of fancy story I
understand. Back in 1929, I kept pinching myself, hoping to wake up from
this meshuggeneh dream.
But no such luck, because no matter how hard I worked my skin,
the Guardians just kept smiling. The eight of them, the two of us, quiet and
still on that hill.
Davy’s Guardian smiled and the old one hmphed, her eyes like sun
on leaves, shining. Please forgive our interruption, the priest one said.
And then they began to fade, like dew in the morning. In a minute,
the hill would be empty, back to the safe place it’d been before they came.
Except not if your uncle could help it. “No! Don’t leave,” he cried. To
me he turned. “Make them stay.”
“But bubee, they have to go.” I tried to hold him, but he wouldn’t let
me.
“No,” he sobbed. “Come back! You promised to play with me.”
“Shadows have business,” I tried to explain. “You can’t keep them.”
“No, no, no!” he yelled, his fists pounding the dirt. Then from his
mouth, a truth so strong it made me lose my breath. He looked up. “You’re
PGR 35
PGR 34
“Look at the tail,” Davy pointed from my lap, “so red.”
He squirmed, your uncle, gladness in every corner of his small body.
Then he jumped down, “Look!” and pointed. “Over there!” Davy ran across
the hill, whooping. “The shadows are here.”
“Wait!” I screamed. “No!”
They were older than us somehow and, like wind or bobcats, full of
wildness. Yes, they had human hair, bones, skin—all the regular business—
but look close! Human wasn’t who they were at all.
For instance, the thin woman, the one your bad uncle reached first
because he didn’t come when I called him. The way she swung him up
in her arms, laughing and talking­—like the Irish girls from the Shirtwaist
Workers Union. Wispy hair, calico skirt, freckles. A nose so small you could
miss it if you blinked. A stranger, but a little familiar something to her face.
Then your uncle laughed, and she threw back her head and shouted
with him. Oy, how I shivered, Shoshie, at the terrible sound. Like all the
grasses on the hill, suddenly they found voices. And then, through the mist
of her body, I could see a mean wind working the slopes where nothing was
blowing. Little shadows, like redwing blackbirds, dipped up and down over
what should be her bones. I blinked. Nu, what was I seeing? The month of
June, so hot it could kill all the pullets in one afternoon, in a human shape
—that was what stood before me. And that spirit had my Davy in her arms.
“Put him down!” I ordered in a voice I had never heard come out of
me. So much muscle, low and growling. “Put him down right now.”
The ghost smiled, a breeze whipping up an empty field. Davy she set
back on the grass.
“Come here,” I demanded of my bad boy.
“But Mama,” he protested. “She was going to ride me piggy back.”
We mean no harm, Missus, said a curly-haired man, brown as the
backside of our barn. A gray robe he was wearing, worn and coarse with
a rope around the middle. Worse—a wooden cross, big enough to make
me shudder, hung from the side of his belt. So many memories he gave me,
Shoshie—of the Terlitza priests, with their frowns and bows and curses. Of
the church bells ringing in Easter, what in the Ukraine you know was open
season on killing Jews. I trembled, looking at this ghost. And worse, I know
he saw it. Such a nod he gave me and then his hand moved, palm up, making
his body change. Instead of see-through, what I was used to already, he got
solid, almost like the living. It should have made me feel better, yes? Except
his muscles, they were made of clouds and rain. That spirit, he turned into the
worst of our wet winters right before my eyes.
Who are you? I asked, trembling so much I was worried I’d fall over. I
grabbed Davy, sure I would never let him go again, and squeezed him against
Martha Clark Scala, LMFT
thought it was just a bunch of mayonnaise. She almost discarded it in a
trash bin at the Ocean Beach parking lot because she learned from her
Mom that the only mayo worth eating
was Hellman’s. Ewwww, not Miracle
Whip, or Safeway’s generic brand, just
Hellman’s. This bottle had a peculiar
label. The design was the same but
instead of it saying Hell-man’s, it said
Diablo Dude’s. The Woman couldn’t
contain her curiosity. She wondered
if she had found some limited edition. You know, a marketing trial,
or something like that. She gazed
at it. Turned it ‘round and ‘round in
her hands, trying to decide whether
to open the jar and see if the taste
was par with her familiar standards. She hesitated, fearing the ingredients
could be ancient. No sell-by date in
sight. But a quiet voice whispered the
following words: “Earnestness is almost never good art.” That did it. The
Woman Who Found a Magic Bottle
slowly turned the jar’s lid to the left -remembering her old friend Sue’s instruction: Righty-Tighty-Lefty-Loosey. The vacuum seal went Pop! The
Woman Who Found a Magic Bottle
peered inside and saw herself. She
spread her self all over two slices of
rye, made friends with Colonel Mustard, the monks provided the cold
cuts, and their sandwich lived in the
belly of happiness ever after.
PGR 37
The woman who
found a magic
bottle
Kim Sterling
PGR 36
the one sending them away.”
I was. Or at least, letting them leave, and glad I was about it. But
what about this boy who, I had bragged earlier, should come first, no matter
what, when it came to a ghost business? It hadn’t been more than a couple
of hours, but already I was breaking my vow? Oy, what kind of mother was
I? For the first time, I started to wonder. How much, how many people, had
I stopped myself from knowing because I was afraid?
I mean, these Guardians—so all right, yes, they were scary, but who
couldn’t see, with their wind and grasses and leaves, that they belonged here?
And in how they spoke and treated us, so quiet and polite, there was nothing
close to harm. So what was I worried, Davy should want to play with them a
little? A piggyback with the Irish girl, what could be so bad?
Wait, I called out and they stopped fading. In a blink, there they were
again, strong and glowing on the hill.
Then I bent to Davy, who had stopped crying and was watching the
Guardians, his bright face smiling. “One piggyback and then we have to get
home to fix supper. When I call and say it’s over, you promise to come?”
“Yes,” he yelled, running with eager feet. With a swing and a yelp, as
if all the grasses on the hill had started laughing, his piggyback ride began.
Plenty of time I had for thinking as the Irish ghost carried Davy across
the hill on her back like he was the king of the grasses. Such gladness in his
face, the whole story he would have to tell. And yes, there would be yells
and slaps, tears when the family thought he was lying. “Davy’s usual fairy
tales,” Nate would shrug. Mimi would sniff, “Just a dream.” And that poor boy
would wipe his eyes, “Mama will tell you. She saw them.” And what could I
say, without giving away this ghost business? Oy, such a pickle.
So I looked at the old one, the tree, because she seemed the smartest.
Straight out, with all the courage I had in me, I asked her: What should I do?
The old one, Wina she said I could call her, beckoned, and the Irish
girl came over.
“So soon?” Davy whined.
The spirit put him down on the grass in front of the old lady. Wina
smiled at him, so warm, so knowing. Then she reached out and put her
hand on his head.
On Davy’s face—such a sweetness, like I had never seen. He closed
his eyes and stood quiet, almost dreaming maybe. Her hand patted his curly
hair.
And then, the patting stopped and the sun got brighter. That light, all
gold, filled up the hill. I blinked at it, so shiny—and when I was done no more
Wina. All the Guardians, they’d disappeared.
lumbers up out of her somnolence. Fears she’s put on
weight. Frets over her spreading hips. Her waxing belly
dismays with its everynight gradations of a life spent
basking in someone else’s glory. Even so, she waddles
up bravely onto the sky’s off-broadway boards
like a buxom primadonna who, only moments ago,
snoozed off-stage in the green room swirl of up-and-coming
actors, eager under-study stars. Forgotten now
are the chocolate éclairs, the impossible challenge
of a flight of stairs, the weightwatcher’s scales and all
those disapproving glares. Now, before us,
she’s transformed. Yes, rising, she’s radiant, diaphanous:
Bette Midler costumed as Helen of Troy!
the sea is
new
and
she’s
No
though
I’ve felt
This
into
she’s
Back
but
two
And with her one remaining good eye she
spies the two of us here below—
suddenly, we are her two silver-coated supplicants leaning
over our bikes in the night’s chill, gazing up at her
like groupies in the front row,
and under her painted & majestic stare
we simply glow with all the phosphorescent gladness
her reflected love can bestow
on any two humans lucky enough to look up
at this exact moment and see
how she steals another night’s show. How she winks at us
as we kiss, giving us
tonight’s only autograph before we go.
murderous
the
morning,
let
my
on
sting
innocence
at
warning in
of
as
that
soul go
shore,
when
hours
breaking long and
arriving
as
I’ve
ever
the
soaring
I’m
this
her
offshore
clean,
today,
seen.
day,
times
spray.
sun
slowly
climbs
other
heaven,
on her gorgeous lines.
busy,
I
ago—long
anxious,
came
before
driven,
out
seven—
I
saw
in
the
eyes
of
others
paddling
out
her
elemental
spark
made
real,
and
heard
a
lover’s
voice
in
each
ecstatic
shout.
For
hours
caressing
stroking
her
and
each
might
Kim Sterling
PGR 38
alive: her waves
swell
as
giving
David Thorn
Aubade
I’ve
been
gliding
like
a
each
wave’s
supple
shoulders
with
a
soulful
basking
in
be
her
wave
that
gift,
that
blue
green
surging
tube
Yes,
the
waves
and I’ve had my share, but the tide
that
transitory
I
ultimate
I’ll
grace:
ride
embrace—
lose
myself
are
is
coming
in
and
my
weary
arms
Haven’t
I
been
Yes—but that one wave has eluded me.
seal,
face,
feel,
inside.
great
already
So,
ache.
blessed?
I’ll wait
outside, conserve my strength, keep hoping for her best,
as
she’s
breaking
long
and
clean:
maybe then I’ll catch a wave more perfect than the rest.
PGR 39
David Thorn
The plump moon Here’s how I talk to my blind & deaf dog
bored by traditional petting—
finger-talk-story. Hieroglyphics,
or Chinese characters with soft brush,
written on fur… a kind of scroll-painting of affection—especially for the arthritic who enjoys the world and looks forward to moving, but rarely to the joy of the movement.
Ken Weisner
The Language of Touch
It boosts morale—chronicles bush sniffs & back trails,
familiar hillocks, landmark trees,
romps, other dogs, prandial rewards—
his lumbering hang-tongue-panting-eye-glint
behind cataracts that don’t block this.
It’s giving the caregiver care,
washing the feet of the foot washer—
rhythm-music including locations & emotions—emphasizing his favorite side trips.
Very soon, he won’t be able to move
at all. I swear, he stretches & exhales,
settles-in, just to listen,
appreciating the deft delicacy of intention—
groans a little, shifts his bulky
Labrador frame to slumber better.
Perhaps it’s lucky he can’t speak—
because although all heart & devotion, it’s still banal to him among humans.
He knows the difference between a promise and this.
PGR 41
She said that nothing ever makes her feel alive
She said she’d see me later where the ocean meets the sky
She said that she’s ashamed because she never learned to dance
She said she never worries much, despite her shaking hands
She said that no one’s listening so she doesn’t need to pray
She said to me tomorrow is the answer to today
She said that the cure is more contagious than the disease
She said she always wants to go but she never wants to leave
She said when she’s at work she drifts away to pass the time
She says she needs the money for her gasoline and wine
She says she’s never done it but she’d really like to try
She said that once temptation’s gone it’s just a useless high
She said that the power is just a burden like the pain
She said she never cries but she does it in the rain
She said she never saw the beauty in learning how to think
She said she doesn’t need a lesson and she’d rather have a drink
She said her heart is made of paper and her wings are made of glass
She said she tears so easily because nothing ever lasts
She said that she stays silent so she’s always understood
She said she stays steady but it does her no good
She said that she’s sleeping but I know she’s awake
She said that she’ll give me whatever I take
She said that they were cowards to take her from man
She said she wouldn’t worry, they’ll never understand.
Ignacio Alonoso
Roland Spies
PGR 40
“She said that nothing ever makes her
feel alive”
Marina Romani
Her Gift
— for Alice
I have always seen them—the silver-haired
man, the curve of his back matched
by that of the grey-haired woman beside him,
his right arm and her left locked at elbows.
So they’ve walked, arm in arm, through too
many years to notice the back’s slow bending,
the hair blanching. Wrinkle for wrinkle they’ve
equaled each other, walking, leaning together.
As I passed through my loves and their lives,
leaving comfort behind for autonomy’s sake,
I have watched the old couples aging together.
Theirs, the closeness and solace I will not have. Jonathan Powell
* * *
PGR 43
PGR 42
My friend sometimes spoke of their bickering,
yet a smile lurked within each of her stories.
Their lifetime, brimful vessel of gentleness, hardships and sorrows, hubbub of children,
quiet humor, sharing the music both loved. Illness. That never was in the program.
Though he could not have failed to observe
his own body’s slow dissolution, still he chose
to live life as he loved it, cheerful, ignoring
affliction, leaving to her the anxiety, the fear.
Now he is gone, and she has remained.
Her greatest gift to him was the last one:
She has outlived him. He has never been left.
It’s a perfect day for a marathon in Berlin
Months of preparation over.
We stand squeezed between strangers,
My son and I, numbers pinned to our chests,
Favorite shoes carefully laced,
Waiting for the starter’s gun.
Ladies’ Man
I crane to see the running legends
toe the line up front
But seventeen thousand people
Block my view. So instead,
I stare at my small feet
At the microchip on my shoe,
At my son’s strong legs.
The smell of stale beer and smoke assaults me as we enter the ginmill
where my dad stops for a fast one on the way home. The bar buzz is hollow as tin. I sit at the far end where I nurse my coke and nibble on chips to
make them last. With my head buried in The Call of the Wild, assigned for
home-work, I pay no attention to my father holding court. I’ve seen it all
before. After his second or third Pabst Blue Ribbon, he slides two quarters
down the bar.
Hey, kid why don’t you feed the juke box?
Time was when I carried him
On my hip. Later he clutched
My calves, dragged on my hand,
Afraid of being left behind.
“Wait, carry me!” he’d wail.
Then I’d hoist him up and
We’d walk home together.
PGR 44
Alex Surber
Meanwhile, my old man with his mick wit has charmed everyone ,
especially the women as he buys rounds leaving generous tips. When he’s
well oiled, he saunters over, bows graciously. May I have this dance madam? He takes my hand as we glide onto the makeshift dance floor. Suddenly, I’m all grown up, graceful and sophisticated. The shabby bar with the
sparkling neon changes into a glittering ballroom. I feel the pressure of his
palm on the small of my back as he expertly leads and I effortlessly follow.
We whirl and twirl and as—I’m just a fool, a fool in love with you­—fades
out, we execute a deep dip and bow to the applause of our distinguished
audience of barflies. He steps back to the bar for a quick swig and without
missing a beat, spins me into­—Only you can make my dreams come true—
and I’m royalty. He’s the King of Smooth; I’m his princess. The performance
ends with another dip and swig. As Al croons—Oh my love, my darling, a
heavily made up commoner taps my shoulder to cut in.
PGR 45
Ernie Ford’s, Sixteen Tons is winding down as I stand in front of the flashing blues, reds and yellows. The endless selection of every style of music
renders me giddy. After a short eternity of deliberation, I drop in the coins. I
hope he will dance with me. That means ballads. I carefully press numbers
and letters for Earth Angel by The Temptations, The Platters, Only You, and
my favorite, Unchained Melody by the soulful, Al Hibbler.
The crack of the gun.
A jostling of bodies, and we’re off
He runs easily at my side,
Elbow to shoulder, through ten,
Fifteen and twenty-two kilometers.
But his stride is longer, stronger.
My twenty extra years cannot match
His pace. Slowly he draws away.
He looks back. I don’t clutch.
I smile. Because today, I know
Where we are going,
I’m not afraid of being left behind,
But I am afraid of that tomorrow when
I will need to ask, “Wait, carry me.”
Ellen Hart
Klaus von Kries
Helen MacKinlay
Forty-Two Kilometres
That was five years ago.
I haven’t smelled smoke since
but when I watch lawyers and bail-jumpers
lighting up on the television,
the familiar tickle of tar and nicotine
snakes up my nose
stings at my eyes.
The monsters beneath my bed are shy creatures,
content with creaking floorboards at night
or breathing just a touch too loudly.
I hang over my mattress sometimes,
one hand braced on the floor
one hand hiking up the hem of the bedskirt
slowly, like I’m fourteen years old
trying to compete with prettier friends
in shorter skirts at the movies again.
I wonder what they do when I’m not at home,
keep the dog company
chase flies around the house
rearrange pictures in photo albums
looking for a face that shadows mine?
I haven’t caught them in an act of terrorism yet,
sharpening butter knives or peeing on my toothbrush
but I know they’re no good.
Why else would they hide?
I’ve seen them just once before,
their horned hands busy at work
building a shrine to a man with no face:
an empty beer can for his torso
cigarette butts as limbs
poker chip hands.
Horned hands push a mirror out
from underneath my bed.
I drop it into the pillowcase
staple up the open end
toss it
into the dryer
at a low tumble.
Don Monkerud
I snatched up the cardboard box
watched it flare and smolder on the stovetop.
PGR 46
They play blackjack on its surface
every Tuesday night.
They don’t use coasters.
I put all the photos back in order
stuff a pillowcase with nickels
crawl down to the floor beside the bedskirt.
They’d scratched my Hangul name
onto an empty 7-Eleven hot dog carton
and tried to rearrange the characters
into a skeleton.
I left a box of matches
and some newspapers
for the monsters underneath my bed.
I’ve hidden a mirror underneath my bed
afraid of reflections more than monsters.
I doze off to the Tin Pan lullaby
dream of chandelier lights
floating in crystal tumblers
that leave water rings on my pillow.
PGR 47
Chieun “Gloria” Kim
The end of lucid dreaming
There was Bernoulli’s Principle, for instance,
that air moves faster over the top surface of an object
than over the bottom. That’s why airplanes can fly,
my father would say. Or birds.
A catch in his voice as he spoke of it.
At twelve, I wondered how this could matter.
Don Monkerud
Barbara Bloom
My Father’s Laws
PGR 48
It was only much later
the UFOs began to creep in,
blurred a bit with reincarnation
and the notion of eternal life in some form.
As his own time of being at rest approached,
he described the scene for his skeptical children:
the spacecraft hovering above before landing,
then swooping down,
lights flashing, everything aglow.
Ephemera
After his mother wanders into Alzheimer’s,
he spends long hours drawing in the sand.
A new urgency he feels—sharp hunger
for the short-lived—comes into his art.
He learns how the wet sand firms slowly
in the ebbing tide, dries in the breeze off
the water, sun hidden behind clouds, though
he can feel a faint warmth on the skin.
At first, it seems awkward as he works.
The rough expanse, wet surface, shift
everything about his art. Yet in the end,
increasingly, he can give himself over.
As he labors in the sand, he moves along
absorbed, drawing with his whole body,
discovering he had more of everything to
give—knowing, it will soon be taken.
PGR 49
But the most important law my father wanted to impart
was the Scientific Principle: Never believe
something that cannot be proven. He wanted
us to live by that rule. To be goats,
not sheep, blindly following the leader. Why
had none of us taken an interest in science, he often asked.
Why didn’t we care about what he loved?
Tilly Shaw
Of course, I had to memorize Newton’s Law of Motion:
A body at rest will remain at rest.
A body in motion will remain in motion.
Unless of course it were to meet up with something
to change that, something unexpected
that could make it speed up or slow down.
“Perhaps we shall like it in Casablanca.” Victor Laszlo
We all stayed up late in Paris
when everyone was in love,
slept in Metro stations
like bohemians. Time
Debra Spencer
Mandy Spitzer
Letters of Transit
sprang away from our youth
like light from diamonds—
or like bubbles that rose and broke
against the morning sky.
In those days things seemed
so black and white—
A Sonnet:
hearts rose and sank. Then
we fled to Casablanca.
A costume in a cardboard box upstairs
In grandma’s house. You choose a frock and don it,
An old Italian silk with ink stains on it,
A style that nowadays no poet wears—
How straight the lace, and yet how wide the flares!
On this shawl: candle wax. But still you want it.
And here’s our dear Aunt Barrett’s browning bonnet!
(It wants a glance but will instead draw glares.)
Your image turns within the frosted glass—
A faded figure, yes, but stylish too.
You wear the clothing of enduring class,
Don’t fret if fashion critics censure you,
Ignore the places where the fabric’s torn,
This wadded wordrobe’s worth a world of scorn.
Rick came after losing
the girl he loved. Then
he found her. Then he lost her again.
Then he left. In the souk
the others finger lace they know
they’ll never buy. But here two of us
have found a clean white house
with geraniums on the balcony
and a view of the sea.
Paris goes on without us
while here palm trees sway
and the desert unfolds its dunes.
PGR 51
PGR 50
Winifred Baer
the piano, the tuxedos,
the elegant gowns. Glasses clinked,
four, five sometimes six lanes flow with me
an equal number are racing in the opposite direction
up and down the rolling hills the lanes stretch out in front of me
allowing this unchoreographed dance of colors
cars flow into the lanes, joining the dance
as others merge to the sides disappearing into elsewhere
caught up in watching this free form dance
in the bright sunshine against the late autumn brown of the hills
I remind myself to pay attention to my immediate neighbors
no one is directing us
we do not know where anyone else is going
but we perform our dance with nuances
of slowing down and speeding up
moving right or moving left
looking out for each other
with a trust in our collective skills
of which we are not aware
I take a deep sigh of appreciation
for this miraculous dance,
hoping it will continue all the way home
Joyce M. Johnson
Alissa Goldring
Living
in
your
country I
want
to
learn,
learn
how
to
say
no, say
no
to
my
man.
Patting
my
trasero,
he parades
macho
proud,
saying, Come
on, Chacha, and pulls
me to
bed.
Then
taking
off,
he leaves
me
the
problems.
The
problems—our
ten children.
I’m
tired,
and
now,
my
oldest
is due
to
have
a
baby.
I
ask
the
kids
to help,
but
they
complain.
They
live
in
the
land of
milk
and
honey—
I’m the cow and the bee.
PGR 53
Land of Milk and Honey
Don Monkerund
Jeanie Greensfelder
PGR 52
Highway 280 South
Why can’t I spare any change?
Because twelve years in America, I still get confused between fives and twenties.
Because I still can’t seem to make my paycheck last longer than my
period.
Geneffa Popatia Jonker
Why I Can’t Spare Any Change
Because I still struggle to spell color without “u.” And savor. And flavor.
Because I can’t convince my mother-in-law that Canadians aren’t communists
and most Arab women don’t hide bombs beneath their burkas.
Kelly Woods
Because I can’t deny the shape of my nose or the shade of my skin
or that my middle name is Aziz and the government keeps losing my forms.
Mice rustle inside the aluminum siding
of a 1967 Airstream. They share their home
with me and my family.
Next door, six hens sit on their eggs.
They don’t miss a rooster on the ranch,
and they’ll eat anything: grapes, watermelon rinds,
the bones of their sisters.
After dinner, we talk, sip Merlot,
and listen to the lowing of cattle. The sun sinks
in a hollow between the hills.
Like the elusive back-pocket penny I sit on daily
but forget to fish out when it’s time to do the wash.
PGR 55
Sovereign
Because Change, whether craved or feared, is always spare
and often beyond our average human grasp.
Klaus von Kries
PGR 54
Maya Marie Weeks
Because I long to cast my vote in the land of “Yes We Can”
but live in the realm of not yet.
evolving into supple sumptuousness,
full of your own resplendedness,
then receding into nothingness.
Out of Nothingness
emerges audible cries,
melodic lullabies,
We are all specks on the end
of another’s telescope.
Yet in our own worlds,
we are encumbered with
unbearable
Somethingness,
riveted by electrically charged
intricacies on
neural highways.
Sweet nothings,
curled on a lover’s tongue,
lighting up a moonless, desert sky,
in the middle of nowhere.
To you and me,
Nothing is a dot on a map
in the middle of the Mojave,
Population 4.
Wouldn’t we all be more
mindful,
were we to empty out
our dust lined caverns,
sinewing webs,
and awake to bountiful nothingness?
But to George Brucha,
oil painter,
who lives with two dogs
in a line-shack,
Nothing is an entire universe.
PGR 56
For out of nothing
comes mystical ruminations
on creation,
stirrings of a restless mind,
utterances on canvas,
turned over like tumbleweed,
revealing thorns, thistles
and at last,
an exquisite desert rose,
visible only by moonlight.
Portrait of Eve
in autumn twilight
cloaked with falling leaves
vanishing into the horizon.
Like you:
Once a speck of nearly nothing,
Pausing to admire rosy fingered dawn
on our path to somewhere,
Keri Allen
Breathing in copious amounts
of nothing
and releasing
cinders of joy
in our wake.
Sigrid McLaughlin
PGR 57
Marie Boucher
Out of Nothingness
I want to run.
you on top of me
under,
up on the desk
push aside the note books
on the floor
me behind you...
now I feel mechanical tho
like a cannibal
PGR 58
“tell me when you broke
and became you.”
“like a turning point?
When I started living...
or started standing still.
I guess.
Letting death catch up.”
“and life?”
“it’s in the running.
The more you run. The
more it runs out”
“why run, then.
on broken wheels?”
“why does it have to be
what breaks
us that makes us?”
“we are who we are”
I’m running now.
I’ll never give myself again
my whole self I mean
at least at first
my broken self.
I’ll never tell.
You get my broken
smile
we laugh
making ripples on
a pond
we both are wet
mostly underwater
but we meet
on the surface
II.
“let me in”
“I won’t. I’ll tell
you something”
“what’s inside?”
“just this.
a crow.
picking bones.
your bones.
I don’t want you
you to see this”
“I’m not scared”
“I’m not afraid
of your fear”
“please. Tell me. I’m
broken too.”
“to be so broken
the whole world
makes sense
and love”
you ache...
you make me
sweet sick
too much candy on
that apple.
“what love?”
“we are not.”
III.
piling up
you got what you
asked for.
I picked you clean.
“don’t be silly.
us.
“what’s this?”
she says—(the next one)
“just an old book
I’m reading”
“what’s inside?”
broken together
like spokes on a
wheel that rolls
forever”
“we are not.
I’ll tell you
nothing.”
“just me”
“you’re funny.
I like you.”
“we’ll see then”
I walk home
counting chickens
on both hands
a basket full
of
broken eggs
and two hard boiled
in my stomach.
Aches...
and pains...
“this is how
it feels then.”
“what feels?”
PGR 59
I.
you lay next to me:
“tell me something about you.
Tell me what you like”
“about sex?”
“about sex”
“I like the anticipation”
“I like when bodies are
close, pressed together. Any position
that crushes us together
creating that closeness”
“we are not...
I’ll tell you more”
“…”
Mandy Spitzer
Sky Smith
Broken
My first boyfriend was my second choice:
Beth got Terry Bachman so I got Billy Cook
whose jaw hung, his tongue showing.
I looked down on Billy: girls were taller
in seventh grade. I wore his ID bracelet
and a motorcycle cap with his initials.
When we hugged, he smelled like Ivory soap,
his cheek smooth and soft—a Norman Rockwell boy.
Walking me home from school he carried my books,
and looked forward to a kiss at my door.
I knew he was trustworthy and true,
reliably mine, but Billy didn’t know me:
hungry to have what I didn’t have,
desperate to escape childhood,
fated for freedom and heartbreak.
I had met a tall guy who drove a Ford;
his cheeks were sandpaper rough
and he French kissed.
And on this day on my front porch,
when Billy handed me my books,
I handed him his ID bracelet
Bowerbird Alice Daly
Jeanie Greensfelder
First Love
Every bit for your consideration
labor built and stolen to catch your favor
My love is many small pieces
a sum of color, light and plastic
and all it took to get it here
For you the broken toy,
fresh petals and burnt metal
feathers and mushrooms unite in brave new flavors
For you a peak effort
not one of my rivals could imagine.
My twig tower breaking skyward
to pull you down toward a
moss bed made perfect
I killed one hundred shiny beetles
just to lay them in attendance
by the door where I wait for you
Piles of white pebbles,
spider dung jeweled with dew
Adorn my expectations,
adorn my perfect stage for you.
Katie Bode
In my room, I draped myself over my bed,
like an actress far away from home,
pained, and in love with drama.
PGR 61
PGR 60
and watched his face redden, his eyes tear,
hurt bursting his seams. We both cried,
soap-opera style, and Billy ran home.
It’s love at first sight.
She’s gorgeous.
PGR 62
Rachel Meisenheimer
I first spy her as she’s
standing in the new
release section, holding a
copy of last year’s zombie
movie. I loved that movie.
I think. I’m not sure if
it I really loved it, or if
her holding it colored
my memory. The movie
isn’t the important part
though. She could be
holding a copy of that
vapid vampire chick flick
for all I care.
I turn and regard the
CDs that sit on the shelf
next to me. I pick up the
closest one and pretend
to read the back. Nothing registers. The only I reason I tore my gaze from
the gift from God in the movie section was because I don’t want to be one
of those creepy guys who stare too long.
I’m satisfied with the amount of time that’s passed and risk a glance
back at her.
She’s still there. I breathe easy. I know I have very little time to gaze at
her before I should pretend to read something else. I seize the moment and
take in as much as I can.
Her hair is the color of deep mahogany and is kept short. It’s more like a
haircut you see on a boy, but it looks amazing on her. Her eyes are radiant.
Warm milk chocolate encased in pure white. I see them move as she skims
the back of a different movie. Her petite nose wrinkles as her eyes fight to
shine through a squint. She puts the movie back on the shelf.
I pry my eyes away, forcing them to look at something else, anything
else. They fight me. They want to look back at her. I want to as well, I want
to indulge my eyes and give in. I don’t.
Acting like I’ve seen all there is to see on this shelf, I take a step to my
right and pretend to scan the new CDs in front of me. They don’t interest
me, not really. I could be standing right next to the artist themselves and I
would still have my mind on something else.
“I’m sorry Mr. Sinatra.” I’d say. “I’m a huge fan, but there’s that woman
over there, see?” I’d point. “I’m pretty sure I’m in love with her.”
“I understand kid.” He’d say as he finished his martini. “Remember,
love is a many-splendored thing”
Enough time has passed, so I look back at the goddess in the movie
section. I ready myself. It’s amazing how hard acting casual can be.
I turn my head to the right as if I’m looking for a different section of the
store. I almost scream. She’s standing right next to me and she’s even more
beautiful up close.
She didn’t notice my reaction so I breathe easy. She has the zombie
movie with her and is now looking at a CD. Her skin is flawless, soft, and
rosy. Tiny hairs stand up on the back of her neck and I think it’s the cutest
thing ever.
I look back at the CDs in front of me. She moves closer now, I can’t
stare too long. I gaze again, this time out of the corner of my eyes. My heart
speeds up, she’s looking at me!
I go over my checklist. Is my hair okay? I reach up with my left hand
and feel my head, pretending to scratch some phantom itch. My hair is fine.
I tug on my shirt as my hand falls back to my side. Not hard enough to be
noticeable, but enough that I can tell that my shirt isn’t riding up. I pause a
bit, not wanting to look neurotic. After a few deep breaths and a sideways
glance at her, I notice she’s no longer looking. I continue my checklist
anyway. I put my hand in my pocket and pretend to search for something.
When I pull my hand out, I feel the waist of my jeans, making sure they’re
pulled up properly. I wouldn’t want my boxers to be showing like some
thug.
With my checklist complete, I put the CD I was holding back on the
shelf and I freeze. A sharp terror pierces my heart like a mountain climber
realizing he’s about to fall.
What the hell should I do next?
I take a deep breath and calm down just enough to realize it’s a stupid
question. I could do anything. I could move to where she once stood. I
could move to the other side of the display, but then getting caught could
be easier.
Damn, listen to me. I sound like a creeper. I should just talk to her. My
eyes go wide as I realize what I just thought. How novel. Actually talking to
a woman as opposed to staring at her? What would even happen?
PGR 63
William Cass
A Speculative Love
PGR 64
***
“Hi.” I’d smile
“Hi.” She’d say and return my smile.
“I’m Daniel.”
“I’m Grace. Nice to meet you.”
I might panic a bit as I think of what to say next. I’d then spy the movie
she has with her.
“Nice choice.” I’d point to the movie. “Did you get to see it in theaters?”
I’d hold my breath, hoping she’d be glad to engage me in conversation.
“Yes, I did. I loved it.” She might hold up the case. “I’m glad she
survived.” She’d point to the heroine.
“Me too.” I’d say. “I’m a sucker for a good romance.”
“Me too.” She’d respond.
“Made it a great zombie date movie.” I’d laugh.
“It would have been.” She’d laugh. “But I just went with a group of
friends.”
My pulse would quicken as I’d be delighted to not be hearing about a
boyfriend, yet. There’d be a short silence between us. Not an awkward one
though, the kind of natural lull that happens when a topic is over.
“You know, she’s going to be in a movie coming out next week. Are you
going to see it?” I’d be proud of myself for making successful conversation.
She’d turn to face me now, committing herself to standing here and
talking to me. Our eyes would lock I’d smile again. I’d be happy that I could
now look at her without worrying about staring, or getting caught.
“No. None of my friends are interested in chick flicks.” She’d get a little
embarrassed.
“But do you want to see it?” I’d press the matter further.
“Yeah.” She’d look down for a second before looking back up and into
my eyes. “But I’ll probably wait so I can buy it here.” There’d be a hit of
defeat in her voice.
“Well, what if you found someone to go with you?” My smile would
start to curve up on the right side a bit as my eyes would start to sparkle. It
would be my tell. I was flirting.
“If I could find someone, then I’d go. That’s assuming I could find a
date.” Her smile would start to mimic mine. Her sharp, bright eyes would
narrow.
I’d take a step closer to her and fold my arms. “It premiers on May
fifteenth. The theater downtown will probably have a showing every hour.”
I’d lean toward her, my arms still folded. “If someone were to ask you on a
date, you could possibly grab dinner first. Somewhere nearby.”
“If someone were to ask me out.” She’d fold her arms too, keeping
her movie in one hand. “And that’s a big if.” Her eyebrow would rise,
challenging me
“Huge if.” I’d counter.
“Unimaginable.” She’d fire back and take a step closer.
“Nigh impossible.” I’d respond.
“Exactly.” She’d unfold her arms, snap her fingers, and point at me.
“Too bad there’s no one to ask you out.” I’d say with a wistful dreamlike
quality to my voice.
“That is too bad.” She’d then turn back toward the CD’s and pretend to
go about her business. She’d try, and fail, to hide a smile.
“Well.” I’d turn back as well. “Since you totally don’t have a date next
week, you should hang out with me.” I’d clear my throat. “Not a date
though.”
“So, would you be picking me up for this non-date? Or would I be
meeting you somewhere?” She would still be facing forward, looking at me
through the corner of her eyes.
“I could pick you up.” I’d be the first to turn back. “It’d be such a shame
to waste gas on a non-date.”
“I know. And since we’re just hanging out, there’s no need for you to
pay.” She’d turn back towards me, a sly smile on her lips.
“Grace, please.” I’d touch her on the shoulder. “I feel so bad that a
beautiful woman like you is unable to get a date that I’d buy you both
dinner and a movie.” My brow would furrow in contemplation. “I just
might buy you snacks as well.”
“How kind of you.” She’d reach up and touch me on the arm. “And to
think people say chivalry is dead.” She’d take her hand back and run her
fingers through her hair. “And since it’s not a date at all, I wouldn’t have to
worry about kissing you at the end of the night.” She would say as her smile
grew mischievous.
“Well.” I’d get flustered. “I wouldn’t go that far.” I’d say that, trying to
act cool, but failing.
She’d laugh then, unable to keep her composure. She’d wipe her eyes
as her laughing subsided. A flash of realization would make her look down
at her watch. Her hand would come up and touch my arm again.
“Daniel, I’m so sorry, but I have to go now.” She’d touch the screen of
her phone a few times and look up at me. “What’s your phone number?”
I’d tell her as a warm satisfied feeling wells up inside me. I’d open my
PGR 65
I’d turn to her and start out with something simple, like a:
PGR 66
***
She’d have been all around the world.
I’d tell her that I’d never been out of the country.
We’d really start to get to know each other at the restaurant. She would
probably lavish me with stories of her many adventures. She may tell
me that she’d spent an entire year out of the United States hopping from
country to country. She may even speak a few lines of all of the languages
she remembered. I’d admit that I know a few words in French and Spanish,
but not much else. I’d start to get nervous here. I’d have nothing but boring
stories to tell once the topic shifted to me. She’d have been to Japan and
Australia. What would I tell her?
The conversation would turn to me, and I would try my hardest to get
back to her. I would be busy trying to come up with question after question
concerning her world travels. She’d call me on it after the third question.
“No.” She’d lean forward, folding her arms on the tables. “You’re
stalling.” She’d crack a smile. “Tell me about yourself, Daniel.”
So I’d tell her. I’d tell her about a boring art history major who works at a
museum. I’d tell her about a guy who has never been out of the country and
whose wildest trip was him flying to Atlantic City with only two days notice.
I’d be telling her my story and waiting for her to yawn. I’d look her in the
eyes and expect that at any minute her gaze would shift to something else,
something interesting. But her gaze would never falter. Her eye contact
would never break. She’d be enthralled, and I’d laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Her head would cock to the side, her eyes would
narrow.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude.” I’d grab a piece of break from the
basket between us. “I’m just amazed that someone like you would find
anything I do, interesting.” I’d shake my head a bit, as if I couldn’t believe
my own boring life.
“Someone like me?” She’d ask. Her hand would come up and she’d rest
her chin on it. Her voice would be calm.
“You’ve done so much.” I’d say as a bit of sadness would creep into my
voice. “You’ve been all around the world and I’ve never left the country.” I’d
be stirring my drink as I spoke, my eyes would zone out as the movement
of the liquid hypnotized me.
Grace would laugh and I’d blink my eyes back into focus. I’d look up
at her and her eyes would sparkle as she’d pause to take a sip of her drink.
“Daniel, doing interesting things doesn’t always involve leaving the
country.” She’d reach across the table and touch my hand. “You lead a very
interesting life, it just so happens that your adventures are more American
based while mine are more international.” Her smile would stay on her face
while she’d wait for me to respond.
I’d feel my whole body relax. I’d realize that all my fears were unfounded.
I’d smile and go on. “Well, in that case, who am I to withhold my fascinating
life story from such eager ears.” My hand would hold hers. It would be an
unconscious action. It would also be the right move.
Her eyes would glance down at my hand and she’d look back up into
my eyes. They’d be glistening, and I’d see myself in them.
***
We’d fight.
Just like every couple fights.
It doesn’t matter how much a couple may love each other. Fights
happen. Our first big one would happen after we moved in together. I’d
probably move in with her and we’d split the rent. I wouldn’t want her to
move into my tiny apartment full of stains, which may, or may not, be from
PGR 67
mouth to speak, but my phone would ring. I’d reach down into my pocket
and pull it out. It’s an unknown number. I’d look up at Grace and see she’s
holding her phone up to her ear. She’d motion me to answer it.
“Hello?” I’d ask after I bring the phone up to my ear. A second after I
answer I hear my own voice.
“Hi, Daniel?” Grace would say and pretend we weren’t right next to
each other.
“Is this Grace?” I’d ask. I would try my hardest not to laugh as I play
along.
“Yes, it is.” She would giggle a little. “Now you have my number and
I’ll be expecting a call from you later.” She’d touch my arm again. “And
remember, that three day rule is stupid.” She’d pull the phone away from
her face and I’d hear the line disconnect. I would lower my phone as well.
She would step in close at this point and lean in to whisper in my ear.
“Thanks for making this a memorable lunch break.” She’d kiss me on the
cheek and I‘d flush, unable to hide my joy. “I’ll see you next week.” She
would walk away and I’d be speechless.
All I’d be able to do is stand there and watch her as she goes. When she
reaches the end of the isle she’d turn back, see me standing dumbfounded,
giggle, and walk away.
I would save her number to my contact list as quick as I could. I’d get
back to shopping after some reflection on my good luck. For the rest of the
week the coming date would be the only thing on my mind.
Rachel Meisenheimer
her to look at me. It’d take about a minute, but when we would finally make
eye contact, I’d speak.
“I won’t deny it. I’ve been contacting Lisa a lot. But it’s not what you
think.” I’d lean in close at this point and drop my voice so she’d have to
focus to hear me. “I can’t tell you why now, it’s all a surprise. But I swear
to you, I’ll tell you one day.” Those words would have sounded good in
my head. Even saying them they may have sounded like the right choice.
But telling her I can’t explain why I was keeping a secret would be a poor
choice to make.
“What?” She’d jerk free of my grasp. “So you’re telling me that I should
just trust you despite the fact that what I found makes me wonder if I can
trust you?” She’d laugh, but there’d be no humor in it. “So basically you just
want to stall so you can come up with a better excuse?” She’d back up a
few steps. It would look as if she just wanted to get away from me.
“Sweetie, I-” I’d be cut off again as I would try to explain myself further.
“No!” She’d throw her arms down to the side. “I don’t want to hear it
anymore! If I give you enough time you’d be able to talk your way out of
anything!” She’d turn to walk away and I’d snap.
I’d march up to her and grab her by the shoulders and spin her around.
I’d startle her and she’d cry out. I wouldn’t stop. I’d be to intent on fixing
the whole situation.
“So you really want to know why I’ve been contacting Lisa so often?”
I’d be yelling now. Part of my anger would come from our fight. The rest of
PGR 69
PGR 68
spilled beer and pizza.
Some of my furniture would be moved in along with all my things.
Some of my pictures and posters would hang on the walls next to hers. Most
of the pictures would be of us on various dates. Maybe even a vacation
picture. Maybe she even got me out of the country.
The fight might take place in the living room. Her phone would probably
be dead and she’d ask to use mine. I’d let her, and that’s where it would all
start. She’d get mad at me because of messages she saw on my phone. I’d
say something like: “Sweetie, I think you’re overreacting.” I’d have my
hands in the air, palms towards her, trying to calm her down. It wouldn’t
work.
“Am I really, Daniel?” Her voice would be so cold I could see my breath
in front of me. She’d take my phone off the table and hold it up. Exhibit
A. “You’ve been calling Lisa a lot.” She’d shake the phone as if all the
evidence she needed was on the screen.
“I have.” I’d admit this and know exactly what she’d be talking about.
I’d reassure myself that there was nothing to hide. “But it’s not what you
think.”
“And what exactly am I thinking?” Grace’s voice would start to get
louder as her calm was affected.
“You’re thinking that I’m cheating on you.” I would be collected as I
said this. Though the thought of cheating on her would be unimaginable.
“Yes, you’re right.” Her tone would go back to being cold. I’d feel her
sadness as it’d be palpable at this point.
My heart would sink. The facts would be real, but the conclusion she
jumped to would be far from it.
“Cheating on me is bad enough, but did it have to be with my best
friend?” A tear would roll down her cheek as she said this. It would be as
if saying the words made it more real and the last of her resolve shattered
as she spoke.
“I’m not-” I wouldn’t be allowed to finish that sentence. I would just
want to be able to explain my side of things and fix this whole debacle.
“You’re not cheating? Really?” She’d gesture to my phone and her voice
would go up a few decibels. “If it was just a few texts I might believe you.
But it’s more than that! Texts, calls, emails, even picture messages!” She’d
shake her head and stare through me. “What were those places even of?
Secret rendezvous? Where you two would meet up before you...” She’d
stop as a hand shot up to cover her mouth, muffling a sob.
I’d take this break in the yelling to walk over to her and place my hands
on her shoulders. She’d fight me, but the tears running down her face would
leave her too drained to break away. I’d wait for her to open her eyes, for
I’d want to say. “But where and when I do this isn’t important. The only
thing that matters is your answer.” I’d brace my right hand on my leg as I
kneel in front of her. I’d hear her sniffle at this point. I’d open the box and
reveal a white gold ring with a small diamond on it. “Grace, will you marry
me?”
I’d keep kneeling until I hear an answer. My eyes would be on her,
watching as tears would run down her cheeks, following her jaw down to
her chin, and drip down to the floor. I’d be smiling, a big toothy grin. I’d
realize that while my plans may have gone to waste, it was still okay.
She’d start to nod her head. It would be slow at first, but it would pick
up pace before she spoke.
“Yes.” She’d wipe her eyes and speak again. “Yes. God, yes.” She’d grab
my hands and lead me up so I was standing again.
I’d take the ring out of the box and toss it onto the couch with everything
else. I’d place the ring on her finger and gaze deep into her eyes. She
wouldn’t look at the ring. She’d be fixated on me. She’d smile the biggest
smile I would have ever seen. She’d fling her arms around me and hold me
tight, then pull back, and kiss me. After a lifetime, our kiss would end and
we’d just stand there, holding each other. She’d open her mouth to speak:
***
“Excuse me.” A voice says.
I shake my head and snap back to reality. I wonder how long I’ve been
standing there. I look to my right and the Goddess of the Electronics N’ More
is still standing right next to me. I realize she wants to look at something,
but I’m blocking the shelf.
“Oh, sorry.” I manage to get out in my confusion. Years have just passed
before my eyes and I’m left a little disoriented.
“It’s okay.” She smiles. “I zone out once in a while. I know what it’s
like.” She chuckles a bit and starts to look at the CDs on the rack.
I turn to look at the shelf in front of me and my eyes glaze over. I realize
it was all a day dream. All the feelings, all the memories. They lived for an
instant in my head and are now gone. There are no pictures to remember
them by. There are no souvenirs to place around our house. I can feel my
heart sink as I remember that we don’t have a house. It’s just me, alone in
my apartment.
I pick up something off the shelf just so I don’t look like I’m zoning out
again. I glance at her, the woman whose name probably isn’t even Grace,
and fall in love again. My memories, the years that flashed before my eyes,
are gone, but I realize my future is still in front of me. Our first conversation
hasn’t happened yet, our first date, our first fight, none of that has happened.
PGR 71
PGR 70
the anger would come from me having to spill my closely guarded secret.
“Yes! Yes, I want to know!” Her volume would match mine. “Tell me,
what’s this big secret that caused me to think the man I love is cheating on
me?”
I’d pause for a bit, still hoping that it was all a bad dream. I wouldn’t
want to give everything away, to see my plan fall through. I’d realize that
there was no other choice. At this point I would spin around and walk over
to the movie shelf and reach for a big box. I’d take a collection of crab
fishing documentaries from the bookcase and stalk back over to her. Her
eyes would be narrowed, watching me and waiting for my excuse to show
itself.
I’d come to a stop right in front of her again with the box set in my hand.
Her gaze would be darting from the box to me, trying to figure out what
was going on.
“I love you.” I’d say. “I wake up in the morning and already it’s a good
day because I see you sleeping right next to me. I get home from work and
I know that you’ll get home soon and we’ll have a wonderful conversation
about our day.” I’d pause for a beat and watch as her expression would
lighten. “I would never cheat on you. You are the only one for me.” My
words would be the only sound in the entire house. Her shoulders would
start to drop as the tension would leave her body. “I know you very well.”
She would nod in response. “But Lisa has known you longer. So I went to
her with my idea and that’s what we’ve been talking about so much. That’s
what we’ve been emailing and texting about too. The pictures we sent each
other were of places where this idea could happen.” I’d shift the box in my
hand, turning it around for her to see. “I know you hate this show.”
“It’s a dumb show.” She’d comment as the hints of a smile would start
to form at the sides of her mouth.
“It’s a great show. But you hate it and that is why I chose it.” I’d open it
and lift it up a little more. Showing her that there were no DVDs inside, just
a box. I’d take the contents out and toss the rest on the couch next to my
phone. “Grace, I love you.” I’d say this again because I’d feel like I could
never say it enough. “You are the only person I can see myself with. You’re
the only one I could see having a family with.”
“Oh my God.” She’d whisper.
“You are my best friend. You are the one I fell in love with at first sight.
You are my saving grace. You are the woman I knew I was going to marry.”
I’d pause as her hands covered her mouth and a tear rolled down her cheek.
There would be no sadness this time. I’d open up the box in my hand and
pull out a smaller black box. I’d hear a sharp inhale. “Grace. I was planning
on being more romantic about this, but…” I’d pause, thinking about what
I should have gone into the next room
And kissed my husband good-bye
But the anger is large in front of me
a wild animal I can’t contain.
Our cat doesn’t know.
He rubs his body across the thick midsection of my husband,
the way I used to seek his bulk, back when we were courting.
The cat loves him innocently
The way I once did.
Today it’s the small things:
The way his toothbrush does not stand tall
in the holder in the bathroom.
Crumbs on the clean kitchen counter.
Just a smidgeon left in the bottle of jam in the back of the refrigerator.
It’s still there, love, buried deep in the dark forest, along with desire—
Misplaced, the way you can’t find your car keys or your winter hat.
It’s always like that.
You pour yourself a cup of water
Drink a little, think you’ve had enough.
Later you go back, insatiable.
It’s the big things:
The way all my shortcomings are reflected back at me
from that figure in the bed, a reclining Adonis,
Eternity a chain that seems to wind around us endlessly, roping us in.
Fuck Jung and an army of psychologists!
For I am a stubborn mule
Returning to the same pasture
again and again.
Even though the grasses are brown and dry
And there is nothing left to chew on
Until the rains come once more.
Magdalena Montagne
Before Work
PGR 73
PGR 72
Yet. I look at the album she’s looking at and realize I have my in.
“I wouldn’t buy that one.” I say and thank God I actually know something
about the CD she’s holding. “Buy the cheaper one.”
“But, it’s the deluxe edition.” She looks over at me and holds the album
up. “It has five more songs than the cheaper one.”
“Yeah, that’s great and all but,” I grab the other album off the shelf. “you
don’t get this song on the deluxe version.” I point to my favorite song. “For
some reason this single isn’t on that one.” I point to the one she’s holding.
“It may have five extra songs, but none of them are as good as the one they
replace.”
“Huh.” She turns the CD over and reads the back. “You’re right, thanks.”
She puts the case back on the shelf and I hand her the one I picked up. She
smiles and accepts it.
“Do you want to go on a date?” I blurt out and my heart stops as I
realize that I skipped the rest of the appropriate amount of small talk.
She turns to face me. Her movement is as slow as when a hero walks
away from an explosion in an action movie. For a few seconds she just
stares.
“Wow.” She says. Her face unreadable. It’s both beautiful and terrifying.
“Someone’s feeling forward today.”
I don’t say anything right away. I’m still shocked. The memories that
never happened flash through my mind one more time. A specter returning
to guide me. I know what I’m fighting for now.
“Yes.” I laugh. “I am.” I pause, choosing my words carefully. “But, I had
to.”
“You had to?” She asks, cocking her head to the side. One side of her
mouth starts to curve up.
“Yup, I had to.” I turn my body to face her. I plant my feet. This will be
my last stand.
“And why did you have to?” She folds her arms and her smile brightens
up her face.
“Because you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” I say it,
even though it’s cliché. They are the right words for the right situation.
Her face flushes and she tilts her head down a smidge.
“Not pulling any punches, are we?” She says through a chuckle.
“Never.” I laugh as well. I extend my hand out to her. “I’m Daniel.”
“I’m Hannah.” She grabs my hand and we shake. The contact lasts
longer than a normal handshake would. Even after our hands stop moving,
we don’t go. I stare into her eyes, and she stares back.
“So, Hannah. What about that date?”
She smiles and deep within her eyes, I see a lifetime of possibilities.
Mandy Spitzer
PGR 74
soon your skin won’t belong to me anymore
so don’t come near me, I am not anything
darling.
PGR 75
I push you
Away
It will only make everything harder to harbor
in the pleasures of you
We
met
in
February,
snow
painted
red-bricks
looming
flaring
nostrils
crisply
inhaling;
we
scampered
across
the
boulevard
doused
in
the
wakes
of
passing
tires.
We
kissed
on
a
Wednesday;
economically
sharing
a
cab,
Lindsey Ramirez
considerately
a
chaste
peck
stirring
up
a
faint
blush
while
you
clutched
my
hand.
I
fell
in
love
one
morning
wrapped
in
a
paradox
of
your
limbs;
I
extricated
myself
miserably,
condemned
to
hard
labor
from
nine
to
five.
You
called
me
today
the
unrecognized
number
churning
cement
in
my
stomach;
an
answer
to
the
seven
digit
prayer
I
left
this
morning
on
your
pillow.
Katie Bode
Katie Bode
Sleeping is hard
your smell wafts into me
How We Met
Katie Bode
As a pre-emptive strike
I’m living with it
But only in my head
Nick Ibarra
Reeva Bradley
Break up
An jenem Tag im blauen Mond September
Still unter einem jungen Pflaumenbaum
Da hielt ich sie, die stille bleiche Liebe
In meinem Arm wie einen holden Traum.
Und über uns im schönen Sommerhimmel
War eine Wolke, die ich lange sah
Sie war sehr weiß und ungeheuer oben
Und als ich aufsah, war sie nimmer da. already
gone. Since that day many, many moons have silently floated down and passed. The plum trees likely have been felled. And what about your love, you ask? So I must tell you I cannot recall, although I understand what you imply. Her face, I cannot picture it at all,
I only know I kissed it at the time. Seit jenem Tag sind viele, viele Monde
Geschwommen still hinunter und vorbei.
Die Pflaumenbäume sind wohl abgehauen
Und fragst du mich, was mit der Liebe sei?
So sag ich dir: ich kann mich nicht erinnern
Und doch, gewiss, ich weiß schon, was du meinst.
Doch ihr Gesicht, das weiß ich wirklich nimmer
Ich weiß nur mehr: ich küsste es dereinst. Even the kiss I would have long forgotten if only that one cloud had not been there. I can still see it in my mind and always will very white it was, come from above somewhere. It is possible the plums still stand in flower the woman might be on her seventh child
the cloud, though, blossomed just for minutes
and when I looked, dissolved already
Und auch den Kuss, ich hätt ihn längst vergessen
Wenn nicht die Wolke dagewesen wär
Die weiß ich noch und werd ich immer wissen
Sie war sehr weiß und kam von oben her. Die Pflaumenbäume blühn vielleicht noch immer
Und jene Frau hat jetzt vielleicht das siebte Kind Doch jene Wolke blühte nur Minuten
Und als ich aufsah, schwand sie schon im Wind.
in
the
wind.
22-year old Bertolt Brecht wrote the first draft of this poem on a train ride to Berlin
in 1920. The title he originally assigned the poem in his notebook was “Sentimental
Song #1004.” Brecht was referring to Mozart’s Don Giovanni, who supposedly
had 1003 lovers (in Spain alone). Brecht, who never suffered from a lack of selfconfidence, apparently would have liked to surpass the number, at least on paper.
Bertolt Brecht
One day in the blue moon of September quietly under a young plum tree I held her, pale and speechless love, in my arms just like a fair, sweet dream. And above us in the radiant summer sky was a cloud that for a while I saw, very white it was, tremendous, there up high, and
when
I
looked
again
it
was
PGR 77
Erinnerung an die Marie A.
Robyn Marshall
Angelika Frebert
PGR 76
Memories of Marie A. It’s a socked-in night, no moon. Cold, too, the sand black from mist and
deserted. I am home painting my nails, winding sections of my hair onto
empty orange juice cans while two young boys, 8 and 10, are swept out
to the shrouded sea, knocked off their feet by a wave with a long grasp. A
mother cries out their names, frantic. My boyfriend, patrolling the beach
after dinner, leaps from the red jeep, runs hard into the surf following the
path of her gaze. But the boys do not splash or shout. And the current, a
river within the sea, pulls them apart, drags them down quietly, tugging
off their sneakers. He swims, searching, dives blind over and over. Then,
contact. Securing one above the waves to the rescue tube, he strokes to the
other, who pushes him off, nearly spins away. At last he treads water facing
the beach, grasping each boy, sees the red light-bars of back-up vehicles
blurred in the fog, watches a fellow guard run into the surf. It all looks very
far away. Taking every bit of strength, he fumbles in. Even he drops to the
sand, throws up, gasps for air. Other guards tend to the brothers. When
he is collected, he picks up his jacket and heads to the jeep. I look at my
watch, wondering why he hasn’t called. The mother walks to him, falls
on her knees in the sand. She wraps her arms around his legs, presses her
forehead into his thighs. Finally, with his free hand he reaches down, lightly
rests two fingers on the top of her head.
Love Even Here
Alex Surber
PGR 78
Joan Rose Staffen
Lindsay Shaffer
See the facts, this truth,
the intense, yet tender times,
the fiery ring complete.
Breathe.
Slip over the edge
into the silky waters.
Swim alone into
the warm seas-–
this is the way.
Now let go.
Accept this
which is unacceptable.
You arms outstretched.
Float.
With your heart cracked open,
believe still in
Her who cannot be touched
with hand or eyes,
but in the light, imagined.
Surrender.
Brave being – look up to
the deep and sacred sky.
Ponder the ever transforming clouds,
and beyond all reason-–
Love even here.
Love all.
—for Steve
Kim Scheiblauer
­
PGR 79
Summer, 1968
Water Cycle
Last summer shone bright over the mobius strip
ribbons of red you left in my hair.
The ends flickered past my eyes
like strawberry fields bordering highways
or venetian blinds snapping in the sun.
Your calloused palms warmed the soil beneath my feet,
I drew up your breath through bare toes,
exhaled skies littered with swallows.
The razor blade chill of dawn
siphoned dew from your lashes
and quenched my arid eyes.
Sand fell against my wind-tautened cheeks,
you whispered the spray of collapsing waves.
Gravel roads yellow sea foam chipped paint
cold counters ripe fruit and blistering tinfoil
blossomed on skin where we touched.
Last summer, I wiped the sweat from your brown neck
with a liquor store bandana and shaded you with church lace.
You bundled me in a dried corn husk,
brushed hemlock off my nose.
Soil from beneath your fingernails
filled the crescent moon divots
dotted across my back.
I irrigated the pockmarked terrain by the river
and lay against your weathered slopes,
waiting to grow.
Suraya Essi
I see the sun asphyxiate.
Rain pelts and hardens the bay to sheet metal.
Roots swell under my flesh.
My skeleton softens and crumbles,
the surge of water erodes me to marrow.
Cell by cell, run-off carries me downstream,
I shrink amongst plankton.
Rust-red, stone-faced abalone swallow and spit me out
into the churning punch of green waves,
the freeway roar of currents.
I claw at jagged handholds in a deep-sea canyon
that squeezes me through wrinkled lifelines
until I crash
tender winded and waterlogged onto shore.
Late tangerines wither to violets above me.
Constellations project from dilated pupils
as I lie on the beach.
The ditches you dug into my back
fill with saltwater.
You cradle my head
pick strawberries from the ribbons in my hair
cover my eyes with velvet leaves
feed me
syrup stains of boardwalk grins
heady mulches of the wetlands
the cinnamon bruise of a kiss.
I am a fistful of earth on your coast again.
PGR 81
PGR 80
Chieun “Gloria” Kim
Then summer waned.
Roots punched through my pores,
seized my skeletal frame.
Ribs gnarled into thickened root
and joints locked up into twists of branch.
My bones dried and cracked without water,
vines twisted tighter around my spine.
Sinew and thirst contracted my limbs,
bolted me down until I trembled
under the burden of flightless skies.
Kali J. Rubaii
Brittle Things
Were
she
the
peach
skin
behind
your
teeth,
Or
the
sap
of
a
Jeffery
Pine
you
climbed,
Were
she
the
hole
in
your
favorite
pair
of
jeans,
Or
an
eggplant
in
your
garden
vines,
She
would
deserve
you. But since she is, limb to limb, an empty mussel shell,
Waiting to cut your foot sole, the effigy of treasures felled,
She is lucky that you snatched her up and put her in your pocket. And
lucky
too
that
you
left
her
there,
Turning
round
and
round
in
your
washer,
To
travel
your
distances
with
you,
And
cracked
open
against
your
warmth… Brittle
things
are
fragile,
As
much
as
they
are
strong,
you
see,
And
your
pocket
seems
the
most
fitting
place
For
the
wildest,
brittlest
things
to
be. Peggy Hansen
PGR 83
PGR 82
Peggy Hansen
birds and I listen
as silence ebbs
and
branches
morning
flows
squeaky gate
startles
garden nibblers all but one baby quail rescued by hands
heart beats fast and wild
so fragile, so young
who will care for the motherless?
with one gentle nudge
tiny feet scurry
towards familiar chirps
rejoicing in song
life prevails
in
a
covey
Katie Bode
PGR 84
until dusk when a hovering hawk
cries
of
quails
When I lie here in the brambles of afternoon,
behind my eyelids the calligraphy of fireflies
and always memory.
Damn it, remember me!
Stardust remembers me.
And dusk gives me an indigo kiss.
The heart remembers. A cup of tea.
A picnic in the woods. One hand holding open
a bedroom door.
The heart remembers.
A paint brush dipped in gold
and constellations written on the body all night.
Salmon belly of the thigh.
I’d swim upstream through ice
for one more night.
Is this river born from the melted moon,
from the tears of stones
tired of tumbling?
This is the Once upon a time
I will tell my grandchildren:
how the woman jumped into the waters
after her lover.
How she put her ear to the bed
of the river.
How she heard his heartbeat
in the pulse of fallen stars
drowned in their own reflections.
How each spring she swims, the river
her only confidant,
the keeper of her secret,
starlight on the gills of every whisper,
a prayer in every stone.
I will never let go.
I remember
how the water holds me.
Julia Alter
“When I lie here in the brambles of afternoon”
Red sky
seeps through
bare
Alex Surber
PGR 85
Emily Bording
Dawn to Dusk
i’m standing here
hands frantically trying to hide
me from You
as though i could
really hide
what’s in my heart
so instead I put my hands over my eyes
My biggest fear?
Being naked
Somebody else’s nakedness­—
No problem
Dangling down to their knees
Soft ball size testicles?
Doesn’t faze me.
Boobs floating in the hot tub?
Eh…
I say “Vaya con Dios my friends”
Let it all hang out….
I am sure that my fear of
Being naked has a
perfectly logical basis,
Other than being raised Catholic,
Which I have yet to discover.
But why go thru
All the hassle of figuring
Out why the sight of my
Own ass, which by the way, I
Could not pick out in a line up,
Sets my knees knocking?
A perfect waste of time
As far as I am
Concerned, because I
Have devised a strict code of conduct.
WARNING: Terms and conditions
Subject to change with out prior notice.
Not valid in Freudian slips,
Accidental sightings in mirrors, or
Poetry workshops.
Bathroom door must be locked at all times,
Even when peeing
(See “door, index Code of Conduct Volume II)
No clear glass shower doors or walls,
No matter how elegant they
Look in the catalogue
(Volume IV, Pg 718, “Glass”)
if i can’t see you then you can’t see me
with all my flaws
imperfections
broken places
scars
the dark corners
where i shut you out
Angela Sarkisyan
gently…
You pry open my hands, my fingers one by one
stare into my eyes
brush the hair
out of my face
lift my
chin
show me what’s real
PGR 86
if You can see me then i can see you
with all your joy
perfection
whole
scarred
the shining light
where you let Yourself in
Micah Ford
Naked as the Day You were Born
PGR 87
Eden White
naked...
I like it when . . .
I like it when you call me baby
It really turns me on
And when you touch my skin so softly
Lord help me, I get gone
A friend once told me
Fear was an acronym for
False Evidence Appearing Real
Scripture says
“Perfect love casts out fear”
I thank you, dear ones,
For unlocking the door,
Opening wide the curtains,
And allowing me to safely pee.
Reeva Bradley
3) Windows, even frosted ones, must be
closed, locked, and curtained
in bathrooms and bedrooms.
(Ibid, pg 543 “Windows)
I like it when we talk pretty
It makes me think about new things
And when we argue so passionately
What strange energy it brings
You make me smile when sorrow
overcomes me
You hold me in your arms
when worlds crash on me
Peggy Hansen
I like it when we say goodbye
and I can still feel your lips on mine
And I can tell that you miss me
When you kiss me
PGR 89
Donte Tidwell
PGR 88
I want to lie in your arms And sleep through the rain
And wake up beside you
To breathe you again
Central Park
Booty Call
An island of green
within an island of concrete
A place to be quiet and sit
within a place of constant noise and movement
An island home to birds and squirrels
within the island that is home to millions of humans
An island of lakes, streams, waterfalls, and hills
created to restore the soul
within an island of commerce, greed and glitz
that tempts the human to ignore the spirit
A green island treasured, tended, loved, used
by a humanity that found their island of brick
was not enough
He told me his name, so smooth and laid back
And impressed me with stories of far away places
We make plans to meet and spend some time
“I want to get to know you” is his line
When your phone rings at 4am
He’s messing up your sleep so he can get
some
skin
when the sun comes up he won’t be next to you
let yourself out, says the note on the table
when you’re feeling lonely
and you say I just want someone to hold me
Joyce M. Johnson
Reeva Bradley
Robyn Marshall
PGR 91
PGR 90
I know the whole story
That you won’t be falling for me
So call the next girl on your list
I don’t need you’re empty kiss
That’s
all
I won’t be your booty call
Don Monkerud
you know,
Bella Donna
you are
PGR 92
so let our lips
you know—
the tips of our tongues
you are
biting your petal edge
Opiate stinger jelly fish
you know
the drug
you are
strung me out
on artery line
reel me in
your battered lure
Pinocchio’s
wicked sister twisted
broken noses
you know you are
the gale
far out from the harbor
harness the gunwale
you know
your broken sailors
empty clam
you are.
Let your hair
down so...
wet against your neck
you know you are...
Amy Michelson
you
snap fingers
come crawling skeletons
are
a bone collector
Man the cannons
you know
how they sink
you are
faster under
all the dead
weight of weapons.
Quite the Casanova, you tossed
my leopard print panties high
into the branches of Central Park.
Your victory flag, destined
to become a squirrel mattress.
Twenty-something, the August
air drank the perfect young wet
of us—as if our swimmer’s duet
could douse the burn of another
late summer night’s fight.
PGR 93
You know you are
soft edges
listen...
the sound of
crumpling
flapping sheets
You Were Not a Walk in the Park
You cry
tears
lead musket pearls
know they sing
between broke ribs
Donte Tidwell
Sky Smith
Bella Donna
Phillip Wagner
I didn’t do it
not manslaughter
certainly not murder
I thought he could
you know
breathe down here
after all I learned
When he said
no he didn’t say
it wasn’t a noise
it was how he began
collapsing in on himself
as if wires attached
his elbows
and knees and wrists
and his heart hauled them
all in at once
It happened so fast
I wasn’t ready
he wanted to surface
I tried to lift him
he should have swum
he wouldn’t
he folded himself down
Do you think
I should have
pushed him upward
you try it
he was heavy
it’s at least nine fathoms
to the surface
it only looks close
because the light bends
see it wobble
Still fresh the feel of the child within
pressing sharp against her ribs,
with an elbow perhaps. Still fresh
the feel of contracting and pushing.
Still fresh the sound of its protest,
the babe’s long cry upon being expelled
from the moist, warm shelter of womb.
It is here, delicate babe,
with fingers so fine and so slim still,
silken skin and eyes of the clearest blue.
It’s here, to gaze at and wonder. It’s here,
utterly helpless, in need and distress,
pleading with its long piercing cry.
There’s always a hurricane
up there
or else it’s sea-scorching noon
or there’s a huge tanker
with a drunk captain
throwing beer bottles
at the moon
it’s horrible
why did he want to go
I didn’t pull his strings
yes I saw the bubbles rise
when I told him to
breathe out
but I taught him
how to get air
from this water
he squeezed into himself
tumbled
so I left to get help
when I came back
he was clay cold
don’t send me
up there
Virginia Draper
Marina Romani
Always the Crying
Now the greeters have gone,
leaving behind their good wishes
casseroles salads and cakes,
goodies to sweeten a new mother’s life,
to sweeten too, too generously maybe,
the milk nature means for her babe.
She is here with the babe,
and the babe in the crib,
a creature overwhelmingly lovely.
Sandra Vines
And it does what it must, crying out
in urgent dismay. She doesn’t know
what it needs, but she does what
she must, driven by instinct,
moved by love beyond reason. She nurses the babe, she burps it,
she puts it back down, and it cries.
She holds it, she rocks it, she changes
its diaper for the thirtieth time.
All she wants is to stop the sound
of the crying, to hush the cries
of this beautiful child turning red from the effort to make known its need,
the throat the cries ring from so fine,
so easy to hurt, so terrifyingly easy to silence.
PGR 95
J. Zimmerman
PGR 94
The Mermaid Appeals to her Judge Robyn Marshall
PGR 97
PGR 96
Suraya Essi
Robyn Marshall
T. Mike Walker
Coffee Cantata
It’s the coffee does this to me
It’s the coffee makes me go
Wired and alert at midnight
Burning in a mental glow
Please don’t call me crazy
If my metaphors sublime
Illuminate at least one drop
Of truth in one true line
It’s coffee keeps me buzzing
‘till it’s quarter past the dawn
When inspiration leaves me
And my inner voice is gone
Don Monkerud
And what is left behind
Like black grounds in a cup
Are coffee words on paper
Saying: “Drink me up!”
PGR 99
Phillip Wagner
PGR 98
Virginia Draper
Adela Najarro
Tap Dancing Toward Morning
Rocks fill her shoes though
her morning coffee is peppered
with last night’s stars.
She refuses the new age hope
to get it all before we die.
She’s too familiar with cold
mid-winter nights in Iowa
and a loneliness passing through
sheets on an unmade bed.
Together: she is too fragile, too tenuous, too much.
Alone: she fears what could be enough.
broken skin, savors the steel gray
cold of an ocean past twilight.
In love, she’s all idea. Then it’s the body
that fires away. She is Marilyn.
She is skin shiny soft. She is luscious,
a libation in tune with the afternoon
glow of a setting sun early October
autumn. Lick her lemony lime.
Alissa Goldring
For now, when she crashes into the other
chemicals waltz in the brain.
Dopamine, oxytocin, adrenaline
pick up a neurotic beat,
and her ability for metaphor delivers
brown moles, telephone poles,
Orion in the sky, translucent supernovas,
all equivalent, as in balance,
integers to an equation that explains
how she tap dances en route
toward morning. And then more.
Hand in hand with that someone else,
she visualizes geometric
triangles within honeysuckle blossoms,
notes gravity through a fallen lemon’s
PGR 101
PGR 100
Only to become less. She picks up
a shovel, rotates soil and dirt, nourishes
planting beds where dormant tulips rest.
Ternura
Bathe me in Polish chocolate
not with that other indulgence.
I want you arrunchadito a mí
cozy like the protector hen
warming her chicks.
I want to be that nest, mí
tesoro that adore.
I want you inside the core of my kindness,
inside the flute of my kisses,
the sugary savor of plum
in the smooth touches
from my breast and waist.
Caress my body, caress me
the way you do it.
I recognized that I wished you
before I met you.
PGR 103
Here at the carwash, at the marriage of Lincoln Boulevard and Lucille,
from this lattice bench, I begin handing over a small piece of my heart
as if it is a coin. I begin this sudsy, shammied little love poem in my
head.
It’s the way he wicks every drop from the car’s body, polishing his own
reflection into the windows, how I keep thinking any minute he will
raise up his damp blue flag, the small piece of torn sky in his hand,
but he does not.
It is the way he continues to kneel beside my car as if recreating
the facets of a ruby or burnishing the red-orange back into the sun.
He is by no stretch Adonis or Bacchus or Apollo but here he kneels,
a sacrament of soap.
I vow to never park beneath the wild sycamores again, beneath the
harlot jacaranda, flinging her purple knee socks and sleeves
onto my hood. How he opens each door, leans in, as if he is tucking
his youngest into bed—
I love you, window. I love you, platinum door handle but now I’ve
crossed a line. This is, after all his job, but if he could see himself,
step back and watch, the slow reach of arm across glass, the glitterglint of wild apples rising from the paint,
this art of making something new again, with the blessing
of his palms, the flag waved overhead as if I am his wife, who’s just
stepped off the midday train, Here I am, Honey. Here I am.
Fabiola Herrera Triana
Helen MacKinlay
Julia Alter
PGR 102
Carwash Poem
To be loved
I’m a girl. My hair is brown.
It feels hopeless.
Shining angels in the book,
the same, all golden hair and haloes.
Who could ever be that bright,
that good?
PGR 104
Here’s the golden boy
riding his bicycle, as he always
arrives in my dreams—
Come back! he calls,
pulling me close.
Pure as that. Forget the old story.
The Tea House of War
Zaya considered herself to be of the utmost verve when the talk turned
to patriotism. For she considered herself to be a true patriot, and being such
she would uphold all and below the highest decree her magnificent state
provided to her and for the people. When she looked around at her fellow
man, she knew deeply that no one else could match her spirit or her ferocity when it came to defending the rights that had been chosen for her all
those years ago. For it had been years, almost four years since the land in
which she lived had gained independence from one of those smaller Eastern European countries that slides by a tourist bus without a single person
on board remembering the name. In those three plus years since independence, Zaya had vowed never to step foot on European soil, lest it begrime
her wardrobe with the filth of its founding fathers. She had her apartment
stocked full of various explosives, gas masks, and firearms so that should
her state be invaded, she would be fully prepared to fuck shit up. Yes, she
would volunteer herself bravely for her state, for the freedom of her fellow
Steven McGannon
by that little blond boy
in the picture on my wall.
PGR 105
Rosie King
Katie Bode
Donte Tidwell
PGR 107
the high stool of privilege that many pacifists were seated upon, citing their
mostly upper middle class backgrounds as unfairly swayed toward luxurious life with no experience in the necessity or reality of combat. The thing
that really irked Zaya was the attempted bans on certain firearms. One
year into freedom, her government had nearly been swayed into banning
military grade assault rifles from easy civilian access. Zaya knew also that
this was only due to the lesser bread section of the people, who simply did
not understand the rights given by the leaders to the citizens in the initial
weeks of freedom. It made her shudder to think that all the uneducated
underappreciated people of the state would not have access to the best in
weaponry. Being a new state, they were still in an up-for-grabs category as
far as larger nations were concerned, and it was essential for each citizen
to be prepared for any possible threat.
Zaya helped to organize many free weapons giveaways for homeless
people, the twenty-six inch expandable baton being her personal favorite
to pass on. She also strongly advocated drinking a large quantity of Hennessy or some other cognac before engaging in serious combat. Though she
never technically organized an offensive battle class, she would give out
tips for free, many times while cleaning and rinsing the remaining mugs at
the tea house during the night hours just prior to closing time.
On one night, after some nose-high suede elbow professor called Zaya’s
frantic refusal to see the positive side of banning certain weapons “irrational militarism”, Zaya made a lunge for him and caught him hard in the solar plexus with an albeit misshapen form to her attack. Due to her sizeable
frame, her arm had the power behind it to back up her sudden clumsiness.
Anastasiia Zavalo
PGR 106
citizens, and for the great blue piece of cloth with a white snail stitched in
the center that was the flag for which she stood.
Ready she was, and prepared at all times she willed to be. A fifth of
Hennessey in one hand and a rhomphaia in the other, Zaya often roamed
back and forth along the border in preemptive defense. Occasionally she
considered an all out attack of her own—just her, pounding the streets of
her enemies alone, slaughtering all the defenseless carpet gnats that should
try to stand up to her. For a fool one would be to lie in sleep at night if they
had a death wish from Zaya. She was mighty and great, and stood proud
at five feet and eleven inches, each inch prepared to die without question.
Not only was she sure of her defense and attack readiness, and of the immense love that she carried for her fellow minded people, but she was also
capable of brewing a sleek blackberry tea, which is why she worked at a
tea house.
Zaya would come to work almost every day with a new phrase or paragraph from the declaration of freedom that her tiny state had presented to
the world on the day of its true independence. She would write these sayings
in chalk on the walls of the place, and would hang decorative ornaments
near them occasionally to signify happiness. Often these ornaments would
be infant gas masks or little vials of Agent Orange that she had whipped up
at home in a salad bowl. She had hung one such quote above the sign of
the tea house that simply read, “Here our state sits; independent, and sort
of organized.” She so enjoyed this saying that whenever she came happily
skipping down the street, custom AR-15 swinging at her side, a broad sense
of bliss and elation could be felt drifting off of her by all those around.
During the days at the tea house, Zaya would frequently discuss political matters with passers-by. These discussions often turned cold, and chairs
would fly as she and whoever had confronted her bore fists at each other.
Though she was fairly muscular and large, often times her opponents were
of greater stature, and due to this Zaya had been brutally beaten more
than a few times. But she always remained steadfast, viciously snarling and
swingin’ a powerful left arm. Although these hostile fights had become an
essential part of the atmosphere of the little shop, they were not necessarily a constant. Many a time Zaya would simply be seated at a booth with a
large mug of Hennessy, discussing in the most eloquent terms why meaningless violence was such a useful tool. Her arguments mainly consisted of
technicalities, such as the true definition of violence, and dismissive anger
at passivity. She would also manipulate leftist values, using certain aspects
of the supposed “acceptance” that non-violent movements stood behind as
a claim to the notion that violence must necessarily be included in the ideals of any blanket statement tolerance. She also became defiantly harsh of
Alissa Goldring
Alex Surber
ry, tossing whatever she could grab down to the hoard of citizens that had
come far and wide to partake in her giveaway. She had alerted her entire
town, as well as a couple neighboring towns, that she would gladly be the
one to lead them fearlessly into battle. And, she assured them they would
have all the drink they required, if not a fully loaded assault weapon. The
AR-15 had always been Zaya’s choice gun, but she had a few crates of
MAC-11s that she knew had to be given out as well. The discipline it took
to properly use a MAC-11 was a problem, as the vast majority of the crowd
wouldn’t know how to handle one with the awareness required to operate
such a high rate of fire. Zaya couldn’t worry about this much however, as
there was no time to sort people out by past weaponry experience. So she
just kept handing them out, inviting a few of her friends to help hand out
the ammo.
After a few days, her full stock of imported firearms had drained
out. Zaya was suited up in fatigues, and had even finished off her face with
a vale of mud colored war paint, dotted with bits of white. Her trusty gun in
her hands, and a head which she had shaven a few days prior, she moved
forth with her town behind her. They traveled for three days with no sign
of an enemy, and ended up at the borderline of the nation, where a small
stream sat running the whole length of visibility in either direction. Zaya sat
at the edge of the stream and kicked the water with her boot. After a few
hours went by, a bomb was dropped almost directly along the stream, killing Zaya and all the people who had followed her so courageously to the
defense of their country. She died staring at the reflection of the sky in the
water, thinking wistfully of the tea house with a smile on her face.
PGR 109
PGR 108
It was obviously out of passion, her lunge, or else she would have been in
better stance. She knew how to take a beating, but was not going to take
any such thing from this scholarly maggot. She reared her head back with
her eyes wide and terrifying as the professor crumpled to the floor, the
vague impression of where a fancy quill had once sat still visible on his
unconscious finger. He was probably only around five and a half feet, not a
hard drop as far as Zaya was concerned. And as she loomed over him, she
couldn’t help but remember all the previous little blowflied fuckers that had
used “rational ideas” to belittle her cause. She grabbed his arms in rage and
dragged him through the door of the tea house, where she left him to fend
for himself in the mud and rain.
Occasionally, it became somewhat unclear that Zaya’s confrontations
with random customers at the tea shop were out of passion for her young
nation’s rights. But it was the only route to keeping true freedom in her
eyes, every bit as important as chopping down the remaining date palms
that littered the surrounding area near the border. For those trees were in
prime spots for building possible guard fortifications. Zaya would sometimes chop down a tree here or there when her busy schedule allowed for
it, and then take her truck and dump the wood at the nearest landfill. After
such an outing, Zaya would return to the tea house and pour herself a mug
full of scalding hot water, drop a few sugar cubes in, cloud the surface with
milk, throw in a bag of blackberry tea, and pour in just a few drops of Hennessy. Then she would sit back by the fire in an oak rocking chair, and drift
off into a daydream.
When the day
came that the state
was invaded, Zaya
lifted her left arm
high with a fist and
prepared for the fate
that she had always
waited for. The first
week of the invasion,
Zaya was busy readying the town she
lived in for whatever
wave of scum came
at them first. She was
on the roof of her
house with boxes of
ammo and weapon-
You hear the ocean breathing,
restless and restful,
never ending or forgetting.
Again in the garden,
this time tending the thorns,
the child says,
Heaven
is in the making.
How beautiful the night,
the stars’ steady shining.
While there is time,
you take up
the heaven
of your own making.
Don Monkerud
PGR 111
A child finds you in the throng and tells you,
It’s all heaven. Always has been.
You’ll remember.
How beautiful
the old gods we rejected.
Even sitting in council, some doodling
on sheets of burnished gold, others
falling asleep in the middle of speeches,
all in need of dental work.
Yet when they speak,
how beautiful their uncertainty.
And the people, the flesh of their faces
soft and smooth
or with lines like rivers,
their eyes opening
also inward.
You see the great garden
and, hard at work, again that child,
who tells you,
Each atom of you is a deity
that never forgets.
Even the bullet holes, shattered limbs and tumors.
Peggy Hansen
Len Anderson
PGR 110
Ten Things You Need To Know about Heaven
When you see the sky go up in flames,
you need not change
your worn and smudged apron
and those sun-bleached garden jeans
with one knee breaking through. By these
the gods who made this world
will know you, still bent over
in their work clothes too.
And when the sun begins to whirl
like a Mevlevi dervish,
its skirt growing wide
in the sky, join in this dance.
One hand up, one down,
offer heaven and earth
to each other.
Continue on, even if you
are blazing. From these signs
the gods, dancing in their own blaze,
will know you are of service.
For there is ever much to be done
in each new world to be made.
Vegetable Rights!
Save a carrot, eat a cow.
As long as man and animal have lived on this earth, they have
kept a lifeline going by assuming their correct places on the food chain.
The herbivores have eaten the plants; the carnivores have eaten each
other. Today our very existence is threatened.
As you know, there has been a growing cult in recent times, one
that poses itself against the likes of meat eating. The vegans! They are
heavily in favor of consuming the only living organisms to have never
caused any harm to anyone… vegetables! Our friends the vegetables are
in grave danger of being consumed by an unholy vegan’s mouth, where
they will be viscously shredded into bits, helpless and vulnerable to the
attack.
Dan Linehan
Steven McGannon
Len Anderson
How To Dress for the End of the World
Our vegetative brothers are slaughtered and consumed, regardless
of their proven feelings. If you have spent time with carrots or eggplants
like I have done for countless hours, you too would understand the beauty
of such spiritual beings. Why can we not simply kill a chicken and eat it?
Why must the innocent helpless mutes be taken down so savagely by a
power hungry cult such as the vegans?
Of course, sadly, there will never be a class of life on this planet
that will go completely unthreatened, but we can improve. We can do
better. We must stop this vegetative exploitation.
DO YOUR PART AND
BOYCOTT VEGAN RESTAURANTS.
Dan Linehan
PGR 113
PGR 112
Stop the slaughter of vegetables.
Eat meat.
Angela
n
Sarkisya
Klaus vo
n Kries
PGR 115
Peter Klembara
PGR 114
Peggy
Hansen
(background
photo)
Ann Keniston
Deference
My students pause, struggle to express
what’s already there in Dickinson’s poems
but can’t be paraphrased. Ten years ago,
I sat along a wooden table in late sun,
Stacey Frank
as they do now, and heard these poems
read aloud, then waited with my professor
for something to be released. Sometimes I thought
I could feel the space
the poems were formed around
and sometimes with the others I entered
a poem for a minute or more,
was held by it, made dizzy,
then released. To try to talk about this
was to instruct each other
in deference. Too young
and far from here, my professor,
my friend is dying. No phrase
or poem can hold her. She helped me see
Dickinson’s poems recede the more
we understand and love them, their faith
PGR 117
Stacey Frank
PGR 116
always a mode of doubt, endpoints
deferred.
Alex Surber
Fresh snow had fallen a few days ago. The moon was as fat as it would
get before loosing weight again. The temperature dropped drastically.
Mother and I had stayed up in our “living” room where all our indoor life
happened. Again we had Stromsperre—a blackout—and only candlelight
lit the area around our small table, while we were waiting for the time to
pass. The governor of the Soviet occupation zone had ordered it again this
year, 1948, three years after the end of World War II. The slowly resuming
factory production needed electricity. Even in school, teachers, booklets,
and posters admonished us to save: an electric outlet pictured as a fierceeyed, big-mouthed energy monster, was eager to gorge itself on electricity!
I had already done my homework under the flickering light of a candle,
careful not to tip it and spill wax on the precious paper. Although my eyes
started tearing sometimes, the light rays felt cozy, especially, when we sang
folksongs while we mended, knitted, or crocheted. Mending stockings had
been next, then Mother resumed knitting a pair of mittens, and I re-reading
Grimm’s fairy tale “About Someone who Left Home to Learn Fear.” It set
me wondering about what made me feel afraid, and why or when? As the
evening progressed, it was getting colder and colder. Our small iron canon
stove had eaten up the last wood. I had checked it and seen only a few
charred pieces with some read glimmers.
Finally, Mother said, “Well, I think it’s time to go; why don’t you get your
clothes,“ fidgeting nervously with her hands as she rose from the sofa, her
bed at night. The plain wooden clock above our pine buffet showed eleven
o’clock. “I feel anxious tonight; I wouldn’t go if we had just a little wood
left, but…” She sighed. I thought, no, it’s thrilling, not frightening! You never knew exactly how things would go. I was already on my feet, fetching
my coat and shoes. I pulled a pair of homemade wool pants over my wool
stockings and the knitted wool socks, and squeezed my feet into my old
boots. They were tight, I would need new ones soon. Maybe from a bigger
child who had outgrown his or hers and mother could sew for the family in
exchange for the shoes? I wore the bulky sheep wool pullover Mother had
knitted with yarn from a moth-damaged sweater. With the end of the knit
sleeve in my fist, I forced my arm through the sleeve of the black wool coat
Mother had sewed for me. Its soft fir-trimmed hood felt tight and warm.
Meanwhile Mother had pulled her shabby black ski pants over the long
woolen underpants, slipped on her worn leather boots, and a gray wool
sweater over the green turtle neck. The knee-length Lodenmantel—which
no rain or wind could penetrate, as she said, was the final covering. Tonight
she wore the heavy fur cap that covered her head and ears completely because it was probably at least minus ten degrees centigrade outside. With
all the heavy clothes, her movements looked so clumsy that I almost had to
laugh. Oh, my mittens! I ran to fetch them.
When we stepped outside, the cold took my breath away. The thermometer read minus twelve degrees centigrade. The moon stood high above, its
brightness dimming the stars. Mother took a few quick steps to the shed that
shared one wall with the house. It stored garden tools, a cage, a little cart,
our skis, and the mahogany sled. Mother pulled it out; seized two sackcloth
potato bags from the shelf, some string, stiff from the cold, and somehow
managed to tie the bags to the sled. I picked up the rope attached to the
front cross-bar of the sled and pulled it around the corner onto the path to
our exit gate.
The moonlight drew vague outlines of the snow-laden gooseberry and
currant bushes along our fence, of our vegetable beds, and of the enormous
old birch on the road with a fragile white load on its branches. Way across
from us, in the distance, one of our many abruptly rising sand stone mountains called Lily Stone, loomed high above the Elbe River Valley and our
settlement. I loved this mountain! I greeted it like a friend every morning,
when I pulled the curtains and pushed open the shutters to see what the
weather was like. I knew it so intimately that even now, sixty-three years
later, I could sketch it. Now, its moonlit silhouette stood majestically outlined against the dark sky.
I positioned the sled face downhill on our path, sat on it and pushed off,
holding on to the smooth wooden slats of the sled behind me. The sled glided slowly down our path, on which the trampled-down snow had turned
into a firm surface. I loved sledding, and felt perfectly confident that I could
PGR 119
Sigrid McLaughlin
PGR 118
Full Moon in Winter
handle it, steering and braking,
although the sled was still rather
big for me. I had been riding on it
since age three! Mother was right
on my heels. At the gate, I got off
the sled; she stopped and looked
around.
“Shshshsh...I want to see
whether anyone’s around,” she
whispered. We stood like statues.
Not a breeze or a sound disturbed
the silence; just blood pounding
in my ears. And then, I noticed
that familiar exciting, titillating
smell of fresh snow I’d known and
savored for years. Where did this
smell come from? I wondered,
sucking it in and sniffing. Our
breath hovered around us like
wisps of clouds around mountain
peaks. We started walking towards the dead end of our street, where the trail
to the forest began. With the slur of the sled I was pulling and the screeching of the packed snow underfoot—as if in pain when our heavy boots dug
into it—we covered the short stretch quickly. Within a few minutes Mother
stopped again, her shawl pressed against her freezing nose and her vertical
index finger against her mouth to signal silence. It was as if all movement had
surrendered to the frost and the night, and only we lacked peace.
As soon as we reached the trail, the loosely packed snow muted our steps.
The path led through undulating meadows and soon we entered the forest.
Under the canopy of dense fir trees, the snow cover of the trail was thinner
and walking easier. Only patches of moonlight penetrated; it took a while
for our eyes to adjust. Suddenly, Mother slowed to a stop, pointing to a dark
shape flowing into the trunk of a tree at some distance from the path. Was this
a person watching? The shape didn’t move. Not a branch stirred, not a cone
fell, nor a rabbit jumped across the path, startled by us intruders.
After a few minutes, we reached our destination, a large pile of logs from
which the bark had been shaved off. We had been here in the summer, when
workers using long poles with a sharp blade at the end had peeled the bark off
the logs; we tried grabbing the peel, competing with too many other people; it
was perfect kindling for a fire, once dried. The peeled logs, two yards long and
six to eight inches in diameter, sat in piles to be sent on to the Soviet Union as
reparations for the war. Mother quickly untied the sackcloth bags and laid
them on the sled, stretched out lengthwise; then we pushed and prodded a
log loose from under the snow, grabbed and pulled it our way, and dropped
one end of it, where the sackcloth was open. I held the opening apart and
Mother pushed the log into the bag. We did the same with a second log.
They were smooth without their bark, and easy to slide into the bags. Just
when we were ready to leave, we heard a man’s voice, that shook us like
thunder from the sky,
“Stop! Stay right there! Don’t move! I know what you’re doing!” It was
a strong and clear voice, commanding, demanding; the voice of a nononsense man. At least he wasn’t shouting at us; but he sounded tough,
and self-confident, like a strict parent, expecting respect and obedience.
My heart sank; our luck had deserted us. What was he going to do? What
would become of us? I felt that we had a right to have firewood; such a
stealing out of need wasn’t really stealing, even if it was forbidden and he
had caught us red-handed. What could he say and do? We were just a Mom
and a child. And where in the world had he been hiding?
A large black figure stepped forward into the moon light from behind a
cluster of small firs. A Russian fur hat with flaps tied under his chin covered
his head and left little of his face exposed. I could make out wrinkles across
his forehead, and a very deep one in the middle as if continuing the ridge of
the nose. His lips were tightly squeezed together. He looked old. He must
have fought in the war, I thought. Maybe he had even been a prisoner of war
in the Soviet Union? As he moved, moonlight through branches splashed
scattered patterns and patches over a padded dark jacket and pants; his legs
stuck in high felt boots. A shawl wrapped more than once around his neck,
hung off to the side. He must have been freezing, waiting somewhere for
hours in this cold.
He pulled out a flashlight and shone it on us. Frowning, he looked back
and forth between Mother and me, standing beside her, a head smaller. His
face looked pale and drawn, the eyes alert and sharp, and at the same time
weary. He frowned.
“What do you think you’re doing? This is stealing!!! And you’re teaching
a child to steal! You know it’s forbidden! And you’ll have to deal with the
police and all the consequences.” His words sliced into us.
“But please listen! Why do you think we’re doing this? Do you think WE
LIKE to steal wood? Do you think it’s FUN to go out in the middle of the
night in icy-cold weather? We have nothing to heat our room with!! Nothing drops from the sky!” Mother defended us. I shook with excitement and
anxiety. How would this turn out?! He answered like an animal that had
been teased, straining to bite,
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Virginia Draper
case, we’ll tell you ‘good- bye’ and happy days in the cell (prison). So what
am I to do?” His eyes looked sad; now he was asking for OUR sympathy; in
some way he was also a in an impossible situation, forced to tell on people
whose actions he could condone at heart, but was obliged to prosecute.
Mother shook her head; she understood. He also was under pressure to
turn in thieves. Then, shrugging her shoulders with a sigh, she said,
“Well, you’re in a squeeze too, and I’m sorry. But please! Just let us go.
We’ll leave the logs, so nothing’s lost for you. Please! My old parents and
my siblings would be so ashamed and upset, if the entire town would find
out that we were trying to steal wood! And Sigi, my daughter, and I, we’d
be ashamed, too. “ She looked up, trying to find his eyes, as if speaking to
them to gain entry this way to his heart. He was an honest person; he had
let us know his situation as if we were on the same level.
“You should have thought of this before; now it’s too late,” he answered;
“I need your name and address.” Oh no, now he switched back to his superior position.
“My name is Erika Maurer, Hermann Schulze Str. 2, in the settlement
outside of town. Please, don’t tell on us. I would love to give you something, but I have no valuables left; you see, we left Berlin after our apartment was damaged in fall of 1944; we managed to bring along only some
basics. You know what transportation was like then! And whatever we had,
we bartered already in ’45: a silver necklace, a gold ring, the radio, the
linen tablecloth with napkins, a couple of books—just for some potatoes
or even just peels, and some flour. We were hungry!” She paused, caught
up emotionally in these very recent experiences, her voice trailing…Then
she continued,
“I still have an old canister vacuum; but we need it; with our clay soil it’s
very dirty right outside the house, and it’s unavoidable that we drag in mud.
And we also need our only carpet, a Sisal; the bare floor is really cold...
You see, the two of us live alone, and I have very little money; I use my
old Singer sewing machine to alter and sew clothing—that’s my income. I
could do that for you, or knit you a vest if you have some old wool. We live
in temporary housing; last year we finally got an outhouse; until then, we
used buckets. We’re poor…” How she could talk, amazing; like a waterfall,
I thought; so fast and so smooth. She told him the truth. I almost felt sorry
for us. How sad and drab it looked; yet, we did sing and enjoy the garden
and hiking. It was just bad in winter. Snow suddenly dropped from a branch
above and fell on the sled; it was fluffy from the cold, like a dusting.
“Take the logs out and put them back, and then just leave, and quickly
before I change my mind…” His voice sounded subdued; softer. What a
relief; the trap that had shut wasn’t locked; that’s how it felt.
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“You know that our men prepared these logs for shipping to the
USSR as part of our reparation payments. Evidently you forget that WE ATTACKED AND DESTROYED THEIR COUNTRY beyond belief! They deserve
everything from us! This is the Soviet occupation zone!” He emphasized
every word. “Besides, you’re stealing from our fledging state, which exists
to benefit you. Stealing means sabotaging our state as well as defying our
best friend, the Soviet Union! This is….”
“But, but, the state is supposed to provide for us and doesn’t! So what
are we going to do?’ Mother interrupted. He ignored her and continued,
“And whose fault is all the destruction? The Germans! And this probably
isn’t your first time! You are an adult and should know that there are consequences for such actions. What’s your name?” He had pulled out a pen
and was fumbling in his pocket for what turned out to be a small notebook.
“Please, please, don’t tell on us.” Mother pleaded. “We definitely
wouldn’t think of stealing if we had some other way of heating our room;
but there’s really no wood to buy, not to speak of coal. We tried everything.
We used up all the wood we managed to collect in the summer. There’s
no electricity at night either, so we can’t even use our Heizsonne (‘heating
sun’--a small coiled electric heater with a reflective liner). You must know
it yourself!” I didn’t quite understand some of the words he had used, but I
got the meaning. Hitler did terrible harm, terrible, terrible, and the man felt
guilty. He surely had been a soldier.
The man sighed and shone his light at us again. As he manipulated it,
I could get another glimpse of his face—wrinkled, bushy eye-brows, big
mouth; not unpleasant. He looked like he’d be a dad who could take care
of his family.
“Look,” Mother continued. “The wall behind my daughter’s bed is grey
and black with mold from the moisture; and sometimes it’s so cold inside
that the area sparkles from ice crystals in the corner! She’s only eight, and
mold so close isn’t exactly healthy. Her featherbed is damp and ice-cold.
Please, put yourself in our situation! It’s just the two of us. So what am I to
do?” Mother continued to plead.
“I understand your situation. It IS difficult. You’re not the only ones in
that situation, and many are worse off; I don’t have a solution for you. The
state is doing all it can; and stealing isn’t the answer!!” Ah, he understands
us, I thought. He continued,
“Here‘s my situation: I’m employed to guard these logs. It’s my job. I get
paid. I need the pay for my family. When the supervisor sees that logs are
stolen from a pile I’m supposed to guard, he‘ll ask me ‘how can the logs be
gone when you’re watching? Either you watch and catch the thieves and
no logs vanish, or you sleep or don’t go to work or take bribes. If that’s the
taking turns pushing and pulling until long past midnight. The next day we
sawed the logs into small stumps and took turns splitting them into pieces.
The following week it was too painful to ride the sled to school, and, at
night, I slept on my side. But indoors it was warm and cozy; it was worth
paying that price.
And now…I felt sad and exhausted. The bracing excitement had vanished. The low light of the descending moon, the snow-capped tree dwarfs,
the white expanse glinting with trillions of sparkling precious stones, the
bluish softness of undulating shadows beyond the forest—all was lost on
us. We had gone in vain. Where would we get logs now? Should we risk
going back again at another time or day? Find another pile? Where? We
needed the wood! Would he tell on us or not? The bed would be freezing
again. Maybe the blackout would be over and we could plug in the heater?
I’d keep all my clothing on.
Sandra Vines
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We turned to do what he said, but I wasn’t strong enough to lift up the
log from the sled and onto the pile; besides, the log was slippery and heavy.
He stepped forward and helped Mother to pick up first one and then the
other log und return them to the pile.
“Thank you for your help, and feel free to ask me for any sewing or knitting work for you and your family. You got my address,” she said in a perky
voice, as if a burden had fallen off her shoulders. He didn’t respond. Maybe
he had to sort out his conflicting feelings? Maybe he wanted to leave this
episode open? At any rate, we felt like prisoners reluctantly released after a
humiliating experience. But we had no firewood.
We walked back, heads bent, eyes glued to the snow, pulling our empty
sled home to the cold room. I thought of the last time when we had to
steal logs, how lucky we had been then. We had returned with three logs.
But what happened before only three weeks ago …that had been scary. …
When we had been at the log pile just loading the third log, a hoarse voice
suddenly had called from some distance into the cold night,
“Is there someone? Heh, who’s there?”
“Psst,” Mother had hissed to me. We quickly yanked the last bag onto
the sled, as the noise of steps came closer. “Get on the sled in front and
lets head downhill toward Schandauer Road,” she had whispered. We had
pushed off and kept wedging our feet frantically into the snow to lunge forward with increasing speed, holding on to the sled with our hands—, as the
noise of the pursuer followed us. All the while the voice shouted,
“Stop! Stop you Goddam thieves! I’ll get you, you riffraff! Stop!”
There was rage in that voice. God forbid you had to meet the speaker.
We kept holding the logs pressed to the sled with our bodies; holding on
to the sidebars of the sled. Each bump, branch, or unevenness underneath
felt like a kick or poke in the bottom; it was wood against sit bone or flesh,
slipping out of and into the cracks between the logs; no wiggling helped. It
was ‘grin and bear it,’ as long as we got away.
Slowly his cursing had diminished and then ceased. We had felt so
excited and happy with our loot. I had felt like taunting him with laughter!
Yippi eh yippiiiiiii I laughed internally, then let it out a little. “Yeeeeh!” We
had outfoxed the guy! We’d won the battle! We’d have a warm room for
a week or longer! But we had gone far out of the way home on that night
through our downhill escape. When we got to the Schandauer Street we
had been able to race down on the empty well-packed paved road, until
we came to the unpaved connector up to our settlement way above. Getting up from the sled, Mother moaned; I felt as if I’d been whipped (I never
was, but figured that’s what it was like). Every part of my bottom and my
inner thighs hurt. We had pulled the sled with the logs all the way up home,
Nature Boy in Silicon Valley
Margaret’s Braids
Naked, Apollo was reading while feeling the breeze
up in his tree-house as I was doing in mine.
My friend Margaret was poised and slender.
I envied the braids that lay heavy on her back,
Those braids her mother plaited every morning,
I wondered what they talked about
While she wielded the brush?
My mother was too busy for such fussing.
“Long hair saps your strength, she said,
“See how thin Margaret is, she easily catches cold!”
When the older kids found him they circled the trunk chanting
Hey Nature Boy! Hey Faggot!
while tearing apart his sister’s Barbie dolls, fighting over the pieces,
ammo for their new slingshots.
The heads flew best, blonde comets ending up tangled in the branches
or impaled on the bark.
Helen MacKinlay
Robert S. Pesich
Margaret drew approval like a magnet.
Her refined fragility contrasted
my plump vigor. Her braids were
obviously the key to her charm.
surely long hair tumbling down my back
would sap my badness, make me as acceptable.
I longed for hair my mother would want to brush.
They stole white stones from his mother’s garden and nailed him, repeatedly.
The branches broke his fall and body
twisted and unconscious on his neighbor’s lawn.
Everyone scattered. I climbed down after dark.
A month later, before the family moved, his father chopped down the tree
and uprooted the stump.
For years, sawdust and needles dressed the street, the sidewalks,
my bedroom floor.
These pills do nothing. I’m still waking up at night, sometimes to collect the dust
that my feet and legs become,
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Alissa Goldring
PGR 126
trying to mold the dried pith into feet, a boy, a bird, but never fast enough
before my hands dissolve.
My Constant Companion
There’s a ringing in my ears. Loud, high pitched, incessant like the emergency broadcast signal. Nothing can make it go away. No pill, no procedure, no mantra, no nothing. Not even for a short break. It is always there.
Every time I go to bed. Every time I wake up. Every conversation. Every
quiet moment. For the last five months, it’s been my constant irritation.
Sometimes I just can’t stand it anymore I get panicky, desperate to crawl
out from under the ringing. I made an appointment to see Dr. Speagle M.D.,
a highly respected ear, nose, and throat specialist. It took a month and a
half to get in to see him. I hope that means he’s good. What is keeping me
sane right now is the thought that soon I will travel the yellow brick road to
the office of the great and all knowing Dr. Speagle. Not in search of brains,
or heart, or courage, just some peace and quiet. Surely he can grant me
that!
Finally my appointment has arrived. I sit in a crowded waiting room on
the third floor of a large medical complex overlooking a sea of parked cars.
I am filled with anxiety and great expectation. I fidget with my briefcase,
looking for ways to distract myself.
In front of me sits an elderly man who has hearing aids in both ears. His
wife is sitting next to him talking his ear off. She is speaking so quickly I can
hardly make out what she is saying. He adjusts his hearing aide. I am pretty
sure he is tuning her out. Our eyes meet briefly. I smile to acknowledge
that I know what he’s up to. He nods and smiles back. I’m envious. I wish I
could tune my noise out the way he can.
Next to me is a boy of about eight or so. His mom is tugging on his arm
telling him, “Stop playing with the cotton ball in your ear.”
I think to myself, Come on Mom, stop nagging him. It’s hard to sit still
when you are so uncomfortable.
I start to feel self-conscious about mentally butting into other people’s
business. I need something to soothe myself. I peruse the magazine rack.
There are lots of Sports Illustrated, some Architectural Digests, and two
Good Housekeeping magazines. I pick up the March issue of Good Housekeeping because it has a pretty woman on the cover. I open it up to “Ask
Peggy”, an advice column on manners. Peggy is lecturing us on the importance of being polite in modern day society. Oh God, what a bunch of crap.
I’m going back to eavesdropping. Peggy might not approve, but at least it
distracts me from the racket going on in my head.
A woman with a kind, soft voice approaches me.“I’m an audiologist. I
will be testing your hearing today.” As we walk to her office she tells me,
“85% of ear ringing is due to hearing loss.” I’m quite surprised to hear that.
Other than my wife, who claims I don’t listen to her, I’ve never considered
that there is anything wrong with my hearing.
After performing a battery of tests, the audiologist smiles, “You have
better than average hearing for a man your age.” Then her voice shifts and
takes on a serious tone. “I’m afraid the bad news is you are one of the 15%
of those patients that we are just not sure what is causing your tinnitus.
You’ll need to discuss that with Dr. Speagle.”
Back to the waiting room I go. I’m not sure whether to be relieved or
disturbed. I like knowing that I’m not going deaf. But I am not sure I like
being in the unknown origin category. Still I’m counting on Dr. Wizard to
work his magic.
I look up as a nurse, with a tired monotone voice, calls out my name.
Our footsteps echo in synchronized cadence as I follow her down
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David Zimmerman
T. Mike Walker
“Wait!” I say, thinking, You insensitive bastard. “At least let’s talk about
what is out there for me to try.” And I tell him about the herbs, nutritional
supplements, homeopathic remedies, acupuncture, chiropractics, and cranial sacral therapy I have already experimented with. He seems surprised
at how knowledgeable I am. He thinks for a moment then reaches into a
drawer and pulls out a free sample of Veramyst Nasal Spray along with
brochure for a tinnitus product called Silent Night. He tells me, “It was developed by a medical doctor in Sedona, Arizona.” I recognize the logo from
a late night infomercial I saw when I couldn’t sleep because of my tinnitus.
As I am flipping through the literature, he slips out the door and is gone.
Once again I am alone in the tiny little room. Just me and my tinnitus,
bouncing off the walls. The appointment that I thought would miraculously
solve my problem, is over. I have no magic prescription. No referral for
further treatment. All I have is Dr. Speagle’s words ringing in my ears, This
will never go away. There’s nothing you can do about it.
I feel numb and lost. I walk down the long tile corridor by myself. As I
pass her desk the receptionist stops me and asks, “Sir, would you like to
make another appointment?” I look at her bewilderedly and shuffle on
down the stairwell.
Once back inside the familiarity of my car, I start to feel again. I am
about to cry. I am about to scream. But instead I’m polite, so as not to
disturb others in the parking lot. Finally I close my eyes, breathe out hard,
and kick my feet on the floor boards. This grants me enough composure to
drive myself to the gym. I need to get in the pool and have myself some
submerged alone time.
As I am floating in the water, a vivid fantasy bubbles up into my mind.
I see myself continuing to do all the things I believe will heal my tinnitus.
And it works. My ringing dissolves into silence. I imagine sneaking back
into Dr. Speagle’s office. I wait for him in at the end of his long corridor.
And when he steps out of a patient’s room, I confront him.
“Hey remember me, you motherfucker. You said I wouldn’t get better.
Well, I did! Thanks for pissing me off so much that I pursued everything I
could just to prove you wrong!”
Well it’s been three years now. Some days my ringing is really bad. Some
days I hardly notice it at all. I have learned what aggravates it and I know
how to calm it down. I still think Dr Speagle is an insensitive asshole. And
I haven’t given up on proving him wrong. But until then I strive each day
to live in peaceful coexistence with my constant companion, ear ringing.
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the long, tile corridor. At the end she turns and points to a doorway on the
right. Crunch. I plop down on the paper covered exam table in the center
of the room. Without saying a word she clicks the door shut. And I hear my
chart slide into the door slot awaiting Dr. Speagle’s arrival.
This room is so claustrophobic I feel the ringing in my ears reverberate off
the walls. It’s hard to sit still so I walk over and look at the medical degrees
hanging on the wall. Dr. Speagle graduated from the same university I did.
This is definitely a good sign.
I pick up one of the laminated medical charts laying on the counter. It is
an illustrated diagram of an enlarged Eustachian tube, courtesy of Veramyst
Nasal Spray. I pick up Dr. Speagle’s otoscope and read the fine print. Then
I wonder if there is a hidden camera in the room and if he is watching me
messing with his stuff. In mid-thought I hear my chart being lifted out of
the door slot. I quickly put the scope into its holder and hop back onto the
exam table.
He walks in. I look at him. He does not look at me. He is flipping through
my chart. I am a bit disappointed. He looks like an ordinary doctor: white
coat, medium build, shiny shoes. Still, this is the moment I have been waiting for. So here goes.
“You have tinnitus. It is due to hearing loss. It’s not going away. There
is nothing you can do about it. It will probably get worse as you get older.
Ha, ha, ha”, he laughs. “You can take antidepressants, if you want. There
is also a devise which I can give you a brochure about. It’s like a hearing
aide. It produces a sound that matches the pitch of your ringing and cancels
it out. It costs about a $1,000. Insurance won’t pay for it. And the funny
thing is, it doesn’t really work. Ha, ha, ha,” he laughs again.
I’m so fuckin’ pissed off. I want to take the ball point pen in his coat
pocket and shove it into his right ear canal. How do you like that Dr Speagle? Ha, ha, ha. Real funny, isn’t it? Now you’re in pain and I’m laughing
at you.
I contain my rage as he turns toward the door. “Wait a minute. You don’t
even know the history of my symptoms. This all started after I had surgery.
I was placed on large doses of aspirin and anti-inflammatory medication.
These both have tinnitus as possible side effects. I’ve never had ear ringing
before. And besides, the audiologist already told me the ringing is not due
to hearing loss.”
“Well you probably fried your nerves with the anti inflammatories and
now you have ringing.”
“But I only took them for a few weeks.”
“I don’t know what to tell you.” And again he heads for the door.
PGR 132
Peggy Hansen
I broke an egg into a small
bowl. A few more pieces of shell
this time. The chickens haven’t
had a good laying season. Poor
things had to contend with more
dust than usual. The rains were
late this year. An abundance of
insects and grubs has always depended on the rains. A dry season
means weak shells from the lack
of life crawling around the coop. It is just like that. My hens scratch day
in and day out with a look of bewilderment on their cocked, crooked little
heads. This season’s eggs have flat yolks pale in color. I know my crostata
will not be what I want it to be. But I still brush egg over the dough before
I bake it. The best eggs leave a shine on the crust I can see myself in. Not
with any kind of detail. I just expect to see the color in my cheeks like
there’s a fire in the room. My recipe says, “brush with a beaten egg.” I obey
the wisdom. It’s my grandmother’s recipe, not mine.
From the oven I pull peaches and ginger, with raspberry framboise
nestled within perfect folds. The peaks have a blush like my face when I’m
embarrassed...because I am a very good baker. It seems like a dream to me.
Except the memories of this dream are the equal of my memories of reality.
I know my grandmother’s recipes by heart. Why did I put lemon zest in the
dough? She never did. But I remember putting it in. I had lemon peel left
over from squeezing a lemon for tea. I put it in because I had it? I make
dough ahead of time and let it rest until I need it. Grandmother never made
anything ahead of time. And she drew from the fruit that was available. She
never waited. She never rested.
We only recently planted ginger. Mother was very curious. She
went to the docks. Found a ship with lettering painted on its side in a language she could not read. She said the letters looked more like drawings of
houses made of twisted and woven branches. I didn’t know what she was
talking about. She came home that evening with ginger. Few have ginger
growing in their garden. We never had any until my mother came home
that evening. That evening. Grandmother’s recipes were never a part of that
evening. They were part of evenings long lost. How could ginger ever be a
part of her recipe? It is. How could it be? We didn’t have ginger until my
Alissa Goldring
Asleep in the flowers and orange delight
Their faces are blank, as blank as their minds
I found out your trick, a jealous device
But float in your eyes, as we melted the ice
Do you remember, in January, under glowing pink skies,
You tasted like sugar, or so you implied
I’ll live in your questions
I’ll die with the guilt
I’ll cut my wings slowly
So your petals won’t wilt
I’d be lonely in heaven, all my friends are in hell
My prayers went unanswered, but my sins all went well.
I’ve missed you since then, your skeletal smile
I’m still frozen deep in precious denial.
It Rains Like
Memories
PGR 133
David Sudocz
Roland Spires
Windfarm
the memories we have of those we knew. It’s like a point in time for the living. So death is really closer to us than we think. When the apricots come,
my grandmother returns to me. My grandfather must return to her in the
same way, if I imagine my grandmother daydreaming forever.
I have a secret. I add a little cinnamon to the fruit in my crostata. It’s
the same spice I sprinkle on my tea cake. The same cake we had with our
tea the last morning we were together. I can taste it now, mixing with the
scent of your body. I wish I could have been with you the way you wanted
me.
I was dreaming last night. My baby sister came to me. I was visiting with grandmother. She and my sister didn’t get along. Girls were not
supposed to be free-spirited. They got into great rows over my sister’s just
wanting to live life. Grandmother was unpleasant in the dream. But I will
choose to remember her differently. Besides, this dream was not about her.
I have one vivid memory of my sister, a small thing she said about
a book she had read. She was 13 years old. That would have made me 17.
She looked up to me. She mispronounced the name of the author in a funny
way. Wait, that wasn’t it. My memories are fragile and in need of constant
repair. It was a Peanuts cartoon from ages ago, before Woodstock. Snoopy
was the author. Sitting on top of his doghouse with his typewriter in front of
him. A dog as an author...that means there’s hope for me. The cartoon was
a pun. Snoopy’s nom de plume was Erich Beagle. I can hear Karen exactly
as she said it, “E-rich Beagle.” I thought it was funny. I am afraid of losing
the only sound of her voice I have.
The room was overheated with light
and a bit stuffy. Karen came in and said she
was going to open the window. She looked
as she did when she was 17. She always
wore a precocious smile. Grandmother
rebuffed her, telling her not to bother us.
Karen turned and walked away, still smiling. She had her own way of doing her hair.
As she went into the hall she turned to me
and said, “I’m here for you.” Her voice is now older than it was
in my memory. That’s the dream. Karen’s
been gone a long time. I tell people she was
taken from me. I will never stop loving my
baby sister. I’m going back to bed with the
window closed. The dream has made me
believe we can still grow old together.
Keri Allan
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mother went to the docks.
The recipe calls for peaches with a golden blush. Have I told you
how peaches got their blush?
My grandmother never peeled peaches. She said, “The skin is the
best part, where the sun leaves behind a blush, like the cheeks of young
lovers having their first kiss. The day your grandfather first kissed me under
the peach tree, I felt the sun rise in the shade. I must have blushed a golden
red. I think the peaches were jealous. The next day they got their blush and
together we harvested our fill. So never peel love away from your life.” And
she told me, “Always enjoy the fruit you have. You may find the fruit of your
neighbor sour.”
As she spoke those words, my eyes followed her warm breath, and
for the first time in my life I could see her age. She started to slice the last
peach for me. But she tired, and soon went to sleep. I took the peach and
the knife from her hands, took the towel from her lap and wiped the stickiness from between her fingers and let her rest. She taught me about love.
“Your grandfather’s love, and my love for him, made the peaches blush.”
The sugary flesh, the light, the perfume like no other, pure and simple. It
was my last moment as a child. And, it was the most perfect day of my life.
I planted an apricot tree. Poor thing was often punished by unseasonable rain. Unlucky. A lone cloud, unnoticed in the sky by me, could on
any day open up and knock off every blossom. Like snowflakes, I would
try to catch and save them. Why did I do that? Once the rain came all was
lost. The fruit was sacred to me because it could go away. Down to earth in
infancy as slush at my feet. They never had a chance to blush.
My Blenheim apricot was brought to me by a stranger from a place
called Oamaru. I remember the name because it sounds as if I have marbles
in my mouth when I say it. There were too many years where the rain struck
and washed away the blossoms. All that anticipation washed away. White
and wet with sticky clay matching the color of ashes. Loss hurts. Season
after season I thought about that damned rain. Expecting it so it wouldn’t
hurt quite so much if it happened. That’s how I learned to live with disappointment. Then I started to live for the disappointment.
My grandmother died that day and I have been telling you about
peaches and apricots. Of course I have. You shouldn’t expect anything else
from me. My memories of my grandmother come back to me every time I
see the blush of fruit. The blush of peaches and apricots, the love my grandmother had for my grandfather, they all come together for me. If I am telling
you about apricots, you are hearing a story about great love.
I don’t understand anything more about death than the way its tangled up with my memories. Maybe there isn’t anything more to death than
On the day my mother told me over the telephone
to stay out of her life,
I pulled out my measuring spoons
for the first time.
I marveled at how they stayed attached on a ring to be spread apart
for scooping and pouring,
a mountain of cumin or just a touch of turmeric,
each spoon extended and filled to its distinct capacity,
but able in an instant to snap back into its nest.
On that same day, after my sister screamed in my ear
that she’s tired of me
yelling all the time,
I lost confidence in my sense of
measurement.
the language understanding better than I
that size and gender are no measures for betrayal.
For though I used my set of spoons in good faith that day,
mustard seed, and fenugreek spilling with certainty from plastic precision,
I couldn’t help but notice how when poured at full volume
a heaped teaspoon
and a level tablespoon
deceptively deliver the same amount of spice.
Keri Allen
Geneffa Popatia
Spoon Mischief
I pulled out the recipe for cobby no saag
written decades ago in my mother’s hand
and consulted it though I hadn’t needed to in years.
I noticed how she indicated teaspoon with a lower-case “t,”
but tablespoon with a capital.
I remembered that the Gujarati word for teaspoon, chumchi,
takes the feminine form
while the word for tablespoon, chumcho,
takes the masculine.
spoon mischief:
And I realized why the idiom, chumcha-giri, when someone butters you up
but then stabs you
in the back
might take the generic, neutral form,
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PGR 136
I wondered at the mechanics of it all.
Fingering my spoons,
I pondered how each curved scoop,
with its uniquely colored depression,
was somehow perfectly designed
to fit inside the next in size
with a flick of the wrist at the recipe’s completion.
i dont look you in the eye.
i dont look anyone in the eye
in fact.
i dont need to see what i want
or desire but cant have.
I.
She gets ugly as soon
as she begs
with her eyes and her
lips say “I’ll never leave you”
i can feel voices on my skin.
crawling and dragging
their ways up my stomach and chest,
on to my face.
some voices feel pleasurable
on rarely touched skin
others feel like rashes
burning their way.
trying to pry open my eyes
and lift my head.
But you’ve come again
to toy
again
those damned claws
they break through your
skin first tho...
and they rip. and after
they’ll go back again
at least my wounds
are inflicted.
II.
She’s labeled—“This side up”
I read my rights:
“oddly shaped baggage”
I have the right to
impose a fee
words like “fragile”
they feel so strong
in my mouth
fragile frajuhl
frAH j-eye-uhll...
PGR 138
You make me so weak
“handle with care”
you, tempest
you...turbulence
my assembly
easily falls apart
“do it yourself”
AlexSurber
III.
“She likes to play with
people”
that’s what they say
about you.
Sky Smith
Begging
I open the blinds and
look outside.
I see dark rain
falling on hot pavement
making steam
the kids leave tricycles
and beach balls
in the street
a grey cat licks itself
under the neighbor’s
Mercedes
And she walks up. The
door bell rings
I look past her
at the cat—
now licking blood from its
paws. The street is
full of dead rats
I watch her leave
disappearing into the rain
but her eyes don’t leave
they stay after the
ringing in my ears
dies completely
and they are
still begging
PGR 139
Velvet Cravillion
“i dont look you in the eye”
banjo, bass and my son’s drumming on it. I felt that even with all the imperfections of my recording, she liked the message in the song and the fact
that her son and grandson had performed it. I was both flattered with her
plan and a little bit embarrassed at the thought of my voice singing at my
mother’s memorial.
So now, sitting there at her bedside, I replied, “Sure Mom, I’ll give
it a try.” I strummed and sang Dylan’s song to her that afternoon to the best
of my ability. When I finished she said “Oh that last verse gave me a chill
down through my legs.”
It was a very emotional moment for me on many levels. I felt a little
bit of destiny was at work--there was a reason after all that this song felt so
powerful back in 1971. I could still see myself as a young college student
in Reno listening to George Harrison singing the last verse:
“If not for you, winter would have no spring, I couldn’t hear a robin
sing, I just wouldn’t have a clue, If not for you, If not for you…”
PGR 141
If not for you my sky would fall,
rain would gather too;
without your love I’d be nowhere at all;
I’d be lost if not for you
and you know its true….
When I first heard these song lyrics, I was an 18 year old 1st year
college student at the University of Nevada in Reno. The year was 1971.
The singer was George Harrison, one of the Beatles who included this song
on his first solo album titled “All Things Must Pass”. The songwriter was the
well-known American, Bob Dylan.
At that time I was kind of lonely, living in Reno with most of my
friends back in Watsonville. I found escape in music. I had a state-of-theart music system for those days. It was a portable, 8-track stereo player and
my car also had a tape deck in it.
There was something about this particular song that felt very powerful when I first heard it. It is a simple song of praise, of telling the listener
that without you I’d be nowhere at all, I’d be lost and blue. Perhaps it was
my being away from home for the first time up in glitzy Reno without any
friends that made this song feel so poignant. Or maybe because Dylan
wrote it and one of the fab Beatles sang it. I don’t know exactly why, but
this song reached me deeply as though it had some future role to play in my
life.
Now fast forward 36 years into 2007. I’m sitting by my mother’s
bedside in her house outside of Watsonville, holding my favorite Martin
guitar. I had been playing instrumental tunes to her while she was lying
there with her breathing problems due to lung cancer. She was awake and
listening and responding positively to my musical efforts. “That was nice,
Brandon” she said. “Can you now play me the song that I’m going to have
played at my funeral?” she asks.
Mom was 81 and soon to leave this world. Three years earlier she
had gone to the trouble of writing out all the details of her funeral. Her
instructions included where the event was to be held, what was to be read
to the audience—several poems that she liked including one she wrote and
one that her granddaughter wrote. Also she planned the music that would
be played on a CD player. She wanted Ravel’s “La Valse” played at the
gravesite while people were gathering. And, to my surprise, she wanted
my amateur home recording of “If Not For You” to be played. I had given
her my recording of this song in 2004 as a gift. It had my vocals, guitars,
Alex Surber
Brandon Kett
PGR 140
If Not For You
Magdalene Pomfrey sat Indian-style in her favorite yellow dress among
the weeds, plucking the front yard’s skinny daisies and wrapping them
around Caesar’s head as if he were the crowned Roman Julius himself.
A 10-year-old border collie, his coat was blacker than London soot and
streaked with grey onyx years; he laid out every morning across Magdalene’s legs since she was an infant, his newfound treasure. She was only 4
years his junior, but there was a wisdom that grew out of those 4 years—he
always watched her closely when she left the house, sitting on the porch
next to the mini-palm and patiently awaiting her return. Few could say they
ever had a dog, or a father, that played parent as well as Caesar.
He shook the daisies off his ears and Magdalene giggled, tiny gasps
echoing into the quietly stirring Autumn afternoon under an auburn sky.
There was something eternal in the air, and although Magdalene didn’t
know it, she felt it, felt something, while she sat in the field at approximately 7 o’clock on the last Saturday of August—it lived in the ether and slept in
the white space of atoms. It drifted through the airwaves and tried to break
its own mystery, but settled on the wild calendula flowers and waited to stir
again, watching.
The Calloway brook careened in and out of sediment scars behind the
house, trickling away from the Calloway Lakes toward the sea. A warbler
sat high in the tall, surrounding black birch and chirped. Magdalene looked
into the orange sunset and shivered as a rising breeze nudged the lanky
trees to question whether they could stay upright like soldiers or snap in
half and lattice the brook with broken trunks. She put her short arms around
Caesar’s neck and whispered so quietly that even Caesar had to listen carefully. The air held its breath.
“I think God is watching us.”
She pulled Caesar closer, and hesitated, quiet and meticulous in that
seriousness of a frightened child, “…do…do you think… we will go to
Heaven someday?”
Caesar breathed evenly, just a bit louder than her whispers. He turned
his snout and licked her eyebrow. She laughed and put another daisy on
his head. It stayed in place for a humorous moment, and then flew into the
wind.
Magdalene sighed, complacent, and looked into the sky as if it were a
freshly-illustrated painting like the ones hanging in her loft.
“Don’t worry Caesar,” she smiled and sighed again, and laid an endearing and sincere hand gently over his back.
“I won’t leave without you.”
In that instant where the day decides to embrace the night, the dingweeds and cattails rooted about the Calloway brook side began to sparkle
with fireflies in the twilight against the red blink of the setting sun. They
blinked low and high among the weeds, flickering—they batted their lashes
and peered out like daring eyes between birches. Magdalene watched the
creatures hum about, dancing their hypnotic circles and loops and she was
fascinated, her eyes transfixed and following their scintillating lights. They
shifted in unison, seemingly deliberate, and moved down a section of the
weeded banks, and Magdalene called out to them. “Wait!”
She stood up without haste and ran towards the migrating fireflies. Caesar jumped up, whimpering and whining and Magdalene turned around,
still running and yelling back to him, “You stay Cici!” He shifted nervously
and howled at Magdalene as she chased the fireflies down towards the
steep bank side along the Calloway brook. Magdalene ran between the tall
reeds and the towering black birch with her arms outstretched, clapping
the air in her effort to catch one of those untouchable, shining fireflies that
moved progressively towards the drop of the river side.
Caesar rushed behind her, 20 feet away, 15 feet, 10. Magdalene ran
purposefully and fast after the fleeting, sparkly fireflies on the riverside and
thought willfully to herself that when she caught one she would keep it in
a jar for Mom and Mom would smile, and place the trinket of nature on
the windowsill until the firefly’s light slowly dwindled in the early morning
hours.
Magdalene Pomfrey, age 6, arms outstretched, leapt over the cliffside
and fell. She may as well have been a plucked daisy in a wanton wind. She
fell down without a sound onto the rocks of the Calloway brook. Caesar jumped out through the reeds after her. He bit the air and tasted
the metallic sting of firefly in his throat, and tumbled brokenly onto the
sediment.
A warbler stirred at the vibrations of the fallen bodies and chirped. The
river calmly snaked through the birch trees while it sang its fluid, unending
tune.
The night continued on silently, eternal, unburdened by deaths, and the
fireflies alighted themselves further downstream.
PGR 143
Rachael R. Ramirez
PGR 142
August Night
In the white hospital room of the Charité
when I woke up near dawn and heard the blackbird, I knew
better. I had long lost
my fear of death. How
could I lack anything, given that
I am nothing. Now
I was able to rejoice
also in all the blackbird song after I am gone.
Angelika Frebert
In the white hospital room of the Charité
My mother kept peaches in a scuffed yellow bowl.
I ate them standing before the fridge, juice dripping
down my neck and onto orange linoleum.
Thirty years later I offered my mother a peach as she
lay dying in a hospital bed.
“But is it a good peach?” she asked, before
morphine delivered her from a broken pelvis.
Now a ripe peach transports me to
acrid teenage summers in the San Fernando Valley,
when I loved her more
than anyone.
I am soft and bruised
touch peach fur
long for her hands
stroking the blond hair on my arms
calling me her fuzzy wuzzy. I
bite into sweet fruit,
juice falls like rain.
Als ich in weißem Krankenzimmer
der Charité
Als ich in weißem Krankenzimmer der Charité
Aufwachte gegen Morgen zu
Und die Amsel hörte, wußte ich
Es besser. Schon seit geraumer Zeit
Hatte ich keine Todesfurcht mehr. Da ja nichts
Mir je fehlen kann, vorausgesetzt
Ich selber fehle. Jetzt
Gelang es mir, mich zu freuen
Alles Amselgesanges nach mir auch.
Bertolt Brecht (10 February 1898 – 14 August 1956) spent his final years in East Berlin.
Some of his most famous poems, including the “Buckow Elegies,” were written at this time.
“Als ich in weißem Krankenzimmer der Charité…” was written in early May 1956, when
Brecht was hospitalized with severe influenza. Charité Founded in 1710, the Charité in Berlin is one of the largest university hospitals
in Europe today.
Bertolt Brecht
Peach Grief
Peggy Hansen
PGR 145
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Irene Reti
––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
Alissa Goldring
PGR 147
PGR 146
Alissa Goldring
Angela Sarkisyan
Marcy Alancraig’s writing arises from her love of California’s many landscapes and the people who have beenshaped by them. A full time English
instructor at Cabrillo, Marcy finds time for writing between grading stacks
of papers. Woman Of Heart (Mazo Publishers) is her first novel. She is currently at work on two more.
Family legend has it that the poet, Julia Alter, is a descendant of both
Mae West and Sir Isaac Newton. How ‘bout them apples? (Find a signed,
first edition copy of Ms. Alter’s book, Walking the Hot Coal of the Heart at
www.hummingbirdpress.com).
Len Anderson is the author of Affection for the Unknowable (Hummingbird Press, 2003) and a chapbook, BEEP: A Version of the History of the
Personal Computer. Through writing poetry he has at last seen his neuroses
truly blossom.
Winifred Baer lives in Felton and teaches English at Cabrillo College,
finding poems everywhere and sometimes writing them down.
My name is Jules Barivan, and I was 7 years old when I wrote this poem.
Right now, I am 10 years old and have begun a novel called The Island of
the Meep, a cute orange creature I invented.
PGR 148
Barbara Bloom, now semi-retired from teaching English and creative
writing at Cabrillo College, grew up on a remote coastal homestead in
British Columbia, Canada, and eventually came to Santa Cruz to attend
UCSC and never left. She currently hones her fire-building and food-growing skills in the countryside outside Corralitos, where she lives with her
musician husband. Her first full-length collection of poems, On the Water
Meridian, was published by Hummingbird Press in 2007.
Marie Boucher is currently completing a collection of poems entitled,
Open Heart Works, dedicated to her father, whom she lost to brain cancer last year. She thrives off of the veracity of poetic expression, loves its
cadences, candor and purity. Marie teaches English at Monterey Peninsula
College and at the Monterey Institute of International Studies. Marie is passionate about all forms of artistic expression and collaboration within communities to create a more sustainable world.
Reeva Bradley began writing poetry in high school when she discovered it as a way of expressing herself which was direct and didn’t require
explanation or interpretation of ambiguity in her emotions. Her enthusiasm
for this type of writing translated well into development of song lyrics as
she grew in musicianship in her early 20’s. After studying at Cabrillo College with instructors who pushed her to write at her full capability, she
transferred to UC Berkeley where she is now studying psychology and education.
William Cass: I’ve been writing since 2nd grade but never gave any
thought to publishing until a few years back. As I wrote more and more I
found romance to be my specialty as I have always loved the idea of riding off into the sunset with that one special person just. I thank my writing
group, the Literal Army, as well as Marcy Alancraig, the creative writing
instructor for helping to make me the writer I am now. Everything I write
will always be dedicated to my Grandfather.
Velvet Cravillion: I am from Santa Cruz. I’m a “student” but I’m taking a
break right now. I have been using all my time and energy to enjoy life and
travel, focus on the things that matter most in life. My family. Being grateful
for what I have. I work currently as a makeup artist and a academic aid for
disabled students in Santa Cruz.
Alice Daly is a world traveler and outdoor adventuress when she’s not
churning out reports as a government bureaucrat. She lives in Santa Cruz
and dreams of Austin, Texas.
Micah Ford’s story can be summed up in this brief anecdote:
Publisher:
“”Micah,
I
need
a
bio.””
MF:
“’Ever
seen
‘Coal
Miner’s
Daughter’?”
Publisher:””Yes.””
MF: “”Well alright then. But I don’t sing and I ain’t famous””
She and her poet wife, Jude, currently live in Southern California.”
Angelika Frebert was born and raised in beautiful northern Bavaria.
About a decade and a half ago she found herself stranded on the Santa
Cruz shores, and has since had some success communicating with indigenous folk. She still carries a supply of Old World treasures and trinkets in
the form of German language poems, to which she has treated a mostly
appreciative audience as well as some innocent bystanders.
PGR 149
Author Bios
Jeanie Greensfelder, psychologist and writer, discovered that poems
lurk everywhere, asking to be found. She loves finding the ones tucked
in mental crevices and those uncovered walking the streets of San Luis
Obispo and beyond. She’s delighted to be part of this Porter Gulch Review.
Her poems have been published in Orbis, Echoes, and Kaleidoscope and
can be seen at slocoastjournal.com.
Ellen Hart can’t help herself. Writing is a lifestyle. She conducts a Writing Workshop as a volunteer for Mental Health Community Action Network, has attended every class, workshop there ever was and belongs to a
permanent writing group. In addition, she has many readings and publications in her resume—too numerous to catalog in this brief bio.
Joyce Johnson lives wedged between the ocean and the mountains in
Aptos, CA, where she has learned that even in paradise one has to take out
the trash. She enjoys playing with words.
Geneffa Popatia Jonker is spending a year immersed in the creation of
her memoir, and so, has no time to put together a bio.
PGR 150
Ann Keniston’s first poetry collection, The Caution of Human Gestures,
was published in 2005 by David Robert Books. She is completing a new
full-length manuscript entitled “Lament/Praise”; poems from this manuscript have appeared or are forthcoming in Antioch Review, Interim, New
Ohio Review, River Styx, Tampa Review, and elsewhere. She lives in Reno,
Nevada, where she is associate professor of English at the University of
Nevada, Reno.
Brandon Kett, 59, still thinks he’s 29 and seeks listeners for his rambling, written thoughts. A Watsonville boy most of his life, he loves Santa
Cruz County, loves playing his guitar and loves his wife Trisha (not necessarily in that order.) He is known to write an annoying annual Christmas
letter for his friends and family.
Chieun “Gloria” Kim doesn’t “play” with words—she pummels her
keyboard, Force-chokes her pens, and verbally abuses the online thesaurus
until they cower and cry on the paper. Once they’re tired and all cried out,
she arranges and rearranges them into poetry.
Rosie King grew up in Saginaw, Michigan where she learned all about
English grammar and a little about poetry from Pulitzer prize winning poet
Theodore Roethke’s strict sister, June. She graduated from Wellesley, taught
and learned a lot from her students while earning an M.A. at SF State and
writing a dissertation on the poetry of H.D. for a doctorate at UCSC. Six
years away being a zen monk at Green Gulch and Tassajara, she still lives
in the same house by the sea in Santa Cruz she was lucky to move to in
1973. Her first book of poems, Sweetwater, Saltwater, was published by
Hummingbird Press in 2007. Inspired by days filled with yoga, gardening,
and hiking, and by frequent meetings with poet friends, she has a new ms.
in the works.
Barbara Leon lives in Santa Cruz County, where she writes marketing
and scientific literature for a vitamin/herb company. Her first poem was
published 10 years ago in Porter Gulch Review. Since then, her writing has
appeared in a variety of journals and anthologies
Helen MacKinlay is an artist who loves to run, hike and bike
Photographing humans, printing and painting their images and
writing about their prowess and problems, is the focus of her
art. She has published two books: Helen MacKinlay: Fifty-five
Photographs and Second Skin, a book of mostly narrative poetry.
James Maughn: School: Cabrillo College Location: Aptos, CA Department:
English Overall Quality=4.4 Helpfulness=4.1 Clarity=4.6 Easiness= 4.0
Hotness=0.
Steven McGannon was born in 1992, and was raised in the redwoods
of Aptos, CA. He is currently a student at Cabrillo College. Email: circuspants@comcast.net
Sigrid McLaughlin’s grown deep roots in Santa Cruz soil since 1966;
a Jane of many trades­—teaching, writing, photography, gardening, political/environmental activism; exploring the small world close-by (USA) and
solo-adventuring on different continents; tasting the riches of personal life-marriage, divorce, friendships, community, being Mother and now an
OMA. This piece is part of “Memoirs” in the works.
Angela Sarkisyan
PGR 151
My name is Fernando Gonzalez. I’m a student/soldier/musician/performer majoring in cultural anthropology, working towards a congressional
commission as an officer in the army, making fuzzy electronic music, and
honing my acting skills. Currently I’m on a deployment in Kuwait, which I
volunteered for, baking in the sun and being accosted by sandstorms on a
regular basis. I’m also in the process of growing a mustache, though I’m not
quite decided on if I’ll keep it or not. I consider David both a teacher and a
friend, and would be honored to be included in this years PGR.
My name is Zachary Micheli, and I have no idea what to say about myself. I’m a cabrillo student, I write, I take pictures...and, yeah, that’s about it. Over the past decade, Magdalena Montagne has helped numerous
people find their inner muse as a poetry teacher and workshop facilitator. She currently leads monthly Community Poetry Circles at the Santa
Cruz Public Library (Central, Aptos and Scotts Valley locations). She
also facilitates a long-running drop-in poetry writing group, Magdalena’s Muse, at the Capitola Book Café and teaches at the Santa Cruz Art
League and for Watsonville Community Hospital’s Senior Circle classes.
For more information see her website at www.poetrycircle-magdalena.com.
Adela Najarro is a member of the board of directors for Poetry Santa
Cruz and teaches in the Cabrillo College English Department where she
co-coordinates the Puente Project. Her poetry has appeared in numerous
journals and can be found in the University of Arizona Press anthology The
Wind Shifts: New Latino Poetry.
PGR 152
Robert Pesich’s work has recently appeared in The Bitter Oleander,
White Pelican Review and Skidrow Penthouse and is forthcoming in “Slipstream”. In 2009, he completed a one-month residency at the Djerassi
Resident Artist Program and was awarded the Littoral Press Poetry Prize. In
2001, Dragonfly Press published his chapbook Burned Kilim. He lives in
Sunnyvale, California with his wife and two sons.
Rachael R. Ramirez was born and raised in Santa Cruz, California. She
is currently pursuing her AA degree in English at Cabrillo College. She has
interned as an editor for San Lorenzo Valley High School’s Literary Arts
Magazine, with her poetry published in the 2009 issue.
Irene Reti is the author of The Kabbalah of Stone (Juniper Lake Press
2011), a novel of Jewish history and magic that explores gender and sexuality in the Medieval era, and The Keeper of Memory (HerBooks 2001), a
memoir about being the daughter of Holocaust refugees who hid their Jewish identity. She is also an oral historian and a photographer.
Marina Romani, child of Russian émigré parents, spent the first part of
her childhood in wartime and civil-war China. Then, after several months
in a refugee camp on a remote Philippine island followed by a year in urban Australia, she arrived in the U.S. just in time to enter adolescence—a
small stranger in a giant world ruled by conformity, she survived the condition with only minor damage. Marina’s adult years have been more conventionally adventurous. Now retired from a couple of marriages and as
many careers, she is happily settled in Monterey, where taking long walks
and writing poems are two of her greatest pleasures.
Loren Rosen attends the Cabrillo College Stroke Center. His family is
from upstate New York but he was born in Ohio by an accident of history. My name is Kali Rubaii. I am an alumnus of UC Davis, and a graduate student in the Anthropology Department at UCSC. I am interested in
how people manage to remain human, generate beauty, and imagine their
futures, in spite of occupation and institutionalized violence. As a child
of this Human Rights era, I read literature that assumes human suffering is
the lowest common denominator that connects human beings, but having
lived with my mom in different contexts of great human suffering, I have
found that it is in fact love, beauty, and that dangerous notion, Hope, that
connect strangers and “enemies” most powerfully. My life purpose is to
pursue the re-enchantment of the universe.
Tawnya Sargent’s 5, 6-word bios
One stoplight town. Light turned green.
Young mother know it all. Dumb.
Small town. Big river. Didn’t drown.
I’ve never. Now I have.
Always Lost and Confused. Cool paradigm.
If you wanted something more traditional...the boring facts are: The love
of my life is my 17 year old daughter Danielle Victoria. I grew up in a tiny
town in Colorado before moving to Santa Cruz in 1991. Was a profes-
PGR 153
Amy Michelson considers the creative process her life’s purpose, whether she is draping a gown or crafting a poem. A frequently awarded couture
wedding gown designer, she is a breast cancer survivor and founded LOVE
IS THE CURE, a bridal industry breast cancer charity. She was a featured
reader at the 2011 Annual Sadako Peace Day for the Nuclear Age Peace
Foundation for her poem “Origami Mom,” and the Art City Stone Readings
for “Stone Rosary.” Amy writes for fashion publications and frequently appears on television as a bridal couture advisor. Her poetry is forthcoming
in Talking River. Amy is deeply grateful to be living at the beach in Ventura,
California with her fiancé and a German shorthaired pointer named Honey.
Alissa Goldring
Martha Clark Scala temporarily gave up on poetry when her professor
in college told her that her interpretation of a poem was wrong. She writes
poetry that you can interpret any damn way you want. You can also find her
e-newsletter, Out on a Limb, online.
Sky Smith: When my baby sitter gave me a journal and said goodbye, I
never saw her again. Something changed forever, and I’m not talking about
the fact that I was freshly thirteen and would never have a baby sitter again.
When I put a pen to that page I felt like I had ripped open a new universe
and started spawning stars and galaxies and black holes and asteroid belts.
The first thing I wrote was an ill fated punk rock song—just thrilled at the
idea that I wasn’t being graded or censored, and that I could write as many
four lettered words as I wanted—it’s been all down hill from there. I won’t
lie and say I do this casually. I won’t deny that I have a feral ambition to say
something some day that matters just as much as anything anyone has ever
said—and it will be haunting and beautiful. But right now I’m incubating.
I’ve been at Cabrillo four years and I’m finally applying to University in the
fall. I work at a restaurant for rent money and I’m still learning to do my
own laundry. Hope you enjoy my poems.
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Roland Spies is a 21 year old student at Cabrillo College. He moved
to Santa Cruz from Normal, IL (A more unusual town than you’d think!)
Spies’s poetry is a sort of offshoot of more personal expression of emotion/experience compared to his other writings. He is a lyricist for multiple
music acts and dabbles in short story & screenplay writing as well, so the
poetry is a culmination of the different kinds of weird cosmic sludge left at
the bottom of the brain when everything else has been used.
Joan Rose Staffen is a local writer, painter, and psychic who lives at the
Santa Cruz Tannery Arts Lofts. She has written two spiritual books, Divination and Joy, and Divination and Action, and a book of poetry, Catching
You, Catching Me, Catching Fire. You can see more of her work at www.
writestarpublishing.com and www.joanroseart.com.
Debra Spencer invented her own alphabet when she was three. In her
desk she keeps a Bart Giamatti baseball card, a fossilized shark’s tooth, the
tuning key to an Anglian harp, and a piece of the Berlin Wall. She works at
Cabrillo College as an LD specialist.
David Subocz lives and works in Santa Cruz as a designer. He recently
took up writing again after hibernating for twenty years. He hopes to finish
his first novel Salt and Pearls this year, having started in 1984.
Maria Garcia Teutsch is a poet and writer currently enjoying expat status
in Penang, Malaysia where she is working on a manuscript entitled: American
Poet in a Muslim Country. She is president of the board of the Henry Miller
Memorial Library where she serves as editor-in-chief of Ping-Pong, journal
of art and literature. She also serves as editor-in-chief of the Homestead Review. She has published over 20 books of poetry as editor, so now she’s going to work on her own book too. More: www.mariateutsch.blogspot.com
Janine Theodore was brought up in the Washington D.C. area. She
moved to Santa Cruz 36 years ago with her son, Seth. Her work as writer,
actress, jazz singer, poet is hued by personal and political awakenings experienced during the turbulence and hope-filled years of the nineteen sixties.
David Thorn: Father, brother, liver, lover, giver, taker, writer, surfer, rhymer, schemer, diviner, dreamer: twenty-fourth appearance in PGR, three time
Poet of the Year, writing teacher at UCSC & Cabrillo, original surfing poet.
Adriana Torres-Martinez: I’m just a Woman, cursed with a restless,
questioning mind, a fascination with people and ideas outside the mainstream, a lifelong desire to explore and test my own perceived (or self-imposed) boundaries and limitations, and a wickedly twisted sense of humor.
T. Mike Walker, poet, artist, retired Cabrillo Writing teacher, general
mischief maker. Currently Executive Director of the Santa Cruz Art League.
Check him out at Amazon.com.
Maya Marie Weeks is a left-handed bastard child whose whole life is
an archiving project. She is fond of savory breakfasts, her ten-speed Schwinn, and colors, especially the iridescent ones. Her work has recently
appeared in 580 Split, Generations Literary Journal, and BANG OUT.
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sional photographer and went to South Africa to save the world. After a life
changing project on HIV in South Africa I realized I needed to do more if
I was going to save the world. So I came home and went back to school.
Graduated from Cabrillo and then from San Jose State with a BSN and was
back to the idea of saving the world. I work as an Emergency room nurse at
a trauma center in east san jose…almost never taking the time to write and
still busy not saving the world. *grin*
Ken Weisner is a sidearm pitcher most recently masquerading as
the chair of the De Anza College English Department. You might enjoy his recent collection of poems, Anything on Earth, from Hummingbird Press. He is inordinately fond of great French horn playing.
Eden White has large blank spaces in her mind which she prefers to think of as “canvases of creativity” rather than “dead airtime.”
J. Zimmerman’s favorite job has been as a falconry apprentice. It’s all
been downhill since then.
David Zimmerman is interested in telling stories that articulate our collective experience of growing older.
Artist Bios
Katie Bode: When she was a young girl, she believed in unicorns. She
told her father, “If you have a dream, make it into a unicorn. Believe the
unicorn is real and the dream will come true.” After some time of forgetting
her own wisdom, Uma Katie Bode is in full-unicorn-creation-mode. She
spends as much time as possible taking photographs, writing, traveling and
loving fiercely.
Virginia Draper lives in Santa Cruz. She enjoys photographing near
and far, making the familiar strange and the strange familiar. She has a
prize-winning photograph in this year’s Yosemite Renaissance. Her website:
www.virginiadraper.com.
T. Mike Walker
Alissa Goldring was born in NYC 1921. She has devoted her life’s work
to Watercolor, photojournalism and prints. Her work has led her to reside
in many countries and places with in the United States, including a farm
in North Carolina. She currently resides in Aptos, CA. She is a mother of
three children and is a grandmother and great-grandmother to many grand
babies.
Peggy Hansen is a writer, photographer, and artist based in Boulder
Creek. Numerous national and regional publications have showcased her
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Suraya Essi enjoys thick incense sticks, Led Zeppelin, and kaleidoscopes.
poetry, essays, and photographs. Her award-winning images have been featured in shows and galleries on both coasts. Find out more on Facebook at
Peggy Hansen photography, or online at www.peggyhansen.com
slightly so as to unconsciously affect the viewer deeply.
Angelica Sarkisyan was born in Russia and lives in Los Angeles. The
discordance in these two worlds has been a major influence on her art.
She feels as if she is living a dream. Most of all her pictures share with surrealism an orientation toward the dream state, but that subtle dream state
which is just beneath the surface of daily waking life. Her pictures are
uniquely effective in transporting us to that other world, within and without
us, the infinite concealed in the finite, which when met on a personal level
often appears as the mysterious, the unknown and even the uncanny, the
foreboding. Her works evoke feelings and ways of seeing that carry us to a
reality that is neither sentimental nor ideological, not nice or cute and not
always pleasant, but the unromanticized truth of the situation as it is. Her
subtly surrealist images are the doorway to a world more psychically real
than realism.”
Koak currently lives in San Francisco where she co-directs the new alternative gallery Alter Space with her husband and continues to work on
Sick Bed Blues, her 1,500 page graphic novel due to be out some time
next century. She spends most of her time obsessively bringing to fruition
the haunting and folkloric world in which her novels take place, curating
shows, and working on her fictional museum The Bowery.
Dan Linehan is a full-time writer and author whose work is often accompanied by his photos. Dan’s writing covers wildlife, environmental issues, poker games at Doc Ricketts’ lab, submarines, spaceships, and travels
as far off as the Middle East and Antarctica. www.dslinehan.com
Helen MacKinlay is an artist who loves to run, hike and bike Photographing
humans, printing and painting their images and writing about their prowess
and problems, is the focus of her art. She has published two books: Helen
MacKinlay: Fifty-five Photographs and Second Skin, a book of mostly
narrative poetry.
David Reisine: For these photos, I started off being interested in aspects
of the world around us that people take for granted such as stairs, shadows
and light itself. From this I developed a focus on shadows in an attempt to
look between worlds, similar to the space between frames in a movie, that
are present yet we do not realize their existence. This further developed
into a technique where I targeted images that are simple, yet are altered
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Don Monkerud has written short stories, books and articles, and taken
photographs since he was 18. His creative trail featured many twists and
turns. Today, he finds that juxtaposition, composition, and beauty surround
us daily. Often, we’re too busy to stop and notice. While he photographs
many genres, it’s these special moments—a person, a scene, colors, lines,
patterns—that catch his eye and fire his imagination. Photography allows
him to share this creative vision with others.
Helen MacKinlay
Sigrid McLaughlin: She’s grown deep roots in Santa Cruz soil since
1966; a Jane of many trades—teaching, writing, photography, gardening,
political/environmental activism; exploring the small world close-by (USA)
and solo-adventuring on different continents; tasting the riches of personal
life—marriage, divorce, friendships, community, being Mother and now an
OMA. This piece is part of “Memoirs” in the works.
Lindsay Shaffer: I am a third year college student who enjoys art, creative writing, and the outdoors. I strongly believe that a significant portion
of mental energy should be focused on clouds and particularly lovely bits
of tree bark. I love using the natural beauty of Santa Cruz as the subject of
my art and photography. I feel inspired by the dynamic energy of the sky
and the ocean as well as the calm, deeply rooted energy of the forests.
I plan to channel my love of creativity and nature into forming my own
school through which I want to help children get in touch with what matters most to them and express it to the world.
Kim Sterling has been painting, designing, and creating murals and wall
graphics for corporations since 1973 on his quest to humanize their efficient but sterile environments. He is now exploring the large scale digital realm of art and murals experimenting with the newest fun art tool ,
modern printing technologies, that were ironically developed and financed
by many of his original corporate clients. He has created murals throughout the United States as well as Paris, France, Barbados, and Elma, WA. A
partial list of his clients include Intel, Hewlett-Packard, Lockheed-Martin,
Varian, Honeywell, and Ferrells Donuts. Examples of his mural and graphics work are available on his company web page at www.mepro.com andwww.kimsterling.com
Alex Surber pretends to be a communist on his 80s disco radio show on
KDVS in Davis, and is a real communist when fighting the fascist UC Davis
administration. A homesick Santa Cruz native, he won first place in the
Santa Cruz Art League show a few years back, but now he mostly focuses
on his politcally charged photography. He also edits and publishes KDViationS, KDVS’ zine.
Maria Garcia Teutsch is a poet and writer currently enjoying expat status
in Penang, Malaysia where she is working on a manuscript entitled: American
Poet in a Muslim Country. She is president of the board of the Henry Miller
Memorial Library where she serves as editor-in-chief of Ping-Pong, journal
of art and literature. She also serves as editor-in-chief of the Homestead Review. She has published over 20 books of poetry as editor, so now she’s going to work on her own book too. More: www.mariateutsch.blogspot.com
In her 20’s Kelly Woods worked at Bay Photo Labs and took numerous
photography classes at Cabrillo College. She enjoyed entering competitions, and was involved in a few art shows in coffee houses and galleries in
the Santa Cruz area and San Francisco. She now focuses most of her creative energy raising her 4 1/2 year-old daughter, and working as Inventory
Controller at a company that imports organic fruit.
Anastasiia Zavalo: I started to take pictures in 2000 because I was too
tired to ask my boyfriend to make a picture for me. So I decided to do it by
myself. Later, I tried to study something at photo courses, but the best thing
I did—I met my teacher. Just on the street, he was selling his pictures, we
started to talk and he proposed me to study how to develop black and white
film. That’s how it began.
Alissa Goldring
Philip Wagner, out on bail and in a Witness Protection Program, can be
seen around town disguised as a mild-mannered reporter, faking like he’s
still working for that great metropolitan newspaper which once fought for
truth, justice and the American Way, but which was bought up by Rupert
Murdoch, the guy who down-sized our mild-mannered reporter and stole
Lois, his girlfriend, leaving Philip unemployed, bankrupt and living on the
streets, heartbroken but with a story to tell. (Movie rights available.)
T. Mike Walker, poet, artist, retired Cabrillo Writing teacher, general
mischief maker. Currently Executive Director of the Santa Cruz Art League.
Check him out at Amazon.com.
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Sandra Vines-Walker, free lance photographer, retired nurse. My photography reveals my personal relationships with my subjects.
The Edges of Madness: Or How I Learnd to Stop Worrying and Embrace Insanity, by Apryl Grady-Roush (Book Review of Muses, Madmen, and Prophets by Daniel B. Smith) 203
A Girl With A Lot To Say, by Taylor Clark (Book Review of The Gathering) 208
Half Awake/ Half Asleep, by Natalie Toy (Book Review of Complex Sleep) by Tony Tost) 211
Same Place, Different Story by Merri Camburn (Book review of The Last Little Blue Envelope by Maureen Johnson) 215
A Speculative Love: Real Love at First Sight, by Merri Camburn
219
(A critique of A Speculative Love by William Cass)
Is it Knocked Up or Opportunity Knocking? by Jasmine Glenn
(Book Review of the novel Bumped by Megan McCaffery)
223
A Funny Way of Showing It: Analyzing the Imperfections of Parental Love,
by Jasmine Glenn (A critique of the PGR 2012 piece Ladies’ Man, 228
by Ellen Hart)
Solid Bodies or a Flicker in Their Gaze? by Kayla Jimeson
232
(Book review of My Lesbian Husband Barrie Jean Borich)
Humans Can Learn a Lot From Dogs by Kayla Jimeson
235
(A critique of Ken Wesnet’s Language of Touch)
Am I Really A Fool? by Mark Mattina (A critque of Ladies’ Man, by Ellen Hart) 238
Half Awake/ Half Asleep, by Natalie Toy (Book Review of Complex Sleep) by Tony Tost) 241
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Table of Contents: Critiques, Book Reviews by students
Invisible Wounds, by Alicia Flores (Book Review of Pieces for the Left Hand) 164
Information is Power, If Coupled with Wisdom, by Alicia Flores (Critique of Robert Pesich’s Nature Boy in Silicon Valley) 168
Man’s Best Friend: Till Death Do Us Part, by Dennis Cluster (Critique of Barbara Leon’s A Man and His Dogs) 173
Francis Bacon: The Un-trained Trained Painter by Dennis Cluster (Book review of Francis Bacon by Andrew Brighton) 176
Dripping with Gold, by Kelsie White (Critique of Irene Reti’s Peach Grief) 178
Struggling Out of Withering Tights, by Kelsie White (Book review of Withering Tights, by louise Rennison) 182
Running Into My Tomorrow, by Nick Surber (Critique of Tilly Shaw’s Ephemera, and Helen MacKinlay’s Forty-two Kilometers) 185
Storm the Castle of War, by Nick Surber (Book Review of Castle) 188
Speaking for Those Who Don’t, by Lindsey Ramirez (Critique of Untitled) 192
Make Your Plan, by Lindsey Ramirez (Book Review of Waiting for
196
Tomorrow) Lassoing the Moon for an Unyielding Faith, by Apryl Grady-Roush
(Critique of Fernando Gonzalez’s Clovers and Blue Moons) 200
Ruined by the Taliban, by John Kehoe (Book review of The Swallows
of Kabul, by Yasmina Khadra) 245
While Lying on Death’s Bed, by John Kehoe (A critique of In the white
hospital room of the Charité, translated by Angelika Frebert)
248
Dead with Passion, by Lillian Berger (Book review of The Girl with the Golden Eyes by Honore de Balzac)
253
You Deserve this Love, by Lillian Berger
(A critique of I See You, by Tawnya Sargent)
256
Life on the Border by Bryan French (Book review of
The Wind Doesn’t neeed a passport by Tyche Hendricks)
259
Bleeding America, By Lauren Coffelt (Book review of Painting Dixie Red: When, Where, Whe, and How the South Became Republican) 263
Cancel Your Plans by Aubrey Alvarenga (Book review of Earth: the
Operators’ Manual by Richard Alley) 265
Home is Where the Threat is, by Ralph Cardoza (Book review of Jana Leo’s memoir, Rape of New York)
268
Mama, Where You Gone? by Ralph Cardoza (critique of Fernando Gonzales’
Clovers and Blue Moons)
272
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Helen MacKinlay
,
A book review of Pieces for the Left Hand by J. Robert Lennon
Publisher Granta Books $14
PGR 164
by Alicia Flores
Where is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge? Where is the knowledge
we have lost in information? (T.S. Eliot)
Eliot was a playwright, a literary critic, and an important poet of the 20th
century. I believe his quote sheds some light in to today’s twisted world of
information that people do not seem capable of comprehending. What he is
saying is that we are not properly using knowledge. Wisdom is knowledge that
has been applied in a way that all its relevant relationships have been taken
into account. Our failure has its roots from the mistake of not understanding
or grasping the information we are receiving. Pieces for the Left Hand written
by J. Robert Lennon could embody this quote, because it plays on the stories
of people’s lives and how they can completely change when knowledge of
something important is exposed to them. I was enlightened by these real life
scenarios, and I learned how it is not so much what information we receive,
but how we deal with it. Whether we like it or not, things are not always the
way we believe them to be. We create delusions in which we think everything
is okay when it isn’t; that is not living. In order to survive we must fight for what
we want; we are in control of our futures.
“Copycats” is the name of the short story included in the chapter called
“Town and Country”. On the online dictionary a copycat is defined as, “a
person or thing that copies, imitates, mimics, or follows the lead of another,
as a child who says or does exactly the same as another child” (Dictionary).
Basically, you are not your own individual self and you do what you see others do; as would a child. Although, once we grow up we tend to try and avoid
mimicking others in order to establish ourselves as individuals.
However, this short story tells us otherwise and opens our eyes to how
tragic reality can be. It tells the story of a tragic event in which police found a
note that became crucial evidence in the death of a student in which it read,
“can’t go on” (Pieces for the Left Hand). They are only but three words, so
what meaning could they have to anybody? However, that short note is what
made the seemingly death of a university student appear to be a suicide. The
university boy had fallen from a bridge to his doom and was deemed a suicide,
because those words were discovered in his dorm. Tragically, after the incident
other hopeless students felt they had the courage to jump off the bridge and
commit suicide as well, because they believed that such as the university
student could no longer go on they themselves could not as well.
As I read this I could not help but remember what my older siblings
would say to me as a child when I wanted to do something, just because everybody else was doing it. They would cruelly say, “If someone jumped off
a bridge would you do it, just because they did?” I would always grudgingly
resign and say no. Thus, I am kind of shocked when this saying that I was
told actually became very literal. As I later read on I along with the town’s
people realized that everything was a misunderstanding. The suicides took
this opportunity as their calling, because to them it was a message a call to
action, when in actuality they were dead wrong.
Midterms over, dude! I totally can’t
wait for this party. You can go on
without me if I’m late---- B. (Pieces for the Left Hand)
The roommate of the university student had returned from a trip and
gave the police the rest of the note, which in fact turned out not to be a
suicide note. People see what they want to see in order to justify their actions. The truth was far from what the copycat suicides believed to be, but
they could not see beyond that because they wanted it to be true in order
to have the nerve to do it themselves.
Information is power, and how one chooses to deal with it will determine their course of life. Robert Lennon brings to life this idea in a short
story called “Underlined Passages,” which is about a married couple. It is
about a man who was down on his luck in life and who bought a work of
philosophy, one which principles he took to heart. He became a happier
man and had a better outlook on life, until he discovered that he already
had the same philosophy book in his house. Devastated he thought that if
he had tried these principles before and failed eventually the same thing
would happen. The author shows us how people when faced with bitter
truth can gravely change, for the man sunk back into a hole when he discovered the book. It did not have to happen like this if the man had wanted
he could on have kept believing and trying, but he could not handle reality
nor had the courage to face his problems.
He realized that the dusty box had not contained his books from college, but his wife’s, and that he could not recall reading the book for the
first time because, in fact, he hadn’t. (Pieces for the Left Hand)
All this time he was mistaken and lost precious time that he could have
been enjoying, for he would not accept that he was in control of his destiny
and could change to be a better man. People see the world as they set it
out to be, so if you want to be happy you should have a better outlook on
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Information is Power, If Coupled with Wisdom
Work Cited
Chou, Peter Y. “T. S. Eliot: The Rock.” WisdomPortal.com. Web. 17
Apr. 2012. <http://www.wisdomportal.com/Technology/TSEliot-TheRock.
html>.
Gurley, Jason. “Flash What? A Quick Look at Flash Fiction.” Welcome to
Writing-World.com! 2000. Web. 17 Apr. 2012. <http://www.writing-world.
com/fiction/flash.shtml>.
Lennon, J. Robert. Pieces for the Left Hand: 100 Anecdotes. London:
Granta, 2005. Print.
Vanasse, Deb. “49 Writers.” : Deb: Flash Fiction, an Interview with David Marusek. 26 Jan. 2010. Web. 03 May 2012. <http://49writers.blogspot.
com/2010/01/deb-flash-fiction-interview-with-david.html>.
Ziegler, R. M. “The Art of Flash Fiction.” Helium. Helium, 03 May
2008. Web. 03 May 2012. <http://www.helium.com/items/1029188-theart-of-flash-fiction>.
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life and enjoy the simple things and not make life more complicated than
it ought to be.
I personally really enjoyed this book of short stories, because I was
introduced to a new genre of books: flash fiction. Flash fiction was not
considered a separate genre until the 1980s when editors such as James
Thomas began to write anthologies of very short story lengths (49 Writers).
Thomas published a volume called Flash fiction in 1992 and it consisted of
72 short stories. The name stuck and it was very self-explanatory, because
the goal was to write a story that readers could comprehend in “a flash.”
Basically, flash fiction is a short form of storytelling that tells a complete
story with a beginning a middle and an end (Writing-World). Some critics
argue there is no difference between flash fiction and a short story, but I
read an article about the art of flash fiction. It claimed that the answer was,
“The difference in flash fiction is that the pacing is swifter. The story must
begin immediately and move swiftly to the end. You must cut every nonessential word” (Helium). Some suggest that this genre was invented in
order to keep at pace with our over accelerated modern day culture. Flash
fiction is pretty unstable, because some writers argue that the story has to
have a limit of 75 words and others say 100 words or even more. Others
claim it has to be written within a maximum of 1000 words.
Lennon skillfully writes flash fiction, because in each of his short stories
he reveals the very core of the story. Every word he writes is an essential
part of the story. It seems easy enough, but when put in perspective it would
be like writing a story with no adjectives and adverbs. The author not only
does a marvelous job of this, but he goes beyond that and tells us stories
that have life lessons within them. One can choose to take the advice or
ignore it. Personally I will keep in mind his stories and try to think before I
act; because I might be mistaken and things may not be as they seem.
The truth is an indisputable fact and is an actual state of matter. I used to
think that’s what the truth meant, but after reading Pieces for the Left Hand
I am not so sure anymore. For, what we assume to be true is not always
right; it is in fact most of the time our own perspective about something.
We design our landscape of life, by the manner in which we draw and
envision it. Robert Lennon opens our eyes to reality and makes us confront
it. He writes short stories about people who wake up and realize that their
life is not how they thought it was, and tells us how they deal with their
disconcerting truths. We can all learn from reading his stories, so that we
ourselves do not commit the same foolish mistakes others do. Follow your
heart and do what you think is best for yourself, because only you can push
yourself forward.
A critique of Nature Boy in Silicon Valley by Robert Pesich
PGR 168
by Alicia Flores
Three girls surround the Chinese girl; she has nowhere to go and
nobody seems to care or notice her plea for help. Her eyes are watering
up and I see them darting rapidly back and forth on her enemies faces. I
know these girls that are making a fuss, they are some Mexicans and I think
they’re in my grade. I look at the Chinese girl and don’t quite recognize her.
Maybe she just transferred I wonder if she even understands English. I feel
a heat rising up in my body and wonder why are they picking on her; she
hasn’t done anything to them. I can’t take it anymore I march on over there
and ask the girls, “hey what’s wrong, what has she done to you guys?” They
all stare at me with blank faces. Nobody says a word. The trio just turns
their backs and walk away, probably going to look for another victim. I ask
Wenja, or at least I think that’s her name, if she is all right, at first she does
not say anything just sort of nods after a while. I feel proud of myself, but
sad for the girl, because I notice how scared and alone she looks. When it
was all over I did not see relief in her eyes just sadness, and I felt mad. I was
angry that she was targeted and picked on, by people who do this to feel
superior to others; it just did not seem fair.
This happened when I was in middle school, but such events I can
only imagine have occurred to countless others; whether they were the
perpetrators, witnesses, mediators, or victims. We must be willing to put
ourselves out there and take a stand where others dare not. The consciousness’s of people who witness events of abuse on others and take no action
I believe are left with the painful guilt of having done nothing. Do not ponder on what could have happened or what you could have done, be brave
and stand up for yourself and others. Most importantly learn from your
mistakes and traumatic experiences, they will help you grow as a human
being.
Childhood is a tough period in a kid’s life, because they are trying
to fit in and are just beginning to discover who they are. One such story
of a difficult moment in childhood is Nature Boy in Silicon Valley, written by Robert Pesich. The poem reveals the past of a young boy who was
merely enjoying his day in his tree house when his neighbors began to
harass another boy. The young boy did not act or go rescue or so much as
help the victim in anyway. Guilt can eat away at your soul when you don’t
do what you think is right. The poem is tragic, and tells the tale of a boy
who is traumatized by his past. I read an article about trauma counseling
and it claimed that, “Psychological trauma can last for many years, and if
unresolved, can even become more devastating than the original traumatic
event.” Trauma is a psychological injury one which if not treated does not
just magically go away, so how does one survive it; what does one need to
do in order to get through ones haunting experience?
“ Naked, Apollo was reading while feeling the breeze/ up in his
tree-house as I was doing in mine./ When the older kids found him they
circled the trunk chanting/ Hey Nature Boy! Hey Faggot!” It does not seem
unusual that the other kids would find it strange to see a little boy naked in
his tree trunk. However, what the boy was doing was not a bad thing; he
might have been exploring his sexuality or just felt pleasure in the breeze.
As children we begin to explore ourselves, mind and body. Thus, we might
do some things that are out of the ordinary, but we all have our share of private experiences. Often, children are not so accepting of others differences.
Although, the boy is doing the same as Apollo, he dares not say anything in
perhaps fear of being targeted as well. I have seen many events of harassment in which bystanders do absolutely nothing in order to intervene, so it
is not the first time this has happened. How do we find the courage to take
a stand while being conscious of the fact that we might be a victim as well?
Personally, I cannot blame the kid for being frightened, but to not
have acted after the incident at all seems wrong. He writes that when the
boy fell he lay, “twisted and unconscious on his neighbor’s lawn./ Everyone
scattered. I climbed down after dark.” How could you witness a kid lying
unconscious on the ground and not react? Perhaps he felt helpless and
did not know what to do, or perhaps he thought it was over and there was
nothing left to do. The event scarred him and he was never able to forget it,
for he fears he should have acted differently. I read an article about Healing Emotional and Psychological Trauma and it stated that, “Children who
have been traumatized see the world as a frightening and dangerous place.
When childhood trauma is not resolved, this fundamental sense of fear and
helplessness carries over into adulthood, setting the stage for further trauma.” How do you deal with something that haunts you? Do you ever forget
it or can you just learn to live with it? I read an article about understanding
child traumatic stress and it said, “… there may be positive lessons as well.
Most important, traumatic experiences can lead children and adolescents
to be more compassionate, to work harder to make the world better and
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Invisible Wounds
so that he could move on and be there for his kids. I have no doubt that this
experience will help him be there to protect his children from dangers he
knows so well.
Upon reading the American Psychological Association guidelines for
recovering from traumatic events it persistently stated to find support form
family or friends and that communicating your experience in whatever way
you felt comfortable was essential. It makes sense the boy had to face what
had happened and accept it, because it was not just going to go away. The
trauma I believe the boy felt was not so much from witnessing a traumatic
event, but rather from the actions he did not take in light of the tragedy. I
think in order to recover he owed it not only to Apollo but to himself to
forgive himself and try and recompense for his past mistakes. He needed to
live on for Apollo.
Injuries are not always visible to the naked eye; some lie deep and
hidden away inside oneself. In Nature Boy in Silicon Valley we are transported back in time to the period of one’s childhood. The phase in which
one is trying not distinguish themselves, but rather fit in with everybody
else. The young Apollo boy was targeted for his different behaviors while
the other boy in his tree house witnessed this awful harassment manifest
itself. The boy was scarred from this event, but I have hope that he can redeem himself and grow as a person. Maybe he could become an advocate
against bullying or something simpler as joining a neighborhood watch.
What I’m getting at is the boy needs to learn from his past, not live in it. I
know it must be hard, but everybody makes mistakes it is a part of being
human. Have the courage to no longer be a victim, live your life and take a
stand so that something like what you lived does not happen to somebody
else.
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safer, and to do something valuable with their lives.” I believe you can
never truly forget something it is a part of your life, but rather than dwell on
it you should learn from it and make it a reminder to be a stronger person.
I hoped that the boy in the poem would overcome his ghosts, but was saddened when I read on and learned that he had resorted to medicine. Pills
will not make your problems go away; this is a problem that one needs to
face so that they can go on with their life. It grieves me to think that the
tragedy not only took Apollo’s life, but that of the other boy who witnessed
it as well, for he seems to be trapped in the past.
As I read this poem I felt a wave of emotions, that of wonder, shock,
and grief. I can feel the struggle and pain that the boy endures. “For years,
sawdust and needles dressed the street, the sidewalks,/ my bedroom floor.”
Even though, you and the author knows the tree is long gone he uses this
profound metaphor expressing how the trauma never left him. I wonder
how could the traumatized boy otherwise have dealt with his pain and if he
could have recovered from it? “Psychiatric trauma is essentially a normal
response to an extreme event. It involves the creation of emotional memories about the distressful event that are stored in structures deep within the
brain. In general, it is believed that the more direct the exposure to the
traumatic event, the higher the risk for emotional harm” (What is Trauma?).
Thus, the boy felt the symptoms that anyone would have in the face of a
terrible incident; however, the importance lies in how one deals with that
knowledge. The speaker of the poem must deal with his past in order to be
at peace with himself.
In order to answer some questions and understand the standpoint of
the author I decided to interview him. The writer confessed to me that this
poem had been an actual experience from his childhood.
“The poem describes an event that occurred during my childhood,
around 1975 in San José. I am now a father of two boys, ages 7 and 3, and
I have been enjoying their many explorations. On occasion, old memories
return while watching them play; sometimes the memories are vivid. In this
case, the memory kept returning to me, even in dreams, demanding my attention. In part, the poem is a response to my concern for my kids’ welfare
and for the welfare of children in general” (Robert Pesich).
As any concerned parent they want the best for their child and of course
that means they want to protect them from the cruelties they suffered as
young children. He writes how the memory was demanding his attention
and I think he was heading in the right direction in writing this poem, because he was acknowledging and expressing all his emotions that he had
bottled up. In order to breathe he had to release all these waves of emotions
Man’s Best Friend: Till Death Do Us Part
A critque of Barbara Leon’s A Man with His Dogs
by Dennis Cluster
When reading the phrase “man’s best friend,” most people will get
the reference that it means about a dog immediately, usually by owners who
have/has owned a dog. There’s this connection one feels with their pet, a
loving bond of protector protecting their pet or vice versa. In Barbara Leon’s
poem, “A Man and his Dogs,” the narrator, sister to the character being written about,describes her brother’s bond with his dogs and imagines how he
will leave this world. That image is with his dogs by his side with “Adirondack
winds ice[ing] the room./Red coals burn[ing] to ash.” The reader gets a decent glimpse of this man’s life, “He lives alone. /One wife moved on,/then the
next, his kids are in the cities/where he won’t go;” so all this man really has
for company now is his two dogs till he dies first or the dogs. I understand the
image the narrator wanted to leave the reader with, which is a man who has
lost companionship with humans, but because of loving pets, like dogs, that
empty void is filled with a social contact and love again.
This poem touched me emotionally because I am a “dog person,”
I’ve always had dogs growing up around me early on in my life that I own
personally and not. They are all-loving animals to me. I get nostalgic reading this poem over and over, because of the imagery of this man playing and
spending so much time with his two dogs. It reminds me of the memories I
had with my last dog, which passed away. Since that tragic episode I haven’t
owned a dog for about ten years. I still remember those memories of her
begging for table scraps or walking her around on her leash as she wears her
sock sweater. A popular myth with the life expectancy span of dogs is that
every one-year of man’s life equals to seven for dogs. This is not true since the
breed, and the size of the dog matters in fact to represent the actual number
compared to humans. Dogs do age rapidly faster than humans though, yet
the memories created and shared by both man and dog are equally the same
in time. Friendships with humans come and go, but friendships with dogs will
be ever lasting till death, and then after the memories will never be forgotten.
This man truly loves his dogs unconditionally. After he takes his two
dogs on a walk through the back roads, they are covered with mud and grime
where he then, “ …towels them down, heads home,/the car reeking of wet
dog.” That smell is definitely not pleasant compared to the aroma scent of
flowers. He doesn’t care for that smell because he loves them. As if they are
like his own children. In a way they are, but they’re not going to leave him
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Work Cited
Pesich, Robert. “Nature Boy in Silicon Valley.” E-mail interview. Apr.
2012.
Robinson, Lawrence. “SYMPTOMS, TREATMENT, AND RECOVERY.” Healing Emotional and Psychological Trauma. Dec. 2011. Web. 23
Mar. 2012. <http://www.helpguide.org/mental/emotional_psychological_
trauma.htm>.
“Trauma Counseling.” Counseling & Therapy with Values. Marriage
Counseling, Psychologist, Counselor, Family Therapist. Theravive, 2012.
Web. 28 Apr. 2012. <http://www.theravive.com/services/trauma-counselling.htm>.
“Understanding Child Traumatic Stress.” National Child Traumatic Stress
Network. NCTSN. Web. 28 Apr. 2012. <http://www.nctsn.org/resources/
audiences/parents-caregivers/understanding-child-traumatic-stress>.
Vassar, Gerry. “What Is Trauma?” Lakeside Connect. Lakeside Educational Network, 15 Sept. 2011. Web. 23 Mar. 2012. <http://lakesideconnect.
com/trauma-and-trauma-informed-care/what-is-trauma/?gclid=CI3f8aPj_
a4CFQJ9hwodk3rI5A>.
man social cues. It’s a unique skill that only dogs can pick up from
humans even at the early age as puppies. Which is a major ‘it’ factor of
what dogs have in them because of us humans wanting that trait for a companion. So isn’t that the under standing basis for most great friendships to
become ever lasting?(National Geographic).
I understand the narrator wants to leave the reader with this metaphor that really describes the life of this man or any other life, that in time
we will die, we are not immortal and neither are dogs. Dogs have this sense
in feeling what humans need and they do try to help the way they could.
That is the attention and affection, which dogs genetically, have in them. So
her brother’s image of how he’s going to be leaving this world is by his two
most loving counterparts witnessing his end, his dogs, watching him over.
Work Cited
Dennis Alan Cluster. Personal interview who is a father and dog owner:
“About raising children and raising dogs.” Date interviewed Mar. 23 2012. <dacluster@aol.com>
National Geographic. Video: “How Dogs Became Man’s Best Friend.”
Jan. 25 2007. Date accessed: Mar. 25 2012. <http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2007/01/070125-dogs-video.html>
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who have children that their pets are like their “kids,” or their “babies.”
Many adults get annoyed with those remarks. Like, how dare they compare
my kids to their pet? A majority reason why they shouldn’t be compared to
each other is that children are offspring of humans and dogs aren’t, the gene
that make children, are a part of you. The losing of a pet can
be a mournful experience like losing a child, but pets can be “replaced”
while a child can’t. Because partly of that reasoning; the factor “they are
made by me and by this other partner” to be in this world. But to me the two
are alike. Both pet and child you love, care, protect, and feed; however, the
difference is that children will grow up and be individuals. Dogs will always
be by your side till the end of either their life or yours. The man evens feeds
his two dogs meats rather than canned or dry dog food, he “…tosses raw
meat into their gaping jaws. Cheaper than dog food he says.” It’s plausible
that his statement is true, but it takes time to shop and bargain for the cost to
be lower than dog food compared to the Pedigree brand. That’s how much
this man cares for his dogs to the point of giving them food that he would
personally eat.
The man’s sister ends the poem with an image of how her brother will
leave this world:
I imagine him nodding off
by the cast iron stove, one gout-y
leg on the table by his gun
catalogs and asthma meds,
on either side a dog,
their three bodies breathing,
the dog’s breath even,
my brothers labored.
Adirondack winds ice the room.
Red coals burn to ash.
The last stanza leaves a very peaceful image and metaphor of how
this man will die, the coals burning a red glow, then going out. His two dogs
by his sides till his end. I felt this stanza had a steady flow of rhythm when
read with a slower and slower pace just like a coal going out. The narrator
pays homage to her brother with this decent ending that leaves an impression
of a frontiersman being out in the wilderness alone, but not leaving the world
with no one watching his death, he had his dogs. Man and dog’s bonding
friendship have been around since 15,000 years, and starting off was not as
domesticated canine, but ancestral wolves that led the way through for a process of selective breeding to make our domesticated companions to be who
they are now currently. So with all those centuries of years man and dog are
connected on this level of companionship. Dogs can pick up on our hu
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by Dennis Cluster
Francis Bacon by Andrew Brighton
Princeton University Press
Francis Bacon’s art in the twenty-first century stirred up two commotions; one was the surrealism in his paintings that expressed despair, and the
second was the technique he used in doing so. Andrew Brighton’s, “Francis
Bacon,” demonstrates the process of Bacon’s art process from being a student
to a self-trained artist. Bacon’s work is illustrations; at many times he said it
wasn’t and that it surpassed the idea of illustrations, the reason why he said
this was, “ Now illustration addresses nature, but in order to make nature
itself say something – and say it loudly.” I understand Bacon’s definition but I
do agree with Brighton’s statement commenting on Bacon’s definition saying,
“Seen in these terms, Bacon’s work is illustration. It does make nature, often
horrifically fractured, speak through art and loudly.” Bacon saw illustration in
two forms, images that have text to convey a message to the audience, and
images that imitate appearances. Now Bacon wanted to show the “brurtality
of fact,” showing reality of things than just appearances (Brighton 63). Bacon
wanted to comment on emotions of fear and despair through his work at a
time where art was more towards “…shiny horses or juicy satins.”
Bacon returns to London from a boarding school for boys, and now
emerges as Bacon the artist. His first successful work was a three-panel piece
called ,Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion, in 1944. With
the image of a mangled up corpse distorting between human and beast, and
colors of neutral grays and symbolic reds, most of the public commented
that his work reflected World War Two and The Holocaust. Future works by
Bacon have this morbid feeling when looking at his paintings, and in an interview with Bacon he commented the feelings he’s using and referencing off
from his works, “It’s concerned with my kind of psyche, it’s concerned with
my kind of – I’m putting in a very pleasant way – exhilarated despair.” With
this emotional psyche influence Bacon balanced that, with his techniques on
the canvas that were not traditional, like painting on the “wrong side,” of the
canvas. Brighton gave many examples of paintings that Bacon demonstrates
this balance of the painter versus the painting technique. Bacon’s crucifixion
motif he used dominated most of his work from the 1960’s to the 1970’s. He
then later focused on painting portraits, but not in the way like Picasso or
Rembrandt, he still continued pushing his dark motif tastefully, keeping the
human form in the portrait, but pushing the expressiveness.
Brighton definitely demonstrated in showing a connection of Bacon’s
used many examples that did not hurt the Bacon motif of using despair of
the psyche. Bacon produced artwork commenting a time where it was a new
stylistic form and it was accepted at a time that might have been too early for
this kind of artwork. It worked out though. By Brighton chronologically placing certain works to show this continuality of Bacon’s dark surrealism motif,
it shows Bacon the artist in wanting to show illustrations that didn’t have to
be portraits of popes, dancers or heavenly landscapes on canvas.
http://archaesthetic.files.wordpress.com/2012/02/francis-bacon-pope-innocente-x-velazquez-comparison.jpg
Work Cited
Andrew, Brighton. Francis Bacon. British Artists. Princeton University Press. 2001.
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Francis Bacon: The Un-trained Trained Painter
by Kelsie White
A critique of Peach Grief, by Irene Reti
“My mother kept peaches in a scuffed yellow bowl (Reti).” Irene Reti
starts off her poem with imagery right away. “Juice dripping/down my neck
(Reti).” the way the juice dripped down the girl’s neck gives a sense of indulgence and pleasure of the soft fruit. Something so simple has a greater meaning to this woman, and so much so that she later refers to it as a “time machine (Reti)”. For some people life on earth is savored in the simplest ways,
even something as delicate and small as a peach, can lend itself to a lifetime
of memories and enjoyment. Death is bittersweet for everyone, therefore, we
must all take a moment to stop and smell the peaches before those memories
slip
away.
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In this poem, titled “Peach Grief,” a woman is having a flash back
to her childhood and remembers the yellow scuffed bowl her mother kept
the peaches in. “I ate them before the fridge, juice dripping/down my neck
(Reti)”, follows, and gives me a scene I can imagine in my head. She does not
would really like to know. If we knew, it would make this poem come to
life more, and it would help us know the two women better.
I contacted the author, Irene Reti, and discovered that she spent most
of her childhood living in smoggy Las Angeles with her mother. When she
recollects the fridge and the peach juice, she is referring to when she was
about 10. She claimed, “I was a lonely, somewhat nerdy teenager who spent
her time hiding out and reading books in her room.” She spent all of her time
with her mother, so now I have a better understanding on why she was so
devastated when she ate the peach that day.
Something that struck me as funny was when her mother asked if the
peach was good. I find it slightly comedic that she would even doubt her
daughter giving her a good peach. “But is it a good peach, she asked, before/
morphine delivered her from a broken pelvis (Reti)”. Here I see she is in the
hospital also for a broken pelvis, so she probably got into some kind of accident and is maybe dying from infection or trauma. The author said, “thirty
years later (Reti)”, so that leads me to think she is not dying of old age, however I don’t know for a fact.
I later read that her mother was diagnosed with lung cancer in the
summer of 2004, and it shortly spread into her bones causing them to be frail.
She broke her pelvis in October 2004 and that lead to a painful and nasty
two year recovery when the cancer spread and eventually took her life (http://
artsobispo.org). Bone cancer affects over 2,000 people in the USA every year.
It is most common amongst elders and children; sadly it found Ingrid Reti and
infested her body (MedicineNet). Bone cancer affects the tissue of the body
creating tumors and pain; this destroys the surrounding area and bone tissue
needed for survival. This disease is horrible and reading about this made me
realize how terrible and painful it can be.
The third stanza opens with, “Now a ripe peach is a time machine,
transports me to/acrid teenage summers (Reti).” I find out now that the peach
had to be ripe for her mother in order to transport her back to her childhood
as it did for the speaker in the opening stanza. She remembers her summer in
the San Fernando Valley and her acrid teenage years. The word acrid means
to have a strong unpleasant smell or taste, which is totally contradicting to the
entire poem about pleasant and delicious peaches. I find the play on words
interesting and also confusing. Why would she describe it as acrid when she
reminisced of her times before the fridge eating peaches? Now I know that
she was talking about the smoggy days she spent in Las Angeles with her
mother.
She comes back to her mother in the next line, “when I loved her
more/than anyone (Reti)”. She is showing her love for her mother here and it
makes the proceeding stanza even more sorrowful. She spent the summers of
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Dripping With Gold
her teenage years with her mother and maybe around peaches as well.
The mood really changes drastically when the author flows from the third
stanza to the last. From my perspective it sounds as if she is talking from the
peach perspective in the first line, “I am soft and bruised/touch peach fur
(Reti)”. On the other hand she might be comparing herself to a peach being
delicate and able to bruise. Then she is back in the hospital room with her
mother, “stroking the blond hair on my arm, calling me her fuzzy wuzzy
(Reti)”. I feel as if this is last time she saw her mother before she passed away
and this is the lasting sentimental impression she will have of her. She finishes
the poem with, “I bite into the sweet fruit, juice falls like rain (Reti)”. She ate
the peach she brought for her mom and describes the juice as rain, it conveys
a soothing feeling, as if taking the fruit she is excepting death.
This poem really stood out to me for its simple writing style and
the story she is telling. A life long journey perfectly summed up into a four
stanza poem. She didn’t use unnecessary words to describe her childhood;
she stayed to the point and made it enjoyable. I love how she describes the
peaches throughout the poem also. This goes to show that a simple poem can
be one that impacts you strongly. It is a refreshing poem with delightful imagery and senses. The peach is referred to throughout the poem and gives me
a picture I can relate too. After researching bone cancer I discovered a lot of
information that made my heart sink. Thinking about how Irene felt watching
her mother’s life slowly fade away from cancer makes me sorry for her and
also helps bring this poem to life. It is not fiction, yet a real life struggle that
tears families apart.
In Loving Memory of Ingrid Reti (1927-2007)
Works Cited
“Rubber Slippers In Italy.” : Our Peach Tree in the Mountains. Web. 09
May 2012. <http://rubbahslippahsinitaly.blogspot.com/2007/08/our-peachtree-in-mountains.html>. second peach picture
“ROOM VIEW SHOWCASE.” Art.com. Web. 16 May 2012. <http://www.
art.com/products/p10305563-sa-i1043930/david-carter-brown-fresh-peaches.htm>.
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Post, Clayton. “Peaches and Bowl.” Paperblog. 15 July 2011. Web. 09 May
2012. <http://en.paperblog.com/peaches-and-bowl-43037/>. : peach picture
by Kelsie White
Withering Tights (Misadventures of Tallulah Casey)
by Louise Rennison, Harper Teen, $10.99
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The title, Withering Tights caught my attention, and so I read the reviews on the back cover. It described a book full of laughs about the self
discovery of Tellulah Casey in her new school, away from parents. Well, I did
not laugh once, nor did I smile, nor did I enjoy the book. It took the author,
Louis Rennison two hundred pages to finally throw some action into it, in
which she kissed a boy she had never met before. Not only was it uneventful, the language used was hard to get through in some spots. It is set in the
Yorkshire moors where they say, “las,” and “dunderwhelp;” good thing she
provided a glossary in the back! It lacked detail and that made it hard to
keep reading. I wish I had thrown this book away; however, I gave this one
a chance to penlove into something great, but I was led back to my previous
assessment; it stank.
The one thing that I disliked about this book was the boring rising
action. The whole book was about her stay at this new school; however it
was not as exciting as I imagined: no trouble, to parties, nothing outrageous
that I would expect at a performing arts school with no supervision. Haven’t
you heard of “band camp”? They have outrageous events that take place and
make it worth watching. I was misled by the reviews and have a very different
outlook on it. The book build up to the summer performance the girls have to
do to pass the course, “The next day Sidone announced that our performance
project for the summer course in Wuthering Heights.” This was all the talk
around the school, and that’s all they did, talk. There was nothing funny except how she hated her tallness, and there was nothing special about Tallulah
Casey.
Tallulah was the narrator throughout the book, and even considering
she was fourteen, it was, lacking. She talked like a five year old and had nothing interesting to say. The author did not use interesting words to describe settings or people, she hardly even described anything. If she saw a new person
she did not go into detail about how they looked, so it was hard to put myself
in her shoes. Also I have no inkling about what the school itself looked like.
When I read a book the way I get into it is by seeing the scenes in my head,
I could not do that here. Unfortunately, I could not “see” what she saw, I had
to imagine it with no descriptions from the book, which was very hard and
she had had an eye on, I was waiting for fireworks. I got all duds, no
heartfelt message or discretion of what her heart felt when he looked into her
eyes. BORING!
Tallulah had a best friend Vaisey, who she was with most of the book;
however, I don’t know what she looks like because of the poor descriptions
she gave. The only thing she said about Vaisey’s appearance was, “She had
a mess of curly hair and a cute sticky-up nose.” She never mentioned what
color her hair was, or how tall she was, or anything else about her looks. I
hate when authors do this and I am glad to say this is the only book I have
read like this. Never again will I take advice from a back cover. I find this hard
to relate with any characters throughout the story if I don’t even know what
they look like. She met other friends along the way, but even then she would
only point out corky little attributes about them, nothing substantial.
I had a hard time picturing the scenes she would see at school and
at her boarding house as well. She described it as, “It’s a sweet room really,
you know, but I thought going to a performing arts college it might be more…
gooderer.” I never learned what color the walls were, how big it was, or
what it was furnished with. The only thing she saw was the bed with squirrels carved in the headboard. This made it hard for me to see why she found
peace in this room. I would like to have known what it was like and why she
felt cozy in it. I understand she is fourteen, but she has to give the reader
some form of imagery. The only thing interesting about the book was the way
she talked, and even than it was nonsense! Who even know what words such
as, “Ginnel,” and, “googlers,” mean, not me.
Tallulah had an interesting way of talking, she would say quirky little
sayings that I did not understand, such as, “barm pot.” Later I found out it
means a loony person, I didn’t like having to turn to page 268 to find that one
out. I have never read a book with so many abstract sayings and accents,
and I must say it was hard to follow along sometime, there’s a reason for that.
I personally did not care for that sort of language, and had to flip to the back
to understand what was going on. I had also never read a book with so many
accents in it. The boy band main singer, Cain had an accent I did not recognize, he said, “Watch tha sen Tallulah.” It was hard to read and also hard to
understand, and it took me a while to get what they were talking about.
Not only were the accents hard to read, so was Tallulah. She did a
lot of talking inside her own head, but not to the extent I was hoping. She
wouldn’t go into deep thought about anything and when she did it would be
cut short or interrupted, I didn’t feel like I really knew her at the end of the
book. I think the main reason it was so hard to get an idea of her life was
because she was young and the author wanted that to be portrayed through
her voice. I felt it was inconvenient because I missed out on a lot during the
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Struggling Out of Withering Tights
Running
Into
My
Tommorrow
By
Nick
Surber
A critique of Tilly Shaw’s “Ephemera,” and Helen MacKinlay’s “Forty-Two
Kilometres”
I
love running. Maybe it’s the familiar sound of feet crunching the dirt or
perhaps I just enjoy the thrill of the race. No matter how all-encroaching the
hullabaloo of contemporary society may seem, a few miles into the wilderness and the veneer of civilization fades. Sun or snow, rain or shine, Winter
or Summer, there is no need to stop running; catharsis is only a few strides
away. Before we were even able to dispute whether running was actually a
“sport”, humans ran all over Africa to hunt. Those that were the fastest, lived;
the stragglers were often left to perish. It is this sense of imminent decline that
the author explores in “Forty- Two Kilometres” during the Berlin Marathon.
Under the guise of a marathon filled with legions of spry, healthy runners,
Helen MacKinlay details the gradual evolution of two generations of runners,
yet the mother in Tilly Shaw’s “Ephemera” with Alzheimer’s can not help her
son cope with her void. While both entries emphasize irreversible decay, the
people involved are all at varying levels of acceptance of this fact. “FortyTwo Kilometres” and “Ephemera” use simple language to provide us with an
excellent expose of the inevitable progression into old age and its physical
and mental limitations; that, combined, remind us of the fragility of the human condition and the cycle of life.
MacKinlay utilizes the first three stanzas to limn the setting and background of the Berlin Marathon. Simply put, she notes that “It’s a perfect day
for a marathon in Berlin / Months of preparation over” (MacKinlay lines 1-2).
We know that both the parent and son are ready to start the race: they’ve set
up their microchips, pinned their bibs and are packed closely together due to
the prodigious volume of runners (MacKinlay 1-13). Unable to see the running icons at the front, since “...seventeen thousand people / Block my view”,
the parent finds herself reflecting on her son’s adolescence (MacKinlay 9-10,
14-20). Not all that long ago, the son was struggling to keep up with the parent, and eventually he was so exhausted that he asked to be carried home
(MacKinlay 14-20). Thus, the memory is a metaphor to evince how, not so
long ago, the parent was dominant (and youthful) by carrying him.
After the reminiscing is complete, the parent abruptly returns to the
marathon that is now underway. Both runners manage to navigate the chaos
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whole book. I did enjoy the thoughts she had on what her summer would
be. She went into detail about what would happen and that definitely made
me want to read on.
When she talked about her adventures I was intrigued about what
was to come, she talked about painting, sculpting, dancing and boys, however this did not turn into the action-packed book I was expecting. I was
hopeful that this was foreshadowing done by the author through Tallulah,
but it was just her hopes, nothing concrete. In fact she only met a few boys
and kissed one. There was no sculpting either, just a weird Irish dance she
made up in class. I was let down by the result of the story line and wish I had
switched book earlier on.
One thing I found interesting about the book was the way the title
was weaved into the story. Tallulah is extremely tall for her age and she hates
her knees and legs, so to choose the title, “Withering Tights,” was clever. It
was also a play on words because the performance they had to do was titled,
“Wurthering Heights,” so that fit in perfectly. I learned that a novel titled,
“Wurthering Heights,” was released in 1947 and that’s where the whole play
came from. This book did not keep my attention and it was for me to keep going back and reading it because I didn’t enjoy it. I excepted this performance
to be magical and extravagant, it was two pages long. No detail what so ever.
I feel that the whole story line was stretched out and then slammed together
in the last fifty pages. I wish the author would have spent more time on the
fun times she had at the end of the book and not on the simple everyday kind
of stuff. I looked online at other reviews and found it got 4 out of 5 stars, I was
honestly shocked. One critic even said, “Excellent supporting characters and
the tendency to make you laugh till you cry.” The only time I felt like crying
was when I finished the book and found that I wasted a few hours of my life
reading it.
Iwill admit i liked the end of the novel when the group of friends
meets some guys from the neighboring boy academy, however, all they did
was go to a movie and nothing juicy and excited ever happened. Let’s just
say it was non-eventful, and why would I ever want to reread something I
hated? I wouldn’t, and this book shall never be taken off my shelf again, unless its trash day. As I said before, I regret not exchanging books; however, I
now know what I do and do not like in novels. I like details and excitement,
and “Withering Tights,” had neither. If you like boring books that you have to
struggle to keep reading, and if you like being stuck in a fourteen year old’s
naive head, than this is the book for you, not me.
digm with the beach and the circular mindset in the predictable tides
that will gradually wash away his drawings. Conversely, MacKinlay develops the Berlin Marathon as a short-term, linear counterpoint to the parent’s
eventual shift from carrying the son to the son bearing the parent. What is
more, MacKinlay (33) accentuates this passage by concluding both her reminiscence and the last stanza with “[...] ‘Wait, carry me’”. In both cases, the
linear paradigm is symbolized as the immediate setting, while the circular
mentality represents predestined decline (and also growth). One possible explanation for the disparity is linearization; that is, any curve, be it circular,
sinusoidal, etc. will appear to form a line on a very small scale.
No one likes to be last. When I was a child, I detested losing to my
dad, Mark, when we would go for a morning jog; naturally, I stopped running and opted to hop on my bike, just to show him I could win. Of course,
I didn’t realize that some day I would pass him, and that, not long thereafter,
he wouldn’t be able to pass me. I saw my own mortality. I can’t remember
that day, but thanks to “Forty- Two Kilometres”, I have a better understanding of this sense of impermanence. It doesn’t happen overnight: the rhythmic
stride of life is grueling and without any finish line in sight. There is nothing
you can do to stop it; just as the parent could not pass the son, Gerbrselassie
passed the torch to Makau. Likewise, no degree of sand drawing could draw
the man away from the impending senility of his mother’s Alzheimer’s. Yet
we toil onward. Ends and starts blur—suddenly we find our legs taking us
nowhere and everywhere at the same time. The mind is suspended. There is
no tomorrow. There is no yesterday. There is only today.
Works Cited
“About the BMW Berlin-Marathon.” World Marathon Majors. World Marathon Majors, 2012. Web. 20 Mar. 2012.
“History of the Berlin Marathon.” BMW Berlin Marathon. BMW Berlin Marathon, 2012. Web. 20 Mar. 2012.
Longman, Jeré. “Kenyan Outruns an Icon, Taking His World Record.”
The New York Times. New York Times, 25 Sep. 2011. Web. 20 Mar. 2012.
MacKinlay, Helen. “Forty- Two Kilometres.” Porter Gulch Review 2012. Ed. David Sullivan. N.p., 2012.
MacKinlay, Helen. Personal Interview. 18 Apr. 2012.
Shaw, Tilly. “Ephemera.” Porter Gulch Review 2012. Ed. David Sullivan. N.p., 2012.
Shaw, Tilly. Personal Interview. 26 Apr. 2012.
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that seventeen thousand runners brings to stay together, yet the son is
easily matching the pace (MacKinlay 20-22). The parent has no choice but to
yield to his/ her sprightly counterpart, “[...] his stride is longer, stronger. / My
twenty extra years cannot match / His pace. Slowly he draws away” (MacKinlay 25-27). Intriguingly, the parent has recognized this decline in strength
and consequently, has no trepidations about the marathon (MacKinlay 2831). Hence, the real anxiety lies not with the known, but with the uncertain:
“But I am afraid of that tomorrow when / I will need to ask, ‘Wait, carry
me’” (MacKinlay 32-33). The marathon has a definite finish line in a tangible
amount of time; life, however, is somewhat more abstruse. We know there is
an end, the question is when.
Like the parent and son in MacKinlay’s work, the Berlin Marathon has
undergone many historical changes and also served as a platform to galvanize new generations of runners. The marathon was first conducted on October 13th, 1974 and quickly grew from hundreds of participants to 33, 312
finishers in 2011 (“History”; “About”). The course switched from Grunewald,
“a forest in West Berlin” to running in the city for the 1981 marathon (“History”). The most profound transition for the marathon was symbolic of the
Cold War divisions of Berlin itself: “On September 30, 1990, three days before reunification, the course of the Berlin Marathon led through Brandenburg Gate and both parts of Berlin” (“About”). The marathon bridged the gap
between West and East Berlin, just as the parent and son progressed through
adulthood; MacKinlay herself ran the course after unification in 1996. More
recently, last year’s race witnessed the dawn of a new era: relative newcomer
Patrick Makau of Kenya passed Ethiopian veteran Haile Gerbrselassie to set
a world record (Longman). Surprisingly, only five miles after he lost the lead,
Gerbrselassie had to withdraw from the marathon, due to breathing issues
(Longman). Longman, in a New York Times piece covering the race, surmised,
“At 38, he seems to have set his last world record and surrendered to emerging runners”. Although Gerbrselassie and the parent are far from becoming
seniors, they both have realized that they are on a downward slope. Eventually there will no longer be able to run at all.
Another poem in the review, “Ephemera”, expounds similar motifs
to “Forty- Two Kilometres” using dementia instead of corporeal decay. In
“Ephemera”, a man attempts to find some solace from her mother’s mental
decline by passing “long hours drawing on the sand” (Shaw 4; Shaw). Once
the man embraces this elephantine medium, he quickly learns to appreciate
the beach; sadly, the poem ends by reasserting the omnipotence of Alzheimer’s in that no act, large or small, can head off its far-reaching effects (Shaw
1-16). Both works highlight a fundamental duality of life: viewing life as a
linear progression or periodic cycle. Shaw encapsulates the longitudinal para
By Nick Surber
Castle. J. Robert Lennon. Graywolf Press. $11.90
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Why
do we fight? To what end? Should we cultivate a violent, warmongering culture based on the dichotomous view ‘it’s us or them’
to perpetuate our military-industrial complex? Or see the proxy wars of the
recent past as a call to disavow this perspective? It is with this ethos excoriating American militarism that J. Robert Lennon examines in his captivating
psychological thriller, Castle. Far from your typical thriller, Lennon imbues a
post-9-11 dynamic; namely, that there are serious— often overlooked— costs
of war that question the purported virtuousness of exporting democracy. To
this end, Lennon introduces us to Eric Loesch: a mysterious Iraq war Veteran
who survives managing an Abu Ghraib-like torture facility only because of
the ethically dubious behavioral conditioning of Dr. Stiles as a youth. Unfortunately, Lennon’s protagonist is unable to shake off his war training and
views everything in his life as a battlefield. Ultimately, as Lennon transitions
between Loesch’s struggle to preserve his warped sense of morality in Iraq
and assimilate back into civilian life in the States, he implores us to re-evaluate the costs and perquisites of war vis-à-vis the banality of prisoner abuse
and its inherent dehumanization. The inescapable conclusion is that we must
denounce war in general.
Prior to settling down in New York, Loesch served in Iraq where he
faced, and generally avoided, a myriad of moral dilemmas at Camp Alastor (Lennon 204). As a Chief Warrant Officer in the U.S. Army, Loesch was
“charged with overseeing the construction of a new detention center in Iraq
for the processing and temporary housing of detainees arrested in connection with terrorism, and with gathering information from those detainees”
(Lennon 204). To gather intelligence, the interrogators routinely manipulated
the prisoners’ religious allegiances and convinced them that their death was
imminent by any means possible (Lennon 215). They found dogs and snakes
to be useful; eventually they turned to desecration of the Qur’an and other
Islamic iconography (Lennon 215). While Loesch was confident of his soldiers’ results, his superiors became distant and he postulated that the incessant praise “was motivated, in part, by a desire to keep Camp Alastor at a
distance” (Lennon 210).
As it turned out, this strategic distancing was well warranted, since
the prisoner’s dehumanization only increased as Loesch’s resources became strained and the abuse spread throughout the prison. Not surprisingly,
dehumanization was one of his main objectives when he designed the camp;
for example, cells were angled below the corridors, windows were minuscule, and the corridors were aligned to make the prisoner spatially disoriented (Lennon 207). Without additional space to house the large surplus of
detainees or more soldiers to adequately supervise them, the soldiers began
to strip them naked and water-board them (Lennon 218). Loesch and his
subordinates became so angered at the prisoners that they were demonized;
the soldiers eventually “had become addicted to [the prisoner], fixated on
the moment of relief when he talked. We wanted to feel that relief again. We
wanted to please our superiors and bask in their implicit approval” (Lennon
218). Conditions deteriorated to the point where the lone teenager, Sufian,
was interrogated and ultimately killed by Loesch, when found to be the whistler who constantly irked the soldiers (Lennon 221). Sufian’s death led to
Loesch’s acceptance of their failure; immediately before committing suicide,
the much-desired replacements arrived and Loesch was discharged (Lennon
222). No one wanted Sufian’s tragic death to become widely publicized like
with the Abu Ghraib prison scandal.
Throughout the entire occupation, prisoner abuse was a common occurrence and little was done to prevent human rights violations. A Christian
Science Monitor piece on Camp Cropper, the last main US prison to be trans
PGR 189
Storm
the Castle
of War
events.
By employing the two wars of Iraq and Loesch’s psychological battle
over control with Stiles, Lennon is urging the public to truly evaluate the costs
of war and not let the miscarriages of justice slide into oblivion. In many
ways, they have a lot in common: Loesch was trying to assert his dominance
over the prisoners and also show Stiles that he could indeed outfox the master himself. In both cases, this resulted in death; yet, only in Gerrysburg, lying in the hospital, did Loesch finally find his catharsis and move on. This is
simply because Lennon is reminding us that the “fog of war” in real life has
no easy exit— it will haunt you forever. Ironically, this fog is represented by
the dense and unforgiving forest on Loesch and Stiles’ property that, in the
end, poses the real threat. With the Loesch-Stiles conflict resolved, Lennon
leaves the reader alone to surmise how we should, as a nation, approach the
atrocities committed in Iraq. However, with Loesch’s admission that, “my
experiences in Iraq would doubtless haunt me for many years to come, the
army itself remained the same institution that had sustained me for more than
twenty years”, the author clearly believes that without a serious demand for
a change in our approach to war, there will be many more Camp Alastors
(Lennon 229).
War is easy. As Loesch admitted, his soldiers “ knew how to identify
an enemy and neutralize it” (Lennon 217). But what to do with the detainees?
Or, better yet, where do you put the soldiers? Lennon is convinced that once
the corporeal war is over, even after the public has long since forgotten, the
soldier’s psychological war will linger on. It is only in neutralizing the ghost
of Loesch’s past that he moves forward with his life, and Lennon departs
Castle with his protagonist embarking on yet another mission to destroy yet
another unnamed threat. If this is how war must be fought, where dehumanization and cover-ups pervade the military culture, and we rely on monsters
like Loesch for the follow-through, then perhaps we should put aside the
militarized sense of virtue and evaluate the intangible costs of war: both on
us and the so-called enemy. Now it is time to storm the bastille!
Works Cited
Arraf, Jane. “As US hands over last prison in Iraq, a glimpse at how
detainees lived.” The Christian Science Monitor. CSMonitor, 2010. Web. 7 Apr. 2012.
Lennon, Robert J. Castle. Minneapolis: Graywolf Press, 2009. Print.
Phillips, Joshua E.S. “Inside the Detainee Abuse Task Force.” The Nation. The Nation, 2011. Web. 7 Apr. 2012.
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ferred to the Iraqis, explained that while standards had increased markedly after reports of abuse surfaced in Abu Ghraib, American officials were worried that the Iraqis might return to inhumane practices (Arraf). Arraf averred
that, “human rights is widely seen as a foreign-imposed concept and, with
many having very personal reasons for hating the former regime, there are
few expectations that the former members will be given the same treatment
as they have received in US custody”. This in comparison to the American
system wherein many of the 86,000 detainees were systematically detained
without any charges pressed against them for months and even years (Arraf).
Attempts to rectify previous human rights violations were throughly
investigated by a The Nation article written by Joshua E.S. Phillips. In it, Phillips interviewed many soldiers assigned to the “Detainee Abuse Task Force”
in 2005 after Abu Ghraib; this group had six people to analyze hundreds of
cases, while the Abu Ghraib scandal alone received a general and his staff. To
make matters worse, those interviewed affirmed that there was no consensus
as to what constituted abuse or torture, accused military units were uncooperative, and key evidence was missing (Phillips). Astonishingly, none of the
agents “could recall a single case they investigated that actually advanced
to a court-martial hearing, known as an Article 32” (Phillips). The Pentagon
responded to these allegations by asserting that there was no official “DATF”;
an Operations Officer overseeing cases like the aforementioned speculated
that the military likely knew of the DATF’s failings and was simply covering it
up (Phillips).
Loesch’s lack of effective leadership and discipline lead to senseless
violence against his prisoners, and he shared the same fate as the DATF.
Shipped back to the States, he was ordered to testify in hearings about Sufian’s tragic death (Lennon 222). Loesch repeatedly lied, and even insinuated
that a fellow prisoner could likely have killed him to prevent the divulgence
of any pertinent information (Lennon 222). The government was pleased with
Loesch’s role in the cover-up and decided that he be “put on indefinite leave,
set up in an apartment, and given an assumed name”, not to mention having all of his funds transferred, with the addition of financial compensation
(Lennon 223). Unlike his involvement in Iraq, the protagonist returned to
his hometown in New York to finish the informal war with Dr. Stiles (Lennon
197). During his youth, Loesch and Stiles’ relationship had been tumultuous
at best, and without an explicit end to Stiles’ conditioning, the return to Gerrysburg is seen as an attempt to revisit and resolve this conflict—and to find a
way to (privately) move on from his troubles in Iraq (Lennon 195). The cycle
was complete when he moved back to Stiles’ long-forgotten, densely forested
property and began refurbishing the house (Lennon 3). Both the house and
Loesch serve to remind us of the tendency to marginalize past traumatic
A critique of Untitled by Roland Spies
By Lindsey Ramirez
PGR 192
“When you give yourself permission to communicate what matters to
you in every situation you will have peace despite rejection or disapproval.
Putting a voice to your soul helps you to let go of the negative energy of fear
and regret.” –Shannon L. Adler
Believing you’re as strong as the desk you work on, the ground you
walk over, and the bones you stand with, is not the innate mindset of today;
realizing that every being has faults they desire to hide from themselves and
others, would generate wholeness like never imagined before. “Untitled”
by Roland Spies encouraged me to expand and improve not only on my
writing, but myself entirely. My interview with Roland consisted of simple
and short questions about his inspirations and if this poem was meant to
have a deeper meaning.
“Nope, I love titling my works sometimes more than writing them and
that particular one I remember feeling extremely strong about leaving it
Untitled, or maybe Untitled is the title. One or the other” (Spies).
The poem itself speaks of women’s troubles, social intimidations, and
a hopeless mindset of the worries that engulf “her”. However, the strength
inside is still deeply hidden under her mask of unexplored fears. Spies created a poem with repetition, really getting the point across that “she” has
more self-confidence and strength inside, but we are our only enemies that
keep us from our full potential; Spies understands that once we learn to accept our flaws will we only then be able to grow from them.
“She said that no one’s listening so she doesn’t need to pray
She said to me tomorrow is the answer to today
She said that the cure is more contagious than the disease
She said that she always wants to go but never wants to leave.”
The poem reads wonderfully and becomes even more powerful when
read out loud, thanks to the structure of words that match in rhythm and
sound. These are lines five through eight, which set the poem up with a
melancholy touch to standard thoughts and feelings. In the first few seconds of reading the repetitive structure, the rhythm becomes effortless and
the words sink into your consciousness.
Spies responds, “I write a lot through the perspective of a boy who’s
very close to a certain girl or the perspective of that girl. It’s kind of my way
to use my experiences without using the name of someone I’m speaking of,
or so I can combine my experiences of multiple people into one character.”
The more times it’s re-read, the greater the feelings of how important
self-improvement and acceptance is; we can only truly love someone or
something, once we learn to love ourselves first. To love one self appears
arrogant though, and many will agree, we simply need to “be ourselves
in order to let our true nature come forth” (Maharaj). Why waste our time
seeking to be something we’re not? We are all beautiful to someone. This
poem exists just as real fears, mishaps, and fortunes do; integrating our
minds with the desire to impress others and care about their disapproval.
It’s time to stop worrying about others and create our own voices of constructive criticism to change our personal faults for the better.
“She said the power is a burden like the pain
She said she never cries but does it in the rain
She said she never saw the beauty in learning how to think
She said she doesn’t need a lesson and she’d rather have a drink
She said her heart is made of paper and her wings are made of glass
She said she tears so easily because nothing ever lasts.”
The casual vocabulary makes it easy for one to relate, pulling in your
own thoughts as if you’d made the same connections. With a heart of paper
and wings of glass, the only thing weaker than weakness is to believe that
it could not change. Visible as boulders in our river, crashing our water
against it slowly, deteriorating that unmovable rock we’ve longed to pull
out of the water.
“When we experience self-esteem only through the eyes of others,
one unkind word or a bad mood in another can shatter our sense of self”
(Brockway). Spies portrayed a spectacular idea of that we are always moving forward towards something, giving us a purpose to our daily lives. Once
we are corrected or disapproved by another, instantly we judge ourselves
to a point of no return. The main ideas were clear and images so vivid, I
almost wish he had said she died through destruction of losing herself in
the mist of approval from others and the loss of individuality through selfhatred. Analyzing the simple instances and thoughts arose more meaning
to knowing yourself; identifying your own fears, loves, and favorites will
only move you forward and hopefully you will speak for yourself. Hopefully, no one will tell you otherwise.
PGR 193
Speaking For Those Who Don’t
“Emotional Balance.” SelfGrowth.com. Web. 19 Mar. 2012. <http://
www.selfgrowth.com/articles/emotional-balance>.
“To Know Yourself, Be Yourself. |One Powerful Word - Life Inspiration,
Motivation and Insight.” One Powerful Word. Web. 18 Mar. 2012. <http://
www.onepowerfulword.com/2011/03/to-know-yourself-be-yourself.
html>.
INTERVIEW
My name is Roland Spies; I’ve been living in Santa Cruz for about 3
years where I’ve been making music and studying Early Childhood Education. Other than that I have lived in Normal, Illinois my whole life (a very
strange place I hold a deep place in my heart for). I’ve been writing since I
was very young but started seriously pursuing creative writing around age
13. I’m in many different musical groups in which I do a lot more writing
of a similar style. Music---- http://soundcloud.com/traukuu1701
my writing sort of captures my experiences in an abstract perspective.
PGR 194
How long have you been writing for (Include/exclude high school and
lower?)
I’ve been doing poetry since about age 13 when I started going to local
open mic poetry nights. I’ve been in a hip hop group for 6 years in which
I do a lot of writing which grew out of my early poetry writing. I also do a
lot of more traditional songwriting in a large variance of styles.
What inspires you?
Most of the inspiration in my writing comes simply from my everyday life.
I get myself into a good number of quality misadventures which provide
more than enough material to write about. Also whenever I discover new
music/poetry/literature that just is completely unique that always inspires
me.
What really interests you about writing poetry?
You can say literally whatever the hell you want; I was very timid about
this at first. At some point I realized that really the only person I should
write for is myself and live by my personal standards for what is good.
When you write to impress others you may succeed but you are left with
nothing, if you write to impress yourself then you still may succeed with
others but no matter what you’ll have grown from it.
Is there an exact title for the poem you wrote “She said nothing...”?
Nope, I love titling my works sometimes more than writing them and that
particular one I remember feeling extremely strong about leaving it Untitled, or maybe Untitled is the title. One or the other.
What was your purpose or cause of writing that piece?
I write a lot through the perspective of a boy who’s very close to a certain
girl or the perspective of that girl. It’s kind of my way to use my experiences without using the name of someone I’m speaking of or so I can
combine my experiences of multiple people into one character. This
particular piece I was playing a show back in Illinois and I stepped outside
for a minute before we went on and I saw this sad girl sitting by herself. I
sat next to her to comfort her and she talked to me for a long time and she
was such a mystery. It was a great talk though, that’s the main inspiration
but other people I’ve known are represented in the piece.
How does it relate to your life now?
I just like reading it. I can always go back to old work and pull from it to
get more inspiration for later things or old pieces will apply to new times
in my life.
Have you written other pieces? Are they similar?
I’ve written more than I could ever remember. I don’t keep a lot of my
poetry. I’ll write it down on paper, read it a bunch and then just get rid of
it, not too sure why I do that. All my writing is different but many follow
similar inspirations.
Will you continue writing?
Always and Forever
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WORKS CITED
“10 Ways to Honor Thyself.” Beliefnet.com. Web. 18 Mar. 2012. <http://
www.beliefnet.com/Health/2008/09/10-Ways-to-Honor-Thyself.aspx>.
A Book Review of Waiting for Tomorrow by Pat MacEnulty
By Lindsey Ramirez
Remember thy servants, O Lord.
He was not ready to leave us,
Nor were we ready to see him go.
The dark scissors of death have separated us.
He accepted danger. Its strong and shining thread
Led him from this tangled maze.
Help us, Lord, in thy great wisdom
To accept his acceptance.
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Rosalind “Roz” MacEnulty
An American Requiem
Do you ever catch yourself waiting for tomorrow, or just waiting for
the next day to come knowing each will pass? Normally we wait because
we need somebody else, but there is fear or even a physical obstacle that
holds us back. Pat MacEnulty wrote Wait Until Tomorrow, a small-scale
memoir of her adult life including family, financial distress, some compromises, and death. However, her mother, Roz MacEnulty, led her through
the days to follow and to a greater purpose. This personal dive into Pat MacEnulty’s life is explored as she jumps to different years in a five part piece,
beginning as a middle-aged woman, dealing with her daughter’s college
paper issues and discussing matters about her mother with her good friend
Darryl. Through such simple conversations and exchanges between people
with various descriptions, one is hooked into discovering Pat’s experiences
and hardships whilst she yearns to publish a novel and hold her marriage
together, as well as providing aid to her mother as the days become grim.
The desire in me grew to hear about her years of growing up with a charismatic, single mother raising four kids, and how it may have shaped the life
of Pat MacEnulty. To hear of her troubled teenage years kept me motivated
to comprehend her growth as an individual.
Each part of her memoir starts with a simple excerpt pulled from
Roz’s requiem, a religious manuscript composed of music and songs designed to lift the soul and speak to the dead. Roz, for a majority of her life,
was a composer, pianist, and ultimately an entertainer.
“The very best part of my childhood was growing up in the theater. Jacksonville had two community theaters and one dinner theater. My mother
worked all three of them as the musical director” (MacEnulty 38). Pat enjoyed the stage as a young child and grew up with her mother and three
brothers. Her drunken father ran about with other women, but Pat never
described her true hardships as a teen drug user, as vividly as I had hoped
for. She vaguely discussed how close her relationship with her mother became after the drug-addiction. To have insight on such a personal experience would be uplifting. Yet these small passages Pat included created tiny
windows of emotion to introduce the readers into the feelings and troubles
to come. Good thought organization is consistent as the author continues
with her memoir, while the epigraphs still contain a selective underlying
message for the reader to interpret.
“A good epigraph should be more than mere adornment. Better to
think of it as a lens – or a sucker punch. Indeed, the very presence of an
epigraph can make us question what lies before us. Playful or authoritative,
omnipotent or throwaway, it acts as a kind of shadowy third figure, somewhere between the author and the audience,” (Lichtig).
The epigraph I chose is from part of section three, where the years
of 2004, 2005, and 2006 move right along. She lives in peace with her husband Hank while her daughter Emmy grows into her shoes, attends school,
and starts to love theater just like she once did. Unfortunately, in autumn of
2005, her brother Jo called to deliver the news of their drunk and violent father’s passing in the hospital. After she hangs up, Pat is completely surprised
with her wave of tears that followed and sheds her bottled grief from all
the years without him. However, Pat uses the passage and the intensity of
it to prepare the reader; it wasn’t fully recognized until the entire section of
multiple seasons and years, is completely read. The appreciation for these
excerpts didn’t happen until I was finished with the novel and returned to
them. Once observed closer, they hold more meaning to both her and her
mother.
Pat didn’t stay down for long once she realized that her father didn’t
leave much to her and her siblings. She was now fifty with a daughter on
the bridge to adulthood, and nursing a disabled mother; she needed something other than work. In the spring of 2006, Pat gives her word on not
letting her mother’s requiem die when she does, and to bring the musical
masterpiece to a new generation became her heart’s desire.
“Don’t worry,” I tell her, “It won’t” (MacEnulty 122).
As the days pass and their Scrabble games become less amusing, Roz’s
Alzheimer’s disease worsens. Pat brings her siblings together to make the
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Make Your Plan
books.
However, the story is able to extend her inner and outer changes as the
close bond between mother and daughter unfolds to the readers of Pat’s
memoir, and relinquishes the underlying reasons of the dark past; to be
so tender and loving every day only takes mere effort. So don’t wait until
tomorrow to do what you can today for your loved ones.
WORKS CITED
“How to Write a Memoir.” Ghostwriter Needed. Web. 17 Apr. 2012.
<http://www.ghostwriter-needed.com/how-to-write-a-memoir.html>.
Lichtig, Toby. “Epigraphs: Opening Possibilities.” The Guardian. Guardian News and Media, 30 Mar. 2010. Web. 17 Apr. 2012. <http://www.
guardian.co.uk/books/booksblog/2010/mar/30/epigraphs-toby-lichtig>.
MacEnulty, Pat. Wait until Tomorrow: A Daughter’s Memoir. New York,
NY: Feminist, 2011. Print.
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production actually happen. The old and tattered manuscripts are still readable, and she has to make the Good Shepard church available for a night of
reliving the wonderful composer Roz MacEnulty, an idol the town cheered
for.
The author’s structure of her memoir is a little sporadic and made it
challenging to follow, but through her mother’s requiem excerpts, the shadowing emotion gives a relative idea about how the next phases of her life
play out. This may have been a last minute decision, but by the way she
begins, it’s nice to understand what she is doing with her time as of now;
allowing the reader to be taken back to those years and witness what she
had been through. She has a style including the seasons and puts several
of them in one chapter just like it is a part of the entire year. This creates a
little less confusion on which part of her life you’re reminiscing through.
Her situations and hardships are simple and mostly standard to any American home, but her words and feelings are applied with complicated people
and debts, but all she can do is tell herself she’s okay and that tomorrow is
another day; why not make a plan for something better. Her outlook after so
many experiences, like losing a dog, moving her mother in and out of hospitals and assisted-living places, a husband that ends up across the country,
and taking a trip to India, really shaped her individuality today.
“I begin to realize that the years I gave to my mother were really a gift
to,” (233). These feelings washed upon her like the shore after a storm and
she vowed to be more sensitive to the needs of others.
I was still a little disappointed that her details of her young life were
vague, but as an adult, she made adjustments and compromises some people would have never been able to do. Her mother’s life was full of entertaining, glory, and leadership whilst her life contained a family, thriving,
and nurturing; both became happy regardless of what obstacles tried to
slow them down. The majority of the memoir is written on the later generations of her life as if she started way later then where she began; this can
be a technique used in writing memoirs or personal books. Many believe
that there must be some push or desire to behind the idea to write a memoir, and I believe Pat had quite a few motivational aspects in her life that
encouraged her.
“It has been said that the universe of stories comprises only two themes:
love and change. All stories fall under these two categories. Every story,
song, movie, script, play or tale is a unique and individual expression of
love or change, or both,” (ghostwriter). Pat’s writing was not based on falling in love or some cheesy sob story, but initial followed through her life as
if she could make it a screenplay, and shared her joy of publishing multiple
By Apryl Grady-Roush
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A Critique of Clovers and Blue Moons, by Fernando Gonzalez
From the beginning of time, the moon has always been seen as a
mythical, symbolical, and powerful force. As beings on this planet we have
always depended on the moon and its functions. The moon asserts enormous
influence over the earth, governing the tides, crops, and certain aspects of the
human body. In Greek and Roman mythology the moon is held to be as a female being, in witchcraft the moon represents the goddess and is worshiped
as the most important heavenly body to influence magic. In Maya mythology
the moon is seen as the protector of woman and childbirth. The story “Clovers and Blue Moons” by Fernando Gonzalez takes us into the life of a young
boy whose mother is dying, and with dreams of saving her the boy with all his
faith and yearning, tries to capture the moon. With sweat heavy on his brow
and a heaving heart, we watch him put every ounce of himself into capturing
that mysterious pearly white creature from in the night sky without success.
But only to find that there is a profusion of expectancies and a lacking of
blind faith, that it only took the simplicity of his romantic imagination to attain something so unreachable.
With all its beauty and vigor, the boy holds the moon as a certain
salvation; he believes with all his heart that capturing the moon means giving his mother life. “A boy was trying to catch the moon with a fishing rod.
He spent hours casting his line into the dark-lit sky, endeavoring to entice
the yawning moon to take a bite at the hook he baited with grapes (because
everyone likes grapes, and they go especially well with cheese, which the
moon is full of), but the moon was not hungry, it seemed, and the boy went
home to try to find another way to catch it” (Gonzalez). Before his grandfather died, he told the boy the story of the man who captured the moon and he
lived forever. The boy holds onto this idea with all his might, believing with
all his heart that he can give his mother the gift of infinite life.
Looking out from the eyes of a young child makes the surrounding world
seem young and new, with so many infinite possibilities. Children see this
earth as a vast realm that holds all their hopes and fears, a place where their
wild and unattainable imagination can unleash limitlessly; a place where
sadness and misfortune can be healed just by your mother’s kisses or a wish
upon a sleeping star; where the moon is not just simply a cause of light in
darkness, but a magic wizard with secret powers who is always there when
the man in the moon who is always watching over us. When the boy in
the story is suddenly put in the position in needing the moon and his gifts, the
boy can see his misfortune with so much more hope and light. He is scared
and alone but he has so much more of a powerful will and a committing faith
that his misfortune becomes full of hopeful promises and possibilities.
Through the his eye’s the boy sees the world as so entirely boundless that
at the end of the story he discovers that not only is the moon magical, but
that he himself can hold all of its powers. “The boy got up and started walking home when he saw a bright orb in the pond at the bottom of the hill.
When he came close to it, he saw that it was the moon’s reflection captured
in the water. The boy raced home, grinning. He went up to his mother’s room
and pulled out a piece of paper. On the piece of paper was a moon, suspended in a hand, that belonged to the boy. ‘Look!’ The boy cried, ‘I caught
it!’”(Gonzalez). At first, with all its force and vitality the boy sees the moon as
something unattainable, as a lovely and mysterious creature that has enraptured his imagination. And that the way we all see it, as just a charming and
sparkly planet up in the night sky, is but only an illusion.
The moon becomes a fascination for the boy, almost an obsession. Like
most children with their willful imaginations, he holds very strongly to a fanatical belief, creating fantasies he desperately tries to hold onto. But who’s to
say those fantasies aren’t real? The moon is a powerful being, so why couldn’t
she save a life of a human? In the song “It’s Only a Paper Moon” by Ella
Fitzgerald she sings, “Say, it’s only a paper moon/Sailing over a cardboard
sea/But it wouldn’t be make-believe/If you believed in me/Yes, it’s only a canvas sky/Hanging over a muslin tree/But it wouldn’t be make-believe/If you believed in me”. The boy’s dream of the moon having the gift to save lives isn’t
make believe, the boy believed so hard in that moon, that he gave the moon
the power that it gave to him—the power of faith. So in the end it was not
the moon that held powers, but he. It is his power of believing in it that gave
the moon the power to give the boy faith. Having the power of faith to heal is
in itself magical, because the moon did in the end help his mother by giving
the boy such a strong faith. So perhaps the moon is only magical because he
believes it is, and that gave him a faith that at least healed his mother’s heart.
Reading “Clovers and Blue Moons” feels like a dream; but a sad
dream. One of those dreams that are painted so real and with such color that
you believe you are actually there. You can feel the chill in the air and the
ground beneath your feet, but mostly you can feel the hurt pulling at your
heart. In these dreams, you seldom wonder if this real or not—it just is. Your
reality is completely tangible and there is no hovering question of whether or
not this is your reality. That is how lyrical and evocative the author’s language
is, for a few hypnotic minutes as readers we are captured and enchanted
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Lassoing the Moon for an Unyielding Faith
The Edges of Madness: Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Embrace Insanity
by Apryl Grady-Roush
A Book Review of Muses, Madmen, and Prophets by Daniel B. Smith
Penguin Books
In the deep, dark, depths of the infinite land of your mind, lies a secret
stage; where you are always the leading star, ceaselessly performing speechless monologues and continuously wandering around the empty rooms full
of all your moods, memories, and thoughts. Moods we sometimes cannot
control, memories that are often lost, and thoughts unattainable to our mind’s
own grasp. The origins of these endless, sometimes wild, sometimes lucid
thoughts come from a place in our minds completely inaccessible to us.
Emotions are caused by stimuli interacting with biochemical components,
and memory is a process of encoding Representations into your memory storage which is inexplicably manipulated
or lost throughout our lives. The mind
holds many secrets and it is a stubborn fool, but the deeper we dig all
the more mysteries reveal themselves.
One, mystery is the daring topic
of the enlightening and fascinating
book, “Muses, Madmen, and Prophets: Hearing Voices and the Borders of
Sanity” by Daniel B. Smith. The book
addresses the survival of the phenomenon of “hearing voices” generated
unconsciously by one’s own mind.
Hearing voices has always been seen
as a kind of mental illness, but Smith
demonstrates that auditory hallucinations are not only common among the
sane, but also have been inspiration
for some of the most brilliant people that have lived. With that, this book asks
us to contemplate a question most likely never considered: what qualifies
as sane? Sane is only a perspective, a term we give to those who we identify
with. If it is something we do not understand or is abnormal to us, than it is
insanity.
Given the fact that most people who do hear voices are usually schizophrenics lying in a white padded cell, it isn’t hard to believe why it is com-
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into this dream; a dream about a boy whose mother is dying and he has to
capture the moon to save her. We are taken here, to be with this boy and to
feel his passion and hope; his pain and his sadness. To have our hearts ripped
open as wide as his, because that is the only way to truly feel with him. “The
boy crawled next to his mother and nuzzled his way into her arms. She was
warm with the breath of maternity, and the boy felt as though he would be
consumed by her warmth for the rest of his life regardless of where his mother
was. The boy fell asleep clutching her hand, tear stains inking his face” (Gonzalez). This may not be our dream, and it most certainly isn’t even the boy’s
dream, but it is the writer’s dream and he provides a delicate rendering that
forces us to accompany him on this trip to somewhere unfamiliar, that is until
we feel that great pain that starts to become more familiar than not.
The writer has this ability to pull you in unnoticeably, or perhaps even
unwillingly. He gently takes your hand and slips you into this world he has
created. He does not force anything upon you, only a gentle push. Enough
to let you think you got yourself into this mess; it was not him who told you
to open your heart and run blindly—you did that of your own accord. He did
not tell you to go the top of the hill with the boy and ware out every muscle
in your body and every strum of your heart trying to capture that moon. He
did not tell you to slowly let the seams of your heart unlace and let every
ounce of that boys sorrow in. No, that was none of his doing. He is but only a
seducer; here to lead us into an unforgettable story that even long after it has
ended you can still feel the moonlit night’s cool breeze of the story piercing
into your memory, lingering in your heart.
Joan of Arc claimed she was only twelve years old when she first started
hearing
divinevoices speaking to
her. A peasant girl
from a small village in France in
the early 1400’s
during the Hundred Year’s War
with England, she
was living in a time
of war in her country. By the time
she was seventeen
she claimed that
visions of saints
came to her and
told her to drive
out the English
and bring the Dauphin to Reims for
his coronation. In
1429 Joan arrived
in the court of dauphin Charles of
France, describing
the voices and vi-
fessed divine mission—to take France back and crown Charles king—
Joan was given an army and a royal sanction, with which she helped turn the
tide of the war in France’s favor with a series of stunning military victories”
(Smith 167). Joan became a hero to the people of France for her irrefutable
courage and vigorous power. Her fierce will to do what she believed was her
duty and save her country made her an invincible hero. “Her voices would
lend her an initial divine authority, the right to be heard and taken seriously,
and her success would confirm and compound that authority. The heavenly
would open the door for the earthly, and the earthly would reveal the wisdom
of the heavenly. She heard voices; they told her what to do; she obeyed. This
obedience is the essence of Joan and the engine of both her success and her
demise” (Smith 175).
Then, there was Socrates who just like Joan claimed he heard a “divine
thing” that offered him simple guidance in regard to everyday tasks.
He was a teacher of ethics who
taught many loyal students who
worshiped him. He was executed
for “corrupting the youth” through
religious nonconformism 2, 400
years ago. “The Greek historian
Plutarch, wrote of Socrates that
his voices were a privilege granted
because of his spiritual superiority:
‘Now the voice that Socrates heard
was not, I think, of the sort that is
made when air is struck; rather it
revealed to his soul, which was, by
reason of his great purity, unpolluted and therefore more perceptive, the presence and society of
his familiar deity, since only pure
may meet and mingle with the pure’” (Smith 22). All of these people went
on to do great things because of the fact that they heard voices. Some might
see them as being just as crazy as the schizophrenics, but no schizophrenic
has ever tried to gain their country’s independence or changed the world and
the minds of many with their philosophical teachings. The one thing all these
people have in common is that they all listened to the voice speaking to them
and died trying to gratify the gift of guidance they had received with the honest faith that it was worth dying for.
When Plutarch speaks of Socrates’s having a pure soul that which makes
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voices is insanity? What is it that makes us think that hearing voices is
something that makes us ill or abnormal? How does being sane make us
human? For hundreds of years, all kinds of people have been having hallucinations and hearing voices in some form. Some are average people who
walk among us, or who are locked up in institutions, but others are famous
legends known for their power and brilliance. Muhammad Gandhi, Martin
Luther, Socrates, Sigmund Freud, Saint Joan of Arc, all of them heard voices
that guided them. They are people who not only made a difference in this
world, but in history. Because of their gift for hearing voices, their names
went down in history as legends. But not just for experiencing voices in their
heads, but for what they undertook and accomplished with those insistent
voices as their guides. So is it really insanity? Is it really madness? Or could
they be the sanest of us all.
that perhaps the question we should ask is not ‘why do hallucinations occur?’ but ‘why don’t they occur more often?’”(Smith 30).
So what qualifies as sane? Is it these people who have the ability to get in
touch with a world entirely different than ours, or is it us—the people who
claim seeing beautiful colors and hearing guidance from our heads is wicked
and inhuman? How are we sane when we claim that being human can go no
farther than what we see now; if we can’t go beyond our current capabilities,
and see and hear more? If sanity is supposed to be a good thing than why
is it so boring? Why is voice hearing and hallucinations only given to us as
a privilege? These legendary people are not crazy; they are only getting in
touch with a side ourselves that we lost long ago; when seeing more beauty
and hearing wise guidance from within us was not just a privilege, but the
way we lived and the things we saw every day. Getting back in touch with
that side of ourselves that was once whole and when we were the sanest we
have ever been, could result in endless possibilities.
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him more perceptive, he is suggesting that people like Socrates who hear
voices, are more consciously aware of themselves and the world around
them. Because of their abilities they can see more, they can see farther and
deeper into this universe and with a greater understanding than the rest of us.
They see the world’s capacity and all the power and energy it holds; they can
see it with more splendors and meaning. They can see things we can’t, things
we have probably never stopped to see. Perhaps, this is the very thing that
makes these voice hearers such remarkable people, and what caused them
to such noble things. But what if we were all capable of having such a gift as
this, a “pure and unpolluted soul” as Plutarch called it? A soul that made our
mind more perceptive of the unknown and that showed us the hidden things
in this world that are impenetrably veiled. What if we held this power, or
once did? A professor of psychology at Princeton in the 1970’s named Julian
Jaynes wrote a book called, The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of
the Bicameral Mind. He put forth the theory that, “man was once guided not
by a unified consciousness but by verbal hallucinations—instructions spoken
from with one’s own brain. Ancient voice-hearing, according to Jaynes, was
caused by a physical split between the right and left hemispheres of the brain
that only “mended” itself three thousand years ago in response to cataclysmic
cultural changes, leading to the consciousness we possess today. Before that,
everyone was a voice hearer” (Smith 34). This theory may be unfathomable,
but also not so hard to believe. Terrance McKenna, an author and philosopher, had a developed theory that millions of years ago our ancestors developed a taste for a certain psychedelic mushroom that had a variety of effects
ranging from increased visions, to voice hearing, to triggering the language
forming capacity of the brain. In higher doses the mushroom would have reduced individual boundaries which led to a greater sense of community and
inspired curiosity in one’s surroundings. He described it as an evolutionary
catalyst that led to how our brains evolved into the state they are today.
Then, there’s also something else to think about: when you drift off to
sleep every night your mind’s imagination takes hold and you start to dream
of sweet things or horrifying nightmares, or is that just another way of saying,
your mind starts hallucinating? These are visions we see every night without
any conscious awareness or control. Sometimes our dreams can be about
things that happened to us that day or that we thought of, or that just appeared randomly. But either way, it is undeniable that these are forms of visions that we are ourselves are producing and seeing. “One psychiatrist has
written: ‘The dream meets the definition of hallucination in every respect and
most of us, according to a large body of physiological data, spend one to two
hours dreaming every night.’ Dreams and dreamlike states—vivid imagery
popping into one’s mind—occurring so frequently, this psychiatrist writes,
Masha Gallant
A Book Review of The Gathering by Kelley Armstrong
PGR 208
By Taylor Clark
Students everywhere are forced to learn about history and topics
that they aren’t necessarily interested in. Children should be given fiction
or fantasy books so that they don’t get too overwhelmed with information.
The best kinds of books are the ones that you cannot put down, even when
you are being called to dinner. Readers need to be able to relax and read
a good book every once in awhile, as well as keeping their imaginations
open to new things. These kinds of books are important because it keeps
interest in books, which now a day are diminishing. It used to be where
people would say that the book was better than the movie, however; now
the majority is saying the movie is better than the book. These responses are
based on which was done first, yet most don’t even read the book because
they are too lazy to.
The Gathering, by Kelley Armstrong, is a great fiction book about a
girl named Maya, whose story will keep anyone reading for hours on end.
It teaches life lessons by drawing in teenage readers with similar experiences relating to everything from alcohol and drugs to being outcasted and
bullied, all in a more interesting and eye-catching way than those boring
textbooks that are required. Many human experiences are too scary or embarrassing to share with anyone, but reading about how others dealt with
similar experiences can help with solutions.
After first reading the summary, on the back cover of The Gathering,
about someone being attacked by a cougar and not knowing how it turned
out, instantly got the reaction of curiosity, which is not easily dismissible.
An instinctual response would be to investigate the outcome of the standoff
between the boy and the cougar. This book is about the small isolated town
of Salmon Creek, consisting of “less than two hundred people” in order to
hide “a top-secret research facility” (10). The town is so incredibly small
that everyone knows each other by name. It sounds like an awful place, but
everyone in the town likes it that way. Like any locals would, they dislike
all of the tourists, yet they put up with them because surrounding the town
is “a thousand acres of the most beautiful wilderness” that sometimes gets
visits from random campers. However, the main subject of this tiny town
is a very special girl named Maya Delaney, who spends the majority of her
time in that wonderful forest surrounding her house. She has a natural tal-
ent with all of the injured animals that she takes in. Some strange events
start to occur regarding the animals and some unwanted visitors that leave
Maya and her best friend Daniel on a mission to uncover the truth. What
they discover is that they live in “an ordinary town... full of deadly secrets”
(back cover). Maya is an interesting character with much curiosity and a lot
of drive; she goes after what she wants and doesn’t let anyone stop her. She
also is very innocent and sets a good example to readers by not drinking
or doing drugs. Even if the readers are not under age, Maya is still setting a
good example by doing the right thing and never seeking revenge on those
who have harmed her.
Maya is constantly confused and not sure of anything. She isn’t the most
social person around and she doesn’t give very many second chances. She
starts out not dating anyone from her small town, only the occasional “summer boy” because she knows that it won’t last very long. However, she
breaks her own rules and dates the new kid because she has uncontrollable
feelings for him that she can’t seem to get a hold of. Her friendship with her
best friend Daniel is the kind of friendship that anyone would be lucky to
have; they have each other’s backs and tell each other almost everything.
They even “put Daniel’s duffel in the spare room. He stays at least once
a month, sometimes for a couple of days,” while his dad is drunk (49).
However, Maya has a good relationship with her parents where she can tell
her mom things that are going on or where her mom just knows. Having a
good communicative relationship with parents is a good message to send
to young readers. The only downside for the teens in this book is “the way
gossip travels in this town,” even to the parents (148). Daniel’s relationship
with his parents is a whole other story; drunk dad, abandoned mother. He
has a tough time coping with his family, but because he has a best friend
like Maya, with loving parents, he is able to fall back on her. However,
Maya also has troubles with her peers that others can relate to in some way
or another; from the snotty girls that pull pranks on her, to the girls that she
didn’t even know were her friends. Today, who likes who has become one
of the biggest teen drama troubles, all of which are very relatable to teens
world wide. Overall, this book would be a good tool for those who want
to learn something about themselves, possibly even something they are
holding back.
This book is a great book because more than half of the events are
completely unexpected. When this book is read, for example, the birthday
party incident will take anyone by surprise because it is the last thing anyone would expect. Even Daniel’s birthday gift to Maya couldn’t be guessed
prior to reading about the actual gift. It is what makes the book all the more
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A Girl With A Lot To Say
Works Cited/Consulted
Armstrong, Kelley. The Gathering. 1st ed. New York: Harper, 2011. Print. Darkness Rising.
Armstrong, Kelley. “The Gathering | Kelley Armstrong.” Kelley Armstrong.
New York Times. Web. 20 Apr. 2012.
<http://www.kelleyarmstrong.com/the-gathering/>.
Maine, Malia. “Book Reader’s Response.” Personal interview. 18 Apr.
2012.
Complex Sleep
Written by: Tony Tost
Publisher: University of Iowa Press
Suggested Price: $16.00
Half Asleep/Half Awake
By: Natalie Toy
“The first definition speaks to the surrealist
methodology--the use of techniques, such as
automatic writing, self-induced hallucinations,
and word games like the exquisite corpse, to make
manifest repressed mental activities.”
-Academy of American Poets
Tony Tost embarks on a courageous journey through a book of poetry
called Complex Sleep. Into the world of surrealism, he fits his words into
the form of poem and perfects his interpretation so that the reader can share
it with him. Written in choppy chunks and seemingly unrelated words, his
poems are concise and abrupt. But that’s the beauty of surrealism- the absence of any control exercised by reason (Reynolds). Dictated by thought,
surrealism is the verbal/written expression of the actual functioning thought.
Surrealism is meant to associate unassociated thought. It is to be used as a
psychic mechanism (Reynolds). And that’s what makes Tony Tost’s poems so
hard to understand and relate with. Tost’s poems challenge me to view images I have never even thought of conjuring; therefore, leaving me torn between the challenge and the comfort of distorted reading. When compared
to early surrealist poetry, Tost’s poetry is much different. In all of the early
surrealist poetry I’ve read, there seems to be a general theme or some sort of
repetition, in Tost’s poetry, this seems to be missing. So, when asked, if Tost’s
poetry succeeds in creating the true surrealist effect, I’d say no. Because as
much as humans love to view alternate worlds, we still need some form of
logical association to interpret them.
Tost is a skilled poet and we can see this in the words he chooses and in
his knowledge of form. Although educated and competent, Tost has undertaken a tough job, well jobs. The first; deciphering the world of sleep and
the second, fitting the interpretation into the form of surrealism. The study of
sleep and dream analysis is comparable to a puzzle that has never been fully
put together; the pieces are tangible, yet the edges are vague. It is a subject
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interesting and harder to put down. There is also a mysterious visitor whose
reason for visiting can’t quite be placed. These are all very good examples
of a book that won’t let its reader down. The imagery was very well done,
whether describing the horrible drowning accident or “the three-legged
bobcat” that doesn’t stray far from Maya’s house (7).
The worst part of this book is the ending. I turned the last page and was
completely shocked that I had reached the end of the book. The author
wrote a sequel book where the current book leaves you wanting more.
She definitely accomplished her goal because no one can be satisfied with
the way this book ended. It seemed too drastic of an ending for a book
and more like a tv show as it goes to a commercial, knowing it’ll be back
on in about five minutes to finish the scene. It also seemed like the entire
book was building up to something, that shall not be stated as to not give
too much away, that won’t even happen until most likely the next book.
It didn’t quite give all the answers that most are yearning for while reading this book. Yet, it is definitely worth reading, especially if there is an
intention of buying the second book as well. “This book was a great read
because I love mystery books and any book that has to do with animals in
general” (Maine).
Both of these books, The Gathering and The Calling, by Kelley Armstrong, are easily found online or in bookstores such as Bookshop Santa
Cruz. An even better learning experience would be for parents to read this
book with their children, whether together or relatively at the same time so
that they can discuss some of the issues that come up along the way. Why
not use a great book to bring a family closer together and help teach kids
that they can stay out of trouble and do the right thing. Learning should
be of things such as human experiences rather than historical facts. Overall, making this a positive educational book even though it’s not a recommended textbook.
Attention is
The animal behind
The immediate
It can also be seen in early surrealist poetry, such as Postman Cheval by
Andre Breton.
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The arms of your well beloved wheelbarrow
Which we tear out swifter than sparks at your wrist
We are the sighs of the glass statue that raises itself on its elbow when
man sleeps
The unassociated words seem to push word comprehension to new
heights; for instance, ‘sparks at your wrist’ and ‘Attention is/ the animal behind/ the immediate’. Let’s analyze the way the ways in which these lines
make sense.
Let’s start with, Breton’s poem. We can see that ‘sparks at your wrist’ relates to the rest of the poem when we look at these specific words in each
line: arms, wrist, elbow. We notice that while the lines of the poems don’t
make immediate sense, they do relate. Each line speaks of the arm or part of
the arm and in this way, there is an overall theme to the poem.
In Tost’s poem, ‘Attention is/ the animal behind/ the immediate’, we do
not see the overall theme that we did in Breton’s, but we can still make some
sense of it. If we look at the word “animal” as the “drive” or “motivation” for
immediacy, we can interpret Tost’s poem to mean ‘attention is the motivation
for immediacy’.
The unassociated word form is what makes interpreting surrealist poetry
hard. At a quick glance, it seems as if both Breton and Tost’s poetry is just
gibberish on a page. It is not until you look deep into the poetry that you are
Let’s look at some more of Tost’s work and compare it to some early surrealist poetry. I would like to compare the form, repetition, word theme and its
effectiveness. This is an excerpt from a poem by Tost (376) called Ink Drop.
sleep and be there. Spilled
record. Perfumed ruins. Softest tigress
heart of her. Cat’s paw
finer grandeur. Sudden heralds above
pound softly vampiric: sun-embroidered, annihilated
serendipitous isolation. Stepping stone.
This a work done by Federico García Lorca, the poem is called Dawn.
Dawn in New York has
four columns of mire
and a hurricane of black pigeons
splashing in the putrid waters.
Dawn in New York groans
on enormous fire escapes
searching between the angles
for spikenards of drafted anguish.
To fairly compare them we need to first analyze each for its own meaning. Let’s start with Tosts’. The first line, second line and third line all seem to
have words associated with a cat: “tigress”, “cat’s paw”, “pound softly”. We
can also see the title “Ink Drop” reflected in the poem on lines one and two,
in the words “spilled record” and “perfumed ruins”. Now let’s look at Lorca’s.
We can see that Lorca has written in four-line stanzas and begun each stanza
with the same words. If we speak these stanzas aloud we can hear a similarity in rhythm.
In comparison, we can see that Tost has written one stanza, with the only
replicating themes being the “ink” and the “cat”, because of this we know
that his poem is about a cat and ink. Where Lorca has used four-lined stanzas, replicated words such as “New York” and “Dawn” and has incorporated
a rhythm. By using replicated form and words Lorca has given the reader
some guidelines to interpreting his poem; in this sense his poem is effective.
We do not see this in Tost’s poem. In fact, to even understand his poem, you
have to look hard to see any word association. While surrealism advocates
for the association of unassociated words, Tost leaves wide gaps between
words and their meaning. This coupled with the sudden line breaks seems to
hinder the capacity for interpretation.
Writing effective poetry is hard, especially surrealist poetry, for po
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that is hard to study because it’s not one in which we are awake, scientists
are still staring at the mystery of why we sleep (Woo). Dissecting our dreams
and our subconscious has proven to be a tricky endeavor, for it is not something that can be tested like science, math or grammar. There are no variables
to reproduce, formulas to plug-in, nor rules to follow. This this reason, Tost’s
surrealist poetry is hard to comprehend.
But surrealism seems like just the tool/form to use if one is to decipher
the world of sleep. It is a technique or genre that is used so that the world
within the writing seems slightly skewed, either physically, emotionally, or
magically. Surrealism allows for the non-sequitur path of words and thoughts
(Poets.org). This can be seen in Tost’s work on page nine of Complex Sleep.
Works Cited
“A Brief Guide to Surrealism.” Poets.org - Poetry, Poems, Bios & More. Academy of
American Poets, 2012. Web. 10 May 2012.
Breton, Andre. “Andre Breton (19 February 1896 – 28 September 1966 /
Normandy).” Poemhunter.com. 14 Apr. 2010. Web. 10 May 2012.
Lorca, Fedrico G. “The Dawn.” The Poetry Foundation. Poetry Magazine, 2011. Web.
13 May 2012.
<http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/180659>.
“Q & A: American Poetry.” Tony Tost. Poetry Society of America. Web. 16 May
2012.
<http://www.poetrysociety.org/psa/poetry/crossroads/qa_american_poetry/
page_43/>.
Reynolds, Mary. “Paris: The Heart of Surrealism.” Documents of Dada and
Surrealism: Dada and Surrealist Journals in the Mary Reynolds Collection.
Art Institute of Chicago, 28 Apr. 2010. Web. 11 May 2012.
Tost, Tony. Complex Sleep: Poems. Iowa City: University of Iowa, 2007. Print.
Woo, Marcus. “Why Do We Sleep?” Science News, Technology, Physics,
Nanotechnology, Space Science, Earth Science, Medicine. California
Institute of Technology, 3 Feb. 2011. Web. 22 Apr. 2012.
Same Place, Different Story
By Merri Camburn
The Last Little Blue Envelope by Maureen Johnson.
Publisher: Harper Teen Price: $16.99
An average person will travel thousands of miles in their lifetime, at
the least. A lot of the time, we find a place we like to visit, and the next opportunity we have to travel, we go there again. However, the second you are
there, is when it becomes different. “By the very act of coming back, you
wipe out what came before” (Johnson 259). This very thought is a central
theme in Maureen Johnson’s The Last Little Blue Envelope. To be honest, I
was a little afraid of this book when I found out it was a sequel. I was worried that I would be missing something, but to my surprise, this book could
stand alone. Johnson gives just enough information throughout the plot that
it is easy to catch on. There are no awkward pauses to remind the reader of
events past. Rather, the book flows between the past and the present seamlessly. This kind of book is egged on by anxious readers, curious for the answers that the previous book, 13 Little Blue Envelopes, created. That is how
you build a book series. By leaving the story unfinished, or perhaps on a
cliffhanger, a reader’s worst nightmare, there really is no choice but to write
another book, or face the consequences of an upset, brokenhearted audience
who will never find out the truth. Therefore, we end up with a story that continues an adventure that started several months ago. Nevertheless, time has
not stood still. We are travelling to places that we’ve been to before, but this
time it will be different, because the second time around you will have new
experiences that will aid you in discovering something you never expected.
Most importantly, when you visit the same place twice, you are not only going to learn more about that site, but also about yourself.
The Last Little Blue Envelope is a light-hearted, quirky, adventurous
story. All of this comes out in Maureen Johnson’s writing. Her sense of humor has a weird quirk to it, something that makes it all her own. The characters are quite developed. There is something deeper to them that makes them
uniquely special. In Johnson’s previous adventure, 13 Little Blue Envelopes,
Ginny, the main character, and Keith were “kind of something”. Now, she
has returned to find nothing the way she left it. While Keith still lives in the
same place, there is something different––Ellis, Keith’s girlfriend. With Keith’s
new girlfriend joining this adventure, Ginny couldn’t be more miserable, especially since Ellis was so nice. “It was hard not to hate Ellis” (Johnson 73).
This shocking revelation creates quite the drama, although none is let out
until the breaking point. This new development has Ginny questioning her
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etry guides the reader to form image through words. It does not present
you with an image, like most physical art. This makes repetition and form
very important when writing poetry. And although surrealism asks the writer
and reader to accept the poem as an actual functioning thought, I have rarely
encountered thoughts that were as nonsensical as the writing in Tost’s poems’. It may be that I just haven’t studied enough surrealist poetry to truly
understand Tost’s writing. But I do enjoy surrealist art and film; such as, Dali
and the movie “Lost Highway”. Both these forms of surrealist art present an
image which I am able to interpret; maybe this is what is missing for me in
Tost’s poems. I feel that there are no guidelines, no mnemonic tricks, nor any
radiating emotion to help me find an image; therefore, I don’t find his poetry
effective.
In fact, I’m not sure if I will ever see surrealist poetry as an art form that is
effective. In my research in ‘how to write surrealist poetry’ I have found that
putting words into a hat and drawing them out in random order is an acceptable way to write a surrealist poem. Also a good way to create a surrealist
poem is to play writing game called “The Exquisite Corpse.” In this game, one
member of a group of poets writes a line or phrase of poetry. Without seeing
the line, another group member writes the following line, and this continues
until the group feels the poem is done. This randomization and unpredictable
word association leaves poems reading like a drunk’s sorry note, stumbling,
lost, and monotone.
adventure, they are sent to Ireland. It is no coincidence that Ireland is
the last place in their journey. As readers learn, there is a hilltop that Aunt
Peg only visited once in her entire lifetime. It was a spot known locally, but
for Peg it is where her ashes were left, “to dance in the wind” (Johnson 201).
This was really and truly the end. Aunt Peg could never know that she
would show up here on New Year’s Eve, with the moon hanging low and
spreading a bright white glow over the hilltop… but she would have approved. The ashes had been put here months ago, been blown around and
soaked in the rain and pressed into the earth. They were a part of the landscape now, part of the dirt on her clothes, part of everything. It really was like
Aunt Peg would forever dance on the top of this hill, a place she only ever
visited once in life. (Johnson 202)
This suddenly makes it clear for Ginny. This spot would probably never
be visited again, because this moment is something that she will not want to
wipe away.
In experiences I’ve had, there are certain ones that I choose to remember. Most of the time, those are the memories of places that I have only
traveled to once. I had the opportunity to go to Italy once more, but for me,
an experience like my first one was not going to happen again. If I ever were
to go back, I would want to visit a part that I have never been to before, and
experience it without tour guides. On a discussion board, found recently
on Frommers.com, there was a question that sparked my interest: Do you
ever visit the same place twice? While some said they were perfectly happy
visiting the same place over and over again, I resonated with one comment
made: “I rarely ever go to the same place more than once outside the US
as the world has so many fascinating countries to explore”, but “I don’t feel
guilty going to the same place twice, I just feel that the “thrill” is gone. When
I travel, I tend to stay in one place (country or city) at a time “without a tour”
to experience the culture as an independent traveler and mingle with the
locals.”
“I’ll be honest with you, from here on out, things get a little weird”
(Johnson 7). With the journey over, Ginny has discovered so much that she
did not except. While a second trip to the same place deserves a second
look and outcome, each adventure will bring on new and difficult situations.
Nonetheless, it can also aid you in discovering more about yourself. This is
what Ginny experienced, for it is her decisions that ultimately change her
life. Maureen Johnson used The Last Little Blue Envelope to take the protagonist on a revealing journey. While some of the places she visited were
the same, she came out with new results, while also enduring some difficult
situations. She learns that she has to let go of things that she wants to be real.
On the other hand, she gains a whole lot more than she ever anticipated.
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choices, trying to ignore the obvious, Keith’s new relationship, and focus on the present situation at hand, following Aunt Peg’s directions. This
romantic subplot is exactly what it is, a subplot. It never oversteps the main
themes, only enhances it. Furthermore, newcomer Oliver has created even
more tension, by insisting on holding on to the very last envelope, with all
the instructions inside. Therefore, Keith often comes off snarky and rude to
him. However, he feels justified for his actions, seeing as Oliver still remains
a mystery. His character is kept hidden throughout the adventure. No one
bothers to figure out who he is. Then again, he doesn’t seem like he wants to
reveal anything about himself.
On the other hand, Ginny is the one making the decisions. Throughout this story, everyone asks if it’s ok, because “this is her trip” and “it’s up to
her” (Johnson 77 93). She is the one who gets the most out of this. She is in
a situation where one question nags her constantly: “Describe a life experience that changed you. What was it, and what did you learn?” (Johnson 1).
This basic college essay question is sounds like a very difficult one when you
have no idea what to write. It is interesting that all the readers are looking
for answers referring back to the lost 13th envelope, which was stolen along
with all the previous ones, however, the 13th hadn’t been opened yet. As the
audience wonders where this book will take them this time, Ginny is really
only concerned about getting this task done and figuring out what to write for
her college applications, not realizing that this adventure might change her
life for the better. These two different searches collide, when the 13th letter
becomes Ginny’s answer. Her character develops more than all the others,
discovering, not only who her Aunt Peg is, but who she really is. This last
envelope gives no rules, unlike the last set. She can do as she pleases, but it
is up to her to figure out this roadmap. It is no longer about Aunt Peg. It is
about Ginny.
Now, this new adventure has this odd group going to some old places
and some new. Even though these places are familiar, Johnson describes
them in as much detail, giving us a clear picture of where we are.
In the summer, the trees had been thick and green. Now, the trees were
bare, but heavy with lights, so many lights, the color of champagne bubbles.
Paris took its decorating seriously. The smells of the city seeped in––the bread
coming from the bakeries, the toasty smell of the crepe truck, the occasional
gust of sewer or garbage. Then, right back to the bread and crepes. (Johnson
84)
With her images, I know exactly where I am, seeing it picture perfect in
my head. Even the sense of smell is described in harmony with her pictures.
While most of the places on this adventure were featured before,
there is one place that remains clear of past visits. Towards the end of their
Works Cited
Johnson, Maureen. The Last Little Blue Envelope. 1st ed.
New York: HarperCollins Publishers, 2011. Print.
Johnson, Maureen. 13 Little Blue Envelopes. 1st ed.
New York: HarperCollins Publishers, 2005. Print.
“Do you ever visit the same place twice?.” 2006. John
Wiley & Sons Inc., Web. 23 Apr. 2012.
<http://www.frommers.com/community
/forum.cfm/tips-tools-deals/general/ever-visit-same-place-twice/.0>.
A Speculative Love: Real Love at First Sight
By Merri Camburn
A critique of A Speculative Love by William Cass
It’s at that moment that his eyes met hers. They stared at each other
for several seconds before breaking their gaze. For him, it was love at first
sight. Who knows what she was thinking? For all we know, she could have
marked him off her list of potential matches right away, or maybe she didn’t
believe in “love at first sight”. Either way, some kind of speculation was
there, similar to what is clearly evident in William Cass’s A Speculative Love,
which is featured in the 2012 Porter Gulch Review. “Love at first sight” is a
phrase used often in literature and movies––so much so that it has become a
part of our everyday language. Nonetheless, there are still critics that define
this cliché as a mere attraction, rather than love. Although I have not felt this
“love”, it is something I choose to believe in, based on my demeanor and upbringing. I am a hopeless romantic. I know that some skeptics will continue
to try to prove this idea wrong, but “love at first sight” is real and influential
in the way we approach the situations in front of us.
In A Speculative Love, “its love at first sight” (Cass) is in wide open
air, with nowhere to hide. It’s direct and simple, like most of the language in
this story. The character of Daniel has found someone so “gorgeous”, that he
describes his feelings as love, even though he knows nothing about this girl
except what she looks like. As Helen Fisher notes, “we regularly make up our
minds about whether an individual could be an appropriate match within the
first three minutes of talking to him (or her)”, but “it takes less than one second to decide whether you find someone physically attractive.” Daniel does
not know her personality, or even her name, but that doesn’t stop him from
imagining what his life would be like, picturing in detail their first date, and
their first fight. However, he is soon brought back to reality, understanding
that there are no pictures of these memories for the keeping. This daydream,
though, is something to which many could relate. For Daniel, “the memories
that never happened, flashed through my mind one more time. A specter
returning to guide me. I know what I’m fighting for now” (Cass). Now that
he has had this dream, he wants to know what it is really like, despite the
possibility that it could not be what he imagined.
One aspect to this writing that I enjoy is the speculation that continues after there are no more words on the page. Cass gives us all a chance to
consider how it might end, leaving it to interpretation. This story does remind
me of something that could be made into a sweet, short film, even though the
idea, itself, might be considered overdone. The concept of “love
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“Maybe this is what Aunt Peg meant all along––returning was a weird
thing. You can never visit the same place twice. Each time it’s a different
story. By the very act of coming back, you wipe out what came before”
(Johnson 259). So maybe it is a good thing that we visit a place more than
once. We will never have the same expectations going in, and the same
results coming out, but it is different, and something new. Those different
and new experiences will help us grow as people and assist in learning more
about ourselves. Isn’t that what we want out of life? The more we travel,
whether to places old or new, it is the learning process that will help us in the
future. By the way, Ginny does get an answer to her college question, but if
you want to find out, you’ll have to read the book
him or her.” From his sample size of 1, 495, he found that nearly twothirds believe in love at first sight, while more than half of those who believe
they have experienced it. Some more interesting statistics from this book are
that 55% of people who experienced love at first sight married the person, as
well as 75% of those who married as a result of love at first sight have stayed
married.
Based on these statistics, I can only be surer of my opinion. Love at
first sight is real. While this might not be enough to convince the most stubborn of critics, I know I am not alone in my belief. A Speculative Love uses
this topic as a starting point for the rest of the story. The charming qualities
are used to show the perspective of someone who is head over heels in love.
It just so happens that it is love at first sight. Although the images are only in
his head, Daniel uses that to figure out what he really wants. His imagination influences his future actions. Then again, it is imagination that leads us
forward and motivates us to reach our goals. As Brian Tracy said, “All successful people, men and women, are big dreamers. They imagine what their
future could be, ideal in every respect, and then they work every day toward
their distant vision, that goal or purpose.” These day-dreamers are believers
and eternal optimists. However, some call these people foolish. While these
people are quick to judge, they cannot fully deny love at first sight. Love at
first sight can become real and that imagination can push us forward to do
things that we never saw possible.
Works Cited
Ashworth, Holly. “Is Love at First Sight a Real Thing?.”
About.com. Teen Advice. N.p., 2012. Web. 26
Mar 2012. <http://teenadvice.about.com
/od/datinglove/a/love_at_first_sight.htm>.
Ben-Zeév , Aaron. “Love at First Sight (and First
Chat).” Psychology Today. 24 May 2008:
Web. 29 Apr. 2012. <http://www.psychologytoday.com/
blog/in-the-name-love/200805/love-first-sight-and-first-chat>.
“Brian Tracy Quotes.” Brainy Quote. BookRags Media
Network, 2012. Web. 29 Apr 2012.
<http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors
/b/brian_tracy.html>.
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at first sight” is highly criticized by skeptics. Probably the word most in
question is “love.” In an article for the Baltimore Sun, there are many opinions given for both sides of the argument. However, one skeptic is quoted
saying, “I believe in lust at first sight, and chemistry ... love is a deeper emotion that comes when you truly get to know a person”. Another states that
“by most definitions of love, love at first sight is impossible, since all generally accepted definitions of romantic love include knowing one another well
as a defining characteristic” (James). Therefore, the real epicenter of this argument could be considered the definition of love, itself. If I were to type up
all the possible definitions and connotations of love, it would likely fill up a
page, at least. So, just like this story, the definition of love, and more specific,
“love at first sight” is up to interpretation. My interpretation describes “love
at first sight” to be an overwhelming feeling experienced in the first few moments of seeing someone. Yes, it is an attraction, but it is not just the outward
beauty that draws me in, but the action of the person at the time of looking.
Whether it is a smile, a laugh, or an act of kindness, it suggests that there are
other good qualities about that person that makes you feel attracted to them
even more. Furthermore, “love at first sight” has me picturing something very
lighthearted, with a rush of emotions flooding in, very much like this story.
In a Psychology Today article, Aaron Ben-Zeév talks about love at first
sight. In that article, he explains “the fundamental mistake in denying the
existence of love at first sight is the assumption that we cannot attribute to a
person characteristics that are not present at first sight.” In accordance with
my definition, this article mentions that random “stereotypical evaluations”
are not needed when “items of seemingly no significance, such as a business
suit, a doctor’s uniform, a certain smile, or a particular voice, may activate
one’s schema of an ideal person.” Ben-Zeév also explains that the “attractiveness halo” is used for a person believed to have other positive characteristics
based on their outer beauty. However, he also warns that love at first sight
might mislead people because it is taken more from imagination rather than
reality.
While Daniel uses his imagination to realize that he has fallen in love
at first sight, he may not be the only guy out there doing the same. Match.
com recently did a study on 5,200 singles, and found that 54% of men said
that they have experienced love at first sight, compared to 44% of the women.
Also, as a whole, 41% still believe in love at first sight. This just proves that
not only are there plenty of people who believe in this idea, but also many
that have experienced it. In fact, a book titled Love at First Sight: The Stories
and Science Behind Instant Attraction by Earl Naumann looks into hundreds
of different aspects of love at first sight. He defines the term as “within one
hour of meeting someone, feeling strange and powerful feelings of love for
Is it Knocked Up or Opportunity Knocking?
By Jasmine Glenn
A Review of the novel Bumped by Megan McCaffery
Bumped is the title of Megan McCafferty’s latest young adult novel. The
word “Bumped” does not refer to bumping into something, per say, but rather
is a reference to being knocked up, having a bun in the oven, expecting,
preggers, waiting on a delivery from the stork or any other slang term you can
think of for being pregnant. However, pregnancy looks very different in this
futuristic sci-fi world where everything is based off of technology. Two twins,
polar opposites, are the main characters of the story and the narration flipflops between the two from chapter to chapter. It appears the United States
does not exist in the same infrastructure we know today, but their society
seems to be very similar, driven by money and dictated by media. By today’s
standards teen pregnancy is frowned upon and heavily advised against, for
the most part, but the reverse is true in this sci-fi world. The premise being, an
unpreventable and incurable virus has swept the populous. It leaves women
over the age of 18 infertile making girls ages 15 to 18 the only ones capable
of producing babies and therefore the most valued commodity on the market.
Girls with good genes, favorable physical traits and high mental aptitudes
are signed with agents who get them bids from couples desperately seeking
offspring. Even without a contract, a girl can make a pretty penny auctioning
her baby off on the free market. These practices may sound wrong or immoral
by our current cultural standards, but like us, the media sets the standard for
right and wrong. All in all, people are becoming less critical thinkers and losing their ability to decipher between what they actually believe and what the
media tells them to believe.
It’s cool to be pregnant, it’s stylish and it’s “in”. Stores sell pho baby bumps
geared towards pre-teens who are eagerly awaiting they’re window of fertility. ‘‘‘I see you’re considering the Preggerz FunBump with real skinfeel and
in-uterobic activity!’ she says to the one with red hair holding up the fake
belly she’s ready to try on. The front of the redhead’s T reads: DO THE DEED.
As she hops around in excited circles, I catch the phrase on the back: BORN
TO BREED.” Girls no longer dream of being models or beauty queens, but
rather of “going pro” or “pro-pregging” which basically boils down to being
a celebrity status surrogate. Oh and don’t worry, the boys get a piece of the
action too! Like their female counterparts, they too can find great success in
the industry by signing deals for their sperm.
Don Monkerud
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Cass, William. “A Speculative Love.”
Fisher, Helen. “The Realities of Love at First Sight.”
O, The Oprah Magazine. Nov 2009: n. page. Web.
26 Mar. 2012. <http://www.oprah.com
/relationships/Love-at-First-Sight-Helen-Fisher-Love-Column>.
James, Maryann. “A love-at-first-sight skeptic: Who’s
she gonna believe?.” Baltimore Sun 23 Feb
2008, n. pag. Web. 26 Mar. 2012.
<http://articles.baltimoresun.com/2008-02-23
/features/0802230287_1_first-sight-love-at-first
definitions-of-love>.
Naumann, Earl. Love at First Sight: The Stories and
Science Behind Instant Attraction. Naperville:
Sourcebooks, Inc., 2001. Print.
“Single in America: Findings Bust Gender Stereotypes,
Reveal Changing Courtship and Sexual
Behaviors and Attitudes.” Up To Date.
Match.com, 04 Feb 2011. Web. 29 Apr. 2012.
<http://blog.match.com/2011/02/04/single
in-america-findings-bust-gender-stereotypesreveal-changing-courtship-and-sexualbehaviors-and-attitudes/>.
thoughts. She may be the proud poster child for “pro-pregging” as they
call it, but something in her isn’t sure. The arrival of the twin sister she never
knew she had, Harmony, doesn’t make anything simpler either. Harmony is
was adopted and raised in what this futuristic world refers to as Goodside.
Goodside is a completely different world from where Melody lives, Otherside. It is reminiscent of an Amish settlement with a much simpler farming
lifestyle, very little technology and strict Christian religious practices. Harmony clings strongly to her beliefs and, like the rest of those in the Goodside
community, is very against the practices of the glamorized baby business. She
is dead set on talking Melody out of her decision to “go pro” and fulfilling
her contract.
Reproduction is without a doubt an area of controversy today. Unfortunately, people’s opinions on it are drastically different and very much in
conflict as depicted by the Goodside (religious) community and the Otherside (secular) community from which Harmony and Melody come. Technology has, and will, continue to only broaden the issue. The medical practice of
artificial insemination and fertility treatments has made new things possible.
The idea of surrogate mothers and sperm banks, as we know them now, is
a relatively recent invention. Genetic engineering already occurs on a large
scale with produce and livestock (Shah). The thought of “designer babies”
or parents choosing their child’s traits is not farfetched in the least and is
already being studied in depth with gene therapy experiments (Shah). Surrogate mothers became a pop social issue in the 1990s when it was repeatedly
featured on investigative news report shows such as Dateline and 60 Minutes
(van den Akker). As with many things, it became an immediate area of controversy with some freely accepting the idea and others condemning it as an
act against humanity. Many other social issues also came about. Legislation
has not caught up with the times in its definitions of what it means to be a
biological mother. Laws in many European nations still maintain surrogacy
can only be a legal medical option if said commissioning mother is diagnosed infertile or unable to safely carry a baby to term. On the whole, the
idea of surrogates still carries a large stigma in society today.
What if the media did adopt this modern medical marvel as a new
hot trend in child bearing? The premise of Bumped is a virus sweeps the
population making adult women infertile. The idea is becoming more feasible by the day, as Darwin’s 5 Principles of Evolution infer, a population has
the ability to multiply at an alarming rate, but there is a resource threshold at
which a population cannot survive upon exceeding. Nature will bring down
the population and stabilize by means of disease, famine or infertility as in
Bumped. We tend to lean on this dangerous assumption technology will save
us from Mother Nature, but in the end, we are only products of an environ-
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The writing style, at times, can be overly simplistic and predictable. The
internal monologue and character development, especially with Harmony,
can be painful. The author’s depiction of a deeply religious young woman
is very one-dimensional. It’s as though the character is completely naïve and
ignorant to the world. Harmony is constantly reciting cheesy bits of passage
and rarely seems to wrestle with serious issues of faith, making her rather
unrealistic and difficult to connect with. Young adult/ teen fiction can be well
written. It’s more of a disservice than an appeal when language and stories
are dumbed down. The young generation of readers deserves to be challenged. One of my English teachers once referred to such books as, “fluff”
or “candy reads”. You enjoy reading them, but they have no nutritional, or
intellectual, value. The first few chapters of Bumped could lead a reader to
believe the novel is fluff, but something catches your attention once you get
a bit further in.
It sounds heinous, doesn’t it? How can encouraging, promoting and glamorizing teen pregnancy for a profit be socially acceptable? Outrageous story
line… or is it? Is it really that unbelievable? Because if you think about it, we
already do so many things equivalent to this practice. Turn on a T.V. or look
at this week’s Top 10 most viewed videos on YouTube, it’s insane. The United
States has this puritan façade of standing for home and family values, but
our youth is bombarded with images and idols encouraging them to have
sex with a lot of people, wear little to no clothing, do drugs, drink, party
their asses of because, heck, as everyone on Facebook would say, “YOLO”
(YouOnlyLiveOnce) right? Who dictates our morals? Do rappers, T.V. shows,
celebrities or those assholes on Jersey Shore? Yes, on the whole, they do.
Most kids don’t see their parents anymore; they’re both working because a
family can no longer survive on one income. Kids go to school, but let’s face
it, schools dictate conformity not morality. But you know what kids do the
most of? They watch T.V., go on the internet, check their Facebooks, watch
music videos on YouTube, see the latest celebrity gossip columns and see
commercials telling them they have to buy a product because it will make
them sexier. Sex sells, even when you’re selling to a 12-year-old.
The main characters of the book, twins Melody and Harmony, represent the opposite ends of the cultural spectrum. They hold entirely opposing views on pregnancy for profit. Melody has been raised by her adoptive
parents who are high-powered business professionals. From babyhood they
have been preparing her to be a huge success in the surrogate world. She has
excelled in school, sports and hobbies. Not to mention, she has blue eyes,
blonde hair and good bone structure. Now, at 17, she has a golden contract
with a #1 couple which is sure to make her a shoe in at the top university of
her choice along with a hefty signing bonus. But she is having second
to be a parent so badly, there’s plenty of opportunity. Actually, there are
132 million opportunities.
Works Cited:
Van Den Akker, Olga B.A. “Human Reproduction Update.” Psychosocial
Aspects of Surrogate Motherhood. Oxford Journals, 27 July 2006. Web. 20
Apr. 2012. <http://humupd.oxfordjournals.org/content/13/1/53.full>.
Shah, Anup. “Genetically Engineered Food.” Global Issues. 22 Sept. 2002.
Web. 20 Apr. 2012. <http://www.globalissues.org/issue/188/genetically-engineered-food>.
Kovacs, Jason. “How Many Orphans Are There in The World?” ABBA
Fund Blog. The Abba Fund, 6 Oct. 2008. Web. 20 Apr. 2012. <http://abbafund.wordpress.com/2008/10/06/how-many-orphans-are-there-in-theworld/>.
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The other trend prediction being, women commission surrogates so as to
spare themselves the ramifications of pregnancy. Have your egg harvested
and fertilized by your husband’s sperm, find a decent woman and pay her to
be your incubator and you got yourself a baby! For members of the upperclass, this trend is becoming more and more appealing. Women spend thousands of dollars having their boobs lifted, asses reduced and tummies tucked
after suffering the detrimental physical effects of carrying a child to term. In
case you haven’t noticed, women work now. Competition in the professional
arena is cut-throat and women already have to fight tooth and nail to reach
the same success as their male counterparts. Maternity leave or time out of
the work force to raise a child is the worst possible career move for a woman
in today’s world. Teenagers, who have yet to begin their careers and are at
peak health, are not unlikely candidates. Having a baby can set you behind
years if not extinguish your career entirely. The same is not true for men who
become fathers, might I add. Does surrogacy as a practice of leisure sound
completely asinine? Historically, it would make sense. Wet nurses are no longer in fashion, but at one time it was entirely normal to have someone else,
usually a slave or servant, nurse your baby. Many women today pump their
milk or put their baby on formula from the start to avoid the issue all together.
You put out enough commercials, promotional campaigns and stories of celebrities who are doing it and I bet commissioning surrogate mothers when
you want to have a baby would be hot trending in no time.
Who do you look to for moral directive? What has shaped your ideas
of “right” and “wrong”? When does a thing cross the line between morality
and immorality? If it’s the media, the companies and common consensus
of society which drives your beliefs, your beliefs will never stop changing.
Melody, though not raised in a religious world, seems to struggle to accept
what everyone tells her is right, but what she knows to be wrong. Today,
designer babies and professional surrogates might sound like an abhorring
perversion of our natural design, but in a few generations you might be told
its okay and it’s the “in” thing to do like in the horrifyingly realistic world of
Bumped. You’ll hear it so many times, after a while, it won’t sound so bad.
Where is the line? When everything’s been said and done, it’s not even about
the morality around reproduction which is clearly debatable, but overpopulation is a fact and a serious threat to the human race as a whole. There are an
estimated 132 million orphans in the world today (Kovacs). They are already
alive. They desperately need and want parents. Yet, most people would rather
spend hundreds of thousands of dollars creating more babies so as to ensure
their genes will be carried down. We go to extreme measures to create more
people while millions of children don’t have access to clean water, starve, are
victims of human trafficking and die from treatable diseases. If you want
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A critique of Ladies’ Man, by Ellen Hart
by Jasmine Glenn
Kent Nerburn once said, “It is much easier to become a father than
to be one.” In a very basic fundamental sense, there are two kinds of parents
in this world: Group A and Group B. Group A are the people who have children and devote their lives to being a mom or dad. They live to parent. These
people are easy to spot; they are the soccer moms, the scout leaders and the
PTA presidents. Then there’s Group B which consists of people who happen
to have had a child, but didn’t bother to let it change their lives or hinder any
plans they may have had. Contributing DNA to a baby doesn’t make you a
mother or a father. In fact, it’s kind of everything else that counts. There are
good parents (Group A) and not-so-good parents (Group B), but most parents
end up being intermediates somewhere between these two extremes. Either
way, there are no perfect parents because there are no perfect people. They
are human and they do some things right and other things wrong in parenting
just as they do in life. Unfortunately, this is all news to a 4-year-old. Children
do not know their parents are people. They have forever known them as
“Mom” or “Dad” and consider them the authority on everything under the
sun. Then you grow up and realize your parents were once children too and
someone once messed them up just as they will inevitably mess you up. The
prose Ladies Man reveals truths of the author’s childhood relationship with
her father. One memory, seemingly insignificant to an outsider, but obviously
important to the author, gives us a look into the complicated dynamic of her
father/daughter relationship.
The story is short, but poignant. The descriptive sensory language vividly sets the scene, “The smell of stale beer and smoke assaults me as we enter the ginmill/ where/ my dad stops for a fast one on the way home.” The author gives us a peak into what spending time with her father looked like as a
child. The memoir is told from a first-person perspective of the daughter. She
casually talks about being in the bar waiting on her dad while he drinks beer
after beer as though it were a fairly regular occurrence, “I pay no attention to
my father holding court. I’ve seen it all before.” She also introduces a metaphor comparing this dive-bar and all its regulars to a royal court of which her
father is king. The metaphor weaves the story together using the contrast of
the little girl’s imagination against a bleak adult reality. While the author does
not glorify her father or his actions, she does condemn him either. Like any
other little girl, all she really wants is her dad’s undivided attention.
The author’s tone changes from dull and morose to happy and fanciful
when her father shifts his focus to her and asks her to dance, “He takes my
hand as we glide onto the makeshift dance floor. Suddenly, I’m all grown up,
graceful and sophisticated. The shabby bar with the sparkling neon changes
into a glittering ballroom.” The little girl’s imagination soars as she holds onto
her father’s hands. Even if only for a short while, he is the king and she is
his princess. Little girls like to feel like princesses because princesses are
loved, treasured and the apple of their father’s eye. In reality her father is an
alcoholic, they are in a cheap bar and he only gives her a few minutes of his
time, but for a moment she can escape reality and live in a world of majesty.
She concludes the story when the dancing is over, “The performance ends
with another dip and swig . As Al croons--Oh my love, my darling, a heavily
made up commoner taps my shoulder to cut in.” The author clearly adores
her father, but isn’t afraid to give us an honest depiction. Though he very well
may be an alcoholic, a bit of a dog and no Father of the Year, he does love
his daughter and she knows that. Being the child of an alcoholic comes with
an entire problem set of its own. The experience is damaging and common
enough, it even has its own group: al anon. Like AA or NA, Al-Anon, is a
network of support groups for people recovering from having been raised or
surrounded by addiction. The first bit of their mission statement reads, “The
Al-Anon Family Groups are a fellowship or relatives and friends of alcoholics
who share their experience, strength and hope in order to solve their common problems. We believe alcoholism is a family illness and that changed
attitudes can aid recovery.” (Al Anon Family Groups). You say it’s a family
illness huh?
My grandmother once told me one of her best childhood memories with
her father was when they would play cards after he was a few drinks in. He
was not a loving man and he was a raging alcoholic. A lot of the time he
was a mean drunk, but she told me he loved playing cards and it was one
of the only things that put him in a good mood. It’s sad to think one of my
grandmother’s fondest memories of her dad was when he was drunk, but not
screaming, fighting or hitting, for a change. There’s something about alcohol
and addiction that follows brokenness and pain, or maybe the reverse is true,
I don’t know. It has a way of running in the family though. Each generation
unconsciously transfers the dysfunction to the next. Ironically enough, everyone always swears up and down they won’t make the mistakes of their
parents with their children. But perhaps it’s naïve to think our own wounds
won’t affect the kind of parents we’ll be when it obviously affects the kind of
person we’ve become.
I connected with this story because my parents, while luckily not alcoholics, also belonged to parent group B in their own right. In my mother’s defense, my grandmother didn’t do a whole heck of a lot better raising her and
PGR 229
A Funny Way of Showing It
Analyzing the Imperfections of Parental Love
Works Cited:
Nerburn, Kent. Letters to My Son: Reflections on Becoming a Man.
San Rafael, CA: New World Library, 1993. Print.
Larkin, Philip. “This Be the Verse.” Art of Europe. Web. 27 Mar. 2012.
<http://www.artofeurope.com/larkin/lar2.htm>.
Scott, Francis. “The-truth-about-lying.” Scholastic Resources. Web. 20
Mar. 2012. <http://www.scholastic.com/resources/article/the-truth-aboutlying>.
“Al-Anon Family Groups.” Saint John Free-Net Welcome Page. Web. 02
May 2012. <http://www.sjfn.nb.ca>.
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was an addict for the duration of my mom’s childhood. Some people have
babies and it becomes the thing which defines them. The other half pop ‘em
out and continue on. My mom was never a stay-at-home mom or the soccer mom type. She is a driven woman and not having a career was never a
possibility in her mind. Being good at her job has always defined her. In fact,
both my parents achieved great success with their 60-hour-a-week careers. If
there is a definition for workaholic I’m pretty sure they would fit it. They go to
work early, stay late, do work even when not at work and somehow always
find a way to direct the conversation back to business. My parents believed
raising me meant was about providing the material, but like the author of
Ladies’ Man, all I wanted was them. I wanted their attention, their affection
and I wanted their time because isn’t that what you give to the things which
are the most important to you? My parents were not the involved type. For a
long time, I thought it meant they didn’t love me as much as the other kid’s
parents loved them. By the time I was sixteen, I had quite the collection of
issues rooted in my relationship with my parents, but years of therapy and the
help of some highly skilled psychiatrists, brought to a place of greater understanding and acceptance. My parents footed the bill for all my mental health
professionals, it’s the least they could do if you think about it. I don’t think
anyone could say it better than Philip Larkin in his poem “This Be the Verse”,
“They fuck you up, your mum and dad/ They may not mean to, but they do./
They fill you with the faults they had/ And add some extra, just for you.But
they were fucked up in their turn/ By fools in old-style hats and coats,/ Who
half the time were soppy-stern / And half at one another’s throats./ Man hands
on misery to man./ It deepens like a coastal shelf./ Get out as early as you
can,/ And don’t have any kids yourself.”
Can it really be that hopeless? How do we stand a chance? It can’t be
everyone coming from a less-than-perfect childhood is doomed to be a miserable parent themselves. The answer is gaining some perspective on why
your parents did what they did. My mom and dad may have missed the mark
a bit, but they have always tried to give me the world. Whatever it was they
felt had been lacking in their childhoods, they tried to give me. No matter the
endeavor, they have supported me in everything I do as best they know how.
Footing the bill and parenting are no different in their eyes. As I get older, I
realize I can’t imagine having a baby when they did or trying to launch careers and businesses while simultaneously raising a child. Truth is, my parents
are only human and they did what they thought was right with what they had
been given. There is a lot of acceptance and solace in that. I think the author
of Ladies’ Man would agree, it’s not about the mistakes your parents made,
but that they loved you… even if they had a funny way of showing it.
by Kayla Jimeson
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My Lesbian Husband
Barrie Jean Borich
Graywolf Press
“If we could look down on ourselves from above, what would we
see? A married couple, like any married couple, linked through our coupling
by history and traditions, literature and song, to the great pitch and roll?”
(Borich 9). History, tradition, literature, and song all play a role in shaping
society’s view of marriage. While many couples share similar histories and
traditions, not all experience the same recognition or respect. Should the
people we love have any effect on the way we are viewed in the world?
Many lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender identified people are judged
solely on their choice of whom they love. Not only is the content of their
character judged but their relationships are also viewed as a lesser form of
a union, strictly on the basis of a law that prevents many from legal marriages. In the comic strip, Dykes to Watch Out For, it light heartedly mocks
the issue, “Well… straight couples get respect when they marry. Maybe we
need to make some kind of symbolic affirmation of our commitment to one
another!...Yes! Let’s open a joint checking account!” (Bechdel) This satirically
analyzes the level of respect that many gay couples are deprived of. In My
Lesbian Husband, Barrie Jean Borich passionately introduces the reader into
the life she shares with her long-term love, Linnea. Each chapter chronicles
events from a specific time of their relationship opening with ‘Year Seven’
and wrapping up with ‘Twelve Years and Counting’ while covering every year
in between. Year after year she questions what constitutes a marriage besides
the legal recognition and finds herself asking the same question, “Are we
married?” Throughout the memoir she documents her life before Linnea, her
life with Linnea, and the struggles they face with the judgments of society. It
is tough enough having a society that judges and even harder living in a family with different beliefs. For Borich there is a long-standing struggle between
her and her family, especially her mother, but the memoir itself serves as a
brilliant reminder that it does in fact get better.
Six years into the relationship she writes about her mother, “When
I do come back, I can still see her strain to recognize her blond, bananacurled baby, and her squint of disapproval at who I have become” (Borich
14). Borich paints an image of a scene that many LGBT identified people
face. Parents seem to have difficulty coming to terms with their child becom
ing something other than what they had imagined. Many of the parents
that have difficulty with this were raised in a heterosexual dominant society
and may not as easily come to terms with the change of times. Borich uses
the words ‘strain’ and ‘squint’ to represent her mother’s struggle. The definition of strain is “to draw tight or taut, especially to the utmost tension; stretch
to the full” (Dictionary.com). Her mother is fully exerting herself to see her
daughter as the baby she was before she found out who she really was. It’s
important to notice that the word squint means “to look with the eyes partly
closed” (Dictionary.com). In actuality, she sees Borich as who she truly is but
does not choose to accept it based on her own personal beliefs and keeps her
eyes “partly closed” to the truth.
Facing the scrutiny of her family members, Borich distanced herself
from them and Chicago and began her life with Linnea in Minneapolis. She
explores what makes one relationship ‘more important’ or more acceptable
than another and used comparisons of other couples to so. She compares her
long term love to the relationships of her straight relatives and finds no reason
she should be an outcast of the family. The comparisons remind the reader
of what our society considers to be a typical relationship but Borich’s insight
to her deep, emotional bond with Linnea shows the reader that society has a
limited view. Luckily with time, most people find it in their hearts to ignore
differences and focus on the core which remains the same in all. The benefit
of jumping between different years in the chapters is that it gives contrast to
how it was then and how it is now so that the reader can sense a change for
the better.
“My parents, who had no words for us in the past managed somehow to find them in time. I can’t say how or why, but they chose to traverse
the bridge over that windy channel to where their strange daughter resides.
Are we solid bodies or did we flicker in their gaze?” (Borich 289/290) Again
she uses imagery that represents a challenge, “traverse the bridge over that
windy channel”, but now years later the challenge is overcome. “Whatever
infiltrates their belief system in that crystalline moment strikes an alliance
with what they were taught-in school, by their parents, at the movies-and then
never leaves them” (Borich 207). Sometimes it is hard to say what caused it,
but eventually one is able to reconsider what they have always believed and
weigh its’ importance. Every person may reach the point at a different time
but eventually a choice is made to stop ‘squinting’ or denying the truth. A
solid body elicits something that is real versus a flickering mirage. Once acceptance is reached, the concept of homosexuality begins to seem less taboo
and more understandable and this is when you are seen as a solid body.
Many different types of people embody love in many different
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Solid Bodies or a Flicker in Their Gaze?
PGR 234
Marriage is also defined in a number of ways other than the legal marriage, including long term commitment, possession of shared property, or
simply the joining of two lives into a collective life together. While most
states in the U.S. still define marriage as a union between man and woman,
Massachusetts, Connecticut, Iowa, Vermont, New Hampshire, New York and
the District of Columbia currently issue licenses to same sex couples (NCSL).
In February 2012, legislation for gay marriage passed in Washington and
Maryland but the laws are not in effect yet (NCSL). What is this tells us is that
not only does it get better for individuals but it also gets better for society.
Even though many people who identify as lesbian, gay, bisexual, or transgender face a lot of stress and judgment, it will get better over time and My
Lesbian Husband pays homage to both the bright and dull sides of coming
out in a society that privileges heterosexuals.
Works Cited
Bechdel, Alison. “Dykes To Watch Out For” <http://dykestowatchoutfor.
com/dtwof-archive- episode-13> 21 August 2007. Web. 5 May 2012.
National Conference of State Legislatures. “Defining Marriage: Defense of
Marriage Acts and Same-Sex Marriage Laws” <http://www.ncsl.org/issuesresearch/human-services/same-sex-marriage-overview.aspx> March 2012.
Web. 5 May 2012.
“strain”.Dictionary.com.<http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/
strain?s=t> 21 April 2012.
“squint”Dictionary.com.<http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/
squint?s=t> 21 April 2012.
by Kayla Jimeson
A critique of Ken Wesnet’s Language of Touch
“We can judge the heart of a man by his treatment of animals” (Kant).
In the poem, “Language of Touch”, by Ken Weisner, the speaker illustrates
the ways to communicate with their blind and deaf dog. The bond between
domesticated dogs and humans is ineffable and both become very dependent
on the other. The closeness continues to flourish over the course of the
relationship between loyal companions. Unlike many solitary animals, dogs
are able to enter a symbiotic relationship with their guardian, which is a long
standing interaction between different species. There are different types of
symbiotic relationships including competition, commensalism, mutualism,
parasitism, and neutralism. Competition is when neither of the interacting
species experiences a benefit from the relationship, commensalism is defined
by one species benefiting and the other remaining unaffected, mutualism is
when both species benefit, parasitism is when one species benefits and affects
the other, and neutralism is when neither of the species is affected (Ladock).
When it comes to humans and canines, the relationship is very much a
mutualistic one. Humans provide food, exercise, care, as well as a home for
their dogs and in return receive protection, companionship, comfort, and in
some cases guidance. Miraculously, this connection is based on dogs relying
on senses to communicate rather than language. The language of touch is
quite possibly more influential than the language of speech. From this poem
we learn that although humans are able to reach the same speechless depth,
we tend to discredit the language of touch and language of sight because we
place too much value on the language of speech.
For humans, it seems that vision and hearing are the two most
prominent senses, considering we rely on navigating ourselves and listening
to/communicating with others. Dogs definitely benefit from the same two
senses by being able to recognize loved ones and react to commands and
sounds but unlike humans their most prominent sense is scent. The wet nose
allows them to capture scent molecules and absorb them so their smell
receptors can analyze and distinguish them (Jenkins). For blind/deaf dogs, not
only do they rely on their scent but they also rely heavily on touch. With their
innate sense of smell, sensitivity to vibrations as well as touch commands,
and proper care a blind and deaf dog can still live a full and happy life.
“Language of Touch” beautifully portrays the relationship between a devoted
person and the unconditional love for their personal “caregiver”.
In the first of four stanzas, the speaker says “Here’s how I
talk to my blind & deaf dog/bored by traditional petting—/finger talkstory. Hieroglyphics…” Rather than limiting the dog to the simple pleasure
of petting, the speaker uses emotions to paint narratives into the fur of the one
whose experiences are
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Humans Can Learn a Lot From Dogs
PGR 237
They share an unspoken agreement that they will both remain loyal and
expect no more or less of each other. The dog is comfortable with what he has,
a caring companion. While with humans there is a constant desire for more,
never satisfied with the reality of what one has and doesn’t have. Even with
so little, the dog has more capacity than humans to accept it and continue
to live fully. Being at peace with reality is what allows the guardian and dog
to connect so deeply. I believe that this shows that we can say a lot more
without actually saying it. We should embrace the potential of all our senses
to reach deeper levels of connection rather than allow our voice to say it all.
Works Cited
Brunner, Hellmut. Dorman, Peter F. “Hieroglyphic Writing.” Web.<http://
www.history.com/topics/hieroglyphic-writing> 21 April 2012.
Jenkins, Garry. “Canine Senses: How Dogs See” 14 March 2010. Web. 20
March 2012. <http://knol.google.com/k/canine-senses-how-dogs-see#>
Kant, Immanuel. “Famous Pet and Animal Quotes.” Web. 20 March 2012.
<http://www.petsinpastel.com/quotes.htm>
Ladock, Jason. “What Is a Symbiotic Relationship?” Web. 25 March
2012. < http://www.healthguidance.org/entry/12547/1/What-Is-a-Symbiotic- Relationship.html>
Levin, Caroline. “Blind Dog Tips” 12 February 2011. Web. 20 March 2012. <http://www.blinddogs.com/tips.htm>
photo: http://www.blinddog.info/blinddogmap.shtml
Don Monkerud
PGR 236
marked by touch. With enough ‘finger talk-story’, the dog can translate
the feelings of touch into words of affection and become overwhelmed
with the love it is receiving. This emphasizes the importance in being able
to communicate via touch as well as ensuring that the dog is at ease with
being touched. Hieroglyphics is a set of characters that can either be read
as pictures, symbols for pictures, or symbols for sounds. (Brunner, Dorman)
By using hieroglyphic hand drawings on the loving dog, it is able to not only
feel the petting, but see the pictures, and hear the sounds they represent. It’s
a combination of senses. While humans also use a combination of senses,
such as voice and sight to detect facial expressions, oftentimes we disregard
the facial recognition and narrow in on the tone of voice. The second stanza
begins with, “It’s to boost morale and self-esteem”. It’s important to build
their confidence so they know they are loved and still are capable to perform
activities (Levin). With the guidance of touch commands and certain smells,
they can still go on walks, follow along, and learn to navigate themselves
around familiar surroundings. A guardian who accepts the responsibility
of caring for a special needs dog proves that the bond between both is
unconditional.
In my opinion the most powerful imagery stems from the end of
the second stanza, “his likely affect and lumbering/hang-tongue-panting-eyeglint/behind cataracts that don’t block this.” Even though the blindness blocks
actual sight, the familiar glint in the eye tells the speaker that their canine
friend hears and understands their language of touch. Many humans don’t
hear the language of touch. Humans are so individualistic, they don’t allow
themselves to open up and use touch as a form of speech unless they are
lovers typically. The emotional connection between man and dog thrives on
the basis that both of their needs are met. When the speaker refers to “this”,
I believe they are referring to the fact that while he may not be able to see or
hear, he can feel the bond and this perpetuates the symbiotic relationship of
meeting each other’s needs. This is also shown in the lines, “I’m giving the
caregiver care, /washing the feet of the foot washer.” It conveys the image
that up until blindness and deafness took their toll the dog took care of his
guardian, but with the vulnerability of losing senses, the guardian reciprocates
the favor and comforts the soul that has always comforted his/her soul.
Finally, the speaker suggests that he/she is grateful that the language
they share is based on touch. There is something wonderful between man
and dog that rarely can be found between humans:
Perhaps it’s lucky
he can’t speak—
because although ecstatic,
he doesn’t expect anything;
it’s still banal to him among humans.
PGR 238
by Mark Mattina
A critque of Ladies’ Man, by Ellen Hart
From the day they are born, children rely on their parent’s love, support, and care for their whole life. Some parents are unfit on unconventional
in someone else’s eyes. Parents are people too and come in many different
forms and may or may not make the best decisions for the welfare of their
child. Drugs, mental disorders, living conditions, all things that can formulate and change a child’s perspective on the world. When you are born you
almost automatically love your parents; they are the only thing you know and
rely on. As a child begins to age and create their own thoughts, they may begin to see faults in their parents and question the choices they make. The love
for them is engrained in their brain, but they may not always feel that way.
Ladies’ Man, by Ellen Hart, presents a girl who has positive and negative views of her father and his actions. She loves her father because he is her
father, but loathes him as well, so she can’t pick just one side. The opening
line, “The smell of stale beer and smoke assaults me as we enter...” sets the
negative tone and shows her distaste for her father’s choice in venue. She’s
“seen it all before...” and knows what to expect of the situation. “With [her]
head buried...” she, “nurse[s] [her] coke and nibble[s] on chips to make them
last.” She tries her best to ignore what’s going on around her and the, “hollow
as tin” atmosphere of the bar that fill her ears and her fathers actions, “I pay
no attention to my father holding court.” Tetyana Parsons of AllPsych Journal
explains the affects of alcoholism on the family and children. “...children
have common symptoms such as low self-esteem, loneliness, guilt, feelings
of helplessness, fears of abandonment, and chronic depression” (Parsons).
She expresses that the bar is a usual place for her father, and a common occurrence. It plainly says that her father goes to the bar as an escape,
“...my dad stops for a fast one on the way home.” She is aware that her father
is an alcoholic but doesn’t say it directly. Her choice of diction helps to convey how she feels neglected by her father and resentful of him. She dislikes
his drinking along with his other actions of flirting with the women in the,
“...audience of barflies.” In the title, “Ladies” is used to suggest there is more
than one woman is his life.
In my life, the same emotions that the girl feels in the piece come
to life, but for different reasons. How can you not love your parents if they
provide you a safe place to live, the things you need to succeed in school,
or just a warm meal every night? They tuck you into bed from the very start.
They dress you. Clean up your puke when you’re sick. But other things come
stopped, but the glorious custody battles and money arguments and all
the other things that come when two people are divorced can really bring out
emotions, words, and actions that bleed over into their children’s eyes and
thoughts. Sides of my parents that I had never seen before came out to full
view and definitely challenged the love I had for both of them. Yet, I did not
lose hope and abandon my love
Similarly, whole tone of the piece changes with one line. “Hey, kid
why don’t you feed the juke box?” Suddenly, the discontented little girl turns
hopeful and optimistic. Robert Frederick Lee’s article on the Effects of Music
on Happiness explains what changes her mood so drasticly. “When people
get to choose the music, they appear to be more relaxed...” (Lee). Although
the whole situation is predictable for her, “After his second or third Pabst Blue
Ribbon, he slides two quarters down the bar.”, she still tries her best to pull
a positive moment out of it. Standing in front of the juke box, “The endless
selection of every style of music, renders me giddy.” She anticipates about
this moment; a time where she can finally get something that she wants out of
her father. “I hope he will dance with me. That means ballads.” She carefully
selects songs and, After a short eternity of deliberation, [she] drop[s] in the
coins.” A lot hinges on the coming moments.
Her tone quickly changes back to negative and reinforces her feelings of before the moment at the juke box. “Meanwhile, my old man with
his mick wit has charmed everyone , especially the women...” Although her
hopes are high, she knows her father may not come through. Both sides of
her feelings of her father, love and hate, show through. “When he’s well
oiled, he saunters over, bows graciously. May I have this dance madam?” As
much as she wants him to dance with her, she is still aware of the fact that he
is drunk.
As soon as the father takes her hand and leads her to the, “...makeshift dance floor,” the girl is transported to a fairy tale land. “Suddenly, I’m all
grown up, graceful and sophisticated... I’m royalty.” She forces herself into a
happy place. “The shabby bar with the sparkling neon changes into a glittering ballroom... He’s the King of Smooth and I’m his princess. ” She interjects
happiness in between her acrimony, bringing back the positive attributes of
her father. “...he expertly leads and I effortlessly follow.” Even if its for just a
short time, the father can make her happy. “Only you can make my dreams
come true”
In the end, she quotes lyrics from the songs she chose. Lyrics that
show her true feelings and hopes of her father. She knows that the dance is
only temporary and that he will return back to what he was doing before,
leaving her to herself. One of the song lyrics she quotes her confusion, “I’m
just fool, a fool in love with you”.
PGR 239
Am I Really A Fool?
Works Cited
Lee, Robert F. “Effects of Music on Happiness.” Ezinearticles. 9 Jan.
2012. Web. 24 Mar. 2012. <http://ezinearticles.com/?Effects-of-Music-onHappiness&id=6847647>.
Pasrsons, Tetyana. “Alcoholism and Its Effect on the Family.” Psychology Classroom at AllPsych Online. AllPsych and Heffner Media Group, Inc, 14
Dec. 2003. Web. 24 Mar. 2012. <http://allpsych.com/journal/alcoholism.
html>.
Complex Sleep
Written by: Tony Tost
Publisher: University of Iowa Press
Suggested Price: $16.00
Half Asleep/Half Awake
By: Natalie Toy
Don Monkerud
Tony Tost embarks on a courageous journey through a book of poetry
called Complex Sleep. Into the world of surrealism, he fits his words into
the form of poem and perfects his interpretation so that the reader can share
it with him. Written in choppy chunks and seemingly unrelated words, his
poems are concise and abrupt. But that’s the beauty of surrealism- the absence of any control exercised by reason (Reynolds). Dictated by thought,
surrealism is the verbal/written expression of the actual functioning thought.
Surrealism is meant to associate unassociated thought. It is to be used as a
psychic mechanism (Reynolds). And that’s what makes Tony Tost’s poems so
hard to understand and relate with. Tost’s poems challenge me to view images I have never even thought of conjuring; therefore, leaving me torn between the challenge and the comfort of distorted reading. When compared
to early surrealist poetry, Tost’s poetry is much different. In all of the early
surrealist poetry I’ve read, there seems to be a general theme or some sort of
repetition, in Tost’s poetry, this seems to be missing. So, when asked, if Tost’s
poetry succeeds in creating the true surrealist effect, I’d say no. Because as
much as humans love to view alternate worlds, we still need some form of
logical association to interpret them.
Tost is a skilled poet and we can see this in the words he chooses and in
his knowledge of form. Although educated and competent, Tost has undertaken a tough job, well jobs. The first; deciphering the world of sleep and
the second, fitting the interpretation into the form of surrealism. The study of
sleep and dream analysis is comparable to a puzzle that has never been fully
put together; the pieces are tangible, yet the edges are vague. It is a subject
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PGR 240
“The first definition speaks to the surrealist
methodology--the use of techniques, such as
automatic writing, self-induced hallucinations,
and word games like the exquisite corpse, to
make manifest repressed mental activities.”
-Academy of American Poets
Attention is
The animal behind
The immediate
It can also be seen in early surrealist poetry, such as Postman Cheval by
Andre Breton.
PGR 242
The arms of your well beloved wheelbarrow
Which we tear out swifter than sparks at your wrist
We are the sighs of the glass statue that raises itself on its elbow when
man sleeps
The unassociated words seem to push word comprehension to new
heights; for instance, ‘sparks at your wrist’ and ‘Attention is/ the animal behind/ the immediate’. Let’s analyze the way the ways in which these lines
make sense.
Let’s start with, Breton’s poem. We can see that ‘sparks at your wrist’ relates to the rest of the poem when we look at these specific words in each
line: arms, wrist, elbow. We notice that while the lines of the poems don’t
make immediate sense, they do relate. Each line speaks of the arm or part of
the arm and in this way, there is an overall theme to the poem.
In Tost’s poem, ‘Attention is/ the animal behind/ the immediate’, we do
not see the overall theme that we did in Breton’s, but we can still make some
sense of it. If we look at the word “animal” as the “drive” or “motivation” for
immediacy, we can interpret Tost’s poem to mean ‘attention is the motivation
for immediacy’.
The unassociated word form is what makes interpreting surrealist poetry
hard. At a quick glance, it seems as if both Breton and Tost’s poetry is just
gibberish on a page. It is not until you look deep into the poetry that you are
Let’s look at some more of Tost’s work and compare it to some early surrealist poetry. I would like to compare the form, repetition, word theme and its
effectiveness. This is an excerpt from a poem by Tost (376) called Ink Drop.
sleep and be there. Spilled
record. Perfumed ruins. Softest tigress
heart of her. Cat’s paw
finer grandeur. Sudden heralds above
pound softly vampiric: sun-embroidered, annihilated
serendipitous isolation. Stepping stone.
This a work done by Federico García Lorca, the poem is called Dawn.
Dawn in New York has
four columns of mire
and a hurricane of black pigeons
splashing in the putrid waters.
Dawn in New York groans
on enormous fire escapes
searching between the angles
for spikenards of drafted anguish.
To fairly compare them we need to first analyze each for its own meaning. Let’s start with Tosts’. The first line, second line and third line all seem to
have words associated with a cat: “tigress”, “cat’s paw”, “pound softly”. We
can also see the title “Ink Drop” reflected in the poem on lines one and two,
in the words “spilled record” and “perfumed ruins”. Now let’s look at Lorca’s.
We can see that Lorca has written in four-line stanzas and begun each stanza
with the same words. If we speak these stanzas aloud we can hear a similarity in rhythm.
In comparison, we can see that Tost has written one stanza, with the only
replicating themes being the “ink” and the “cat”, because of this we know
that his poem is about a cat and ink. Where Lorca has used four-lined stanzas, replicated words such as “New York” and “Dawn” and has incorporated
a rhythm. By using replicated form and words Lorca has given the reader
some guidelines to interpreting his poem; in this sense his poem is effective.
We do not see this in Tost’s poem. In fact, to even understand his poem, you
have to look hard to see any word association. While surrealism advocates
for the association of unassociated words, Tost leaves wide gaps between
words and their meaning. This coupled with the sudden line breaks seems to
hinder the capacity for interpretation.
Writing effective poetry is hard, especially surrealist poetry, for po
PGR 243
that is hard to study because it’s not one in which we are awake, scientists
are still staring at the mystery of why we sleep (Woo). Dissecting our dreams
and our subconscious has proven to be a tricky endeavor, for it is not something that can be tested like science, math or grammar. There are no variables
to reproduce, formulas to plug-in, nor rules to follow. This this reason, Tost’s
surrealist poetry is hard to comprehend.
But surrealism seems like just the tool/form to use if one is to decipher
the world of sleep. It is a technique or genre that is used so that the world
within the writing seems slightly skewed, either physically, emotionally, or
magically. Surrealism allows for the non-sequitur path of words and thoughts
(Poets.org). This can be seen in Tost’s work on page nine of Complex Sleep.
Works Cited
“A Brief Guide to Surrealism.” Poets.org - Poetry, Poems, Bios & More. Academy of
American Poets, 2012. Web. 10 May 2012.
Breton, Andre. “Andre Breton (19 February 1896 – 28 September 1966 /
Normandy).” Poemhunter.com. 14 Apr. 2010. Web. 10 May 2012.
Lorca, Fedrico G. “The Dawn.” The Poetry Foundation. Poetry Magazine, 2011. Web.
13 May 2012.
<http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/180659>.
“Q & A: American Poetry.” Tony Tost. Poetry Society of America. Web. 16 May
2012.
<http://www.poetrysociety.org/psa/poetry/crossroads/qa_american_poetry/
page_43/>.
Reynolds, Mary. “Paris: The Heart of Surrealism.” Documents of Dada and
Surrealism: Dada and Surrealist Journals in the Mary Reynolds Collection.
Art Institute of Chicago, 28 Apr. 2010. Web. 11 May 2012.
Tost, Tony. Complex Sleep: Poems. Iowa City: University of Iowa, 2007. Print.
Woo, Marcus. “Why Do We Sleep?” Science News, Technology, Physics,
Nanotechnology, Space Science, Earth Science, Medicine. California
Institute of Technology, 3 Feb. 2011. Web. 22 Apr. 2012.
Ruined by the Taliban
By John Kehoe
The Swallows of Kabul
Written By Yasmina Khadra
Published by Anchor (April 12, 2005)
List Price: $14.99
Picture every aspect of your life being controlled by an outside force
that doesn’t hold any regard to your thoughts or your physical being. Imagine
being told what was acceptable to believe in, what was acceptable to wear in
public and that you must always obey your spouse, regardless of the circumstance. Now consider the penalties for disobeying these rules: public death
by rifle, public death by lynching, public death by the slicing of your throat,
or rocks being tossed at you by the public, while your legs are buried in dirt,
only letting up once your body lies lifeless on the ground.
Western society, me included, has grown ignorant on the matter of
the Middle East and Islam. Turn on most major media outlets and you are
quickly led to believe that Islam is a hate filled religion, followed by those
that want to kill others, that the men of Islam look down at their wives, use
them as nothing more than a tool, and banish them behind a burka all while
keeping them uneducated and unequal. Rarely is Islam held in a positive
light in this country. Counter arguments say that not all Muslims feel the way
that the media portrays them, yet you are still led to believe that the majority want nothing more than to kill and oppress. “The Swallows of Kabul”,
written under Mohammed Moulessehoul’s pen name Yasmina Khadra, does
a fantastic job at showing the true ideals of the Islamic religion by pitting it
up against the Islam that the Taliban and American media have perverted.
Khadra shows the deterioration of the Islam people living in a Taliban controlled Afghanistan.
The book follows the lives of two couples, Atiq and his wife Musarrat
and Mohsen and his wife Zunaira, both of whom live in the Afghan capital of
Kabul during the times of Taliban control, but on different ends of the spectrum of the acceptance of the Taliban. The story starts out just prior to a public execution in which both men take part in and follows them from there on
examining the impact that the execution has on each of their family’s lives.
The book is incredibly well written, as it takes you on a journey questioning
how these families will survive. “Our house was bombed… You’ve lost your
business. My career has been taken away from me. We don’t have enough to
eat anymore, and we’ve stopped making plans for the future” (Zunaira, 34).
PGR 245
PGR 244
etry guides the reader to form image through words. It does not present
you with an image, like most physical art. This makes repetition and form
very important when writing poetry. And although surrealism asks the writer
and reader to accept the poem as an actual functioning thought, I have rarely
encountered thoughts that were as nonsensical as the writing in Tost’s poems’. It may be that I just haven’t studied enough surrealist poetry to truly
understand Tost’s writing. But I do enjoy surrealist art and film; such as, Dali
and the movie “Lost Highway”. Both these forms of surrealist art present an
image which I am able to interpret; maybe this is what is missing for me in
Tost’s poems. I feel that there are no guidelines, no mnemonic tricks, nor any
radiating emotion to help me find an image; therefore, I don’t find his poetry
effective.
In fact, I’m not sure if I will ever see surrealist poetry as an art form that is
effective. In my research in ‘how to write surrealist poetry’ I have found that
putting words into a hat and drawing them out in random order is an acceptable way to write a surrealist poem. Also a good way to create a surrealist
poem is to play writing game called “The Exquisite Corpse.” In this game, one
member of a group of poets writes a line or phrase of poetry. Without seeing
the line, another group member writes the following line, and this continues
until the group feels the poem is done. This randomization and unpredictable
word association leaves poems reading like a drunk’s sorry note, stumbling,
lost, and monotone.
it means to hold the Islam faith, the truth is I had never reached out to learn
more about the region. This book was exceptional, not only because the
characters are interesting, or because of how well written the story was, but
because it opened up a whole new world for me. I had not ever realized just
how different Muslims were to how they were depicted. I never realized that
the Taliban and the people who support them are the few, not the many.
Using a husband and wife who love and respect each other and are
surviving the Taliban control, Khadra demonstrates the men and women who
have strong beliefs in Islam and also a strong sense of community. He allows
the reader to witness the good inside a true Islamic home, where priorities
are accepting Allah, praying to him five times a day, participating in society
and practicing being charitable to those in need while distances themselves
from oppression and terrorism. In Atiq, Khadra shows us what Islam has become in the hands of Taliban: nothing more than a way for a militant group
to skewer the true meanings behind the religion in order to force people to
conform and surrender the liberties they once knew.
Work Cited
“Five Pillars of Islam.” Wikipedia. Wikimedia Foundation. Web. 19 Apr. 2012. <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Five_Pillars_of_Islam>.
“Yasmina Khadra.” Wikipedia. Wikimedia Foundation, 04 Dec. 2012. Web. 13 Apr. 2012. <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yasmina_Khadra>.
“Soviet War in Afghanistan.” Wikipedia. Wikimedia Foundation, 16 Apr. 2012. Web.
13 Apr. 2012.
<http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Soviet_war_in_Afghanistan>.
“Taliban.” Wikipedia. Wikimedia Foundation. Web. 20 Apr. 2012. <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Taliban>.
The Taliban. Infoplease. Web. 06 May 2012.
<http://www.infoplease.com/spot/taliban.html>.
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PGR 246
Khadra paints the difference between being a follower of Islam and being
an Islamist who oppresses those using the Qur’an as their tool, two different
ideals that have melted together in the minds of Americans in recent years.
We are shown two distinct families, Atiq and Musarrat, who have already taken to the Taliban style and have seemingly lost who they once were,
and the other, which comes from an upper class, in which both Mohsen and
Zunaira have a University education and have not yet adapted to the Islamist
rule.
We’re not anything anymore. We had some privileges that we didn’t
know how to defend, and so we forfeited them to the apprentice
mullahs. I’d love to go out with you every day, every evening; I’d
love to slip my hand under your arm and let you sweep me along…
But that’s no longer possible. (Mohsen, 76)
Zunaira explains to Mohsen why she stays in her home all day, removed from the burka. This life is new to them and the only thing keeping their life of happiness, their sense of self-respect and the ability to love
each other is to stay home and removing themselves from Taliban society.
The relationship between Mohsen and Zunaira is a beautiful one that is not
typically associated with Islam, in which the husband absolutely adores his
wife and sees her as his equal, “Sure, we’re not going to hold hands, but
there is nothing to prevent us from standing side by side” (77). It was during
this part of the book that I learned that there was a time in Afghanistan that
women weren’t oppressed, that they didn’t walk around covering themselves,
that they were able to get educations. Zunaira was in fact a Lawyer and a
woman’s rights activist, something that I would have never thought possible.
In contrast Atiq has taken up the Islamist lifestyle, a lifestyle that shuns
woman’s rights, forcing them to work inside the house, unable to leave unless accompanied by a male family member, removes girls from school, and
regularly holds public executions. Atiq now despises the former nurse whom
he married after she nursed him back to life from injuries suffered in the nine
year Russian invasion of Afghanistan back in the 1980’s. “Divorce her and
get yourself a strong, healthy virgin who knows how to shut up and serve her
master without making any noise” (28). His relationship, and what he goes
through in the book, is clearly meant to show the loss of identity through the
oppression of the Taliban. While accepting of the Taliban he loses all civil
liberties and finds himself roaming the streets, paranoid at all times, talking
aloud to himself, questioning who he is, and worrying about how to get rid
of a wife who he has reduced to being nothing but his servant.
I was an ignorant man to those in the Middle East; even now I can’t
claim to know it inside and out. While it would be easy to blame the American media for their constant fear mongering, their lack of discussion on what
By John Kehoe
PGR 248
A critique of In the white hospital room of the Charité, by Bertolt Brecht,
translated by Angelika Frebert
Previously in my adult life I had struggled with the feeling that I was
lacking a purpose in the world. My days were routine: get up, get ready for
work, spend nine to ten hours a day worrying about other people’s shipments, and then return home and escape into movies and video games with
friends. Wake up the next day and do it again. This lack of a life filled with
purpose was my own fault, floating through high school with no direction,
having a child early on rather than continue on to college. These decisions
in my youth led to the mundane existence that by the end, of this particular
road, had me filled with regrets and wishing for a life more fulfilled.
Had I died several years ago, I would have died In vain. In the poem,
“Als ich in weissem Krankenzimmer der Charité” (In the white hospital room
of the Charité), Bertolt Brecht writes, and is translated by Angelika Frebert,
“I had long lost/my fear of death. How/could I lack anything, given that/I
am nothing.” It is beautifully written, to have a peace in a time of passing,
and strikes a chord because it gives me that sense of closure that I would be
missing if I was lying on death’s bed. In contrast to my own feelings, Brecht
sounds like a man who has lived a purposeful life, a life in which he’s called
many places home, met many new faces, and left a lasting impression on
those he came across. He sounds as though he had a fulfilling life and is content with his place in the world. He sounds like a man ready to die without
any regrets.
It makes me wonder, then, what must happen in a man’s life, for that
day of death to be met with an clear feeling of content that one did all they
can do? Researching Bertolt Brecht, one quickly discovers how he was able
to find peace in a fading world. In 1939, Brecht wrote a poem titled, “An die
Nachgeborenen”, which Scott Horton of ‘Harper’s Magazine’ translates to
“To those Who Follow in Our Wake”. Brecht wrote the piece while bouncing from country to country, attempting to evade the Nazi regime. The poem
is a letter, broken into three segments, calling for those who are to follow, to
understand the challenges of humanity during the occupation of Nazi ruled
Germany, so that they can learn from the sufferings and work to build a society where people care for each other.
Brecht begins the first section of “To those Who Follow in Our Wake”
by describing the times, how those around him are disconnected with the
news./What times are these, in which/A conversation about trees is almost a
crime/For in doing so we maintain our silence about so much wrongdoing!”
He wants those who come after to know that the situation is grim, that to
even be doing something as simple as discussing a tree would be neglecting
those who are in need of eluding the Nazi, himself being one of those needing to do so. Feeling that he is failing in a greater call to duty he writes, “They
tell me: eat and drink. Be glad to be among the haves!/But how can I eat and
drink/When I take what I eat from the starving/And those who thirst do not
have my glass of water?/And yet I eat and drink” The opening section paints
a portrait that even with his understanding of the Nazi closing in around him;
he himself is unable to reach out to others.
The plight of man continues on into the second section as he describes humanity becoming filled with even more despair. He hopes the
reader will someday understand the reaches of the Nazi power as he is fleeing from country to country, being forced to do what is necessary to survive.
“I ate my food between slaughters./I laid down to sleep among murderers./I
tended to love with abandon./I looked upon nature with impatience./And so
passed/The time given to me on earth.” Brecht paints a portrait of being surrounded by evil, living with the unruly and doing whatever he can to keep
himself alive. As dark as the world is around him, he concludes the second
section with a tiny glimpse into the possibility of there being hope. “The
powers were so limited. The goal/Lay far in the distance/It could clearly be
seen although even I/Could hardly hope to reach it.” While the situation is
still dire, and obtaining the goal would be impossible for him to do alone, he
is acknowledging that society knows what it must do to end the genocide and
create peace.
The third and final section is all about resolution and asks the reader
to forgive those who used force in order for there to be peace and also asks
that we are able to look back at this unfortunate time and learn from the actions of those who were a part of it. If any good is to come from something
as despicable as the Holocaust, let it be that we learned to never allow it to
happen again. Again, in Horton’s translation, “Even anger against injustice/
Makes the voice grow hoarse. We/Who wished to lay the foundation for gentleness/Could not ourselves be gentle./But you, when at last the time comes/
That man can aid his fellow man,/Should think upon us/With leniency.”
While fleeing Nazi controlled Germany, Brecht took up safety in
Denmark, Sweden, Finland, and eventually applied for a visa for the United
States, all the while becoming a leading figure in Exilliteratur, a category of
books written against Nazi-Germany. After the war, he went on to become
an influential figure in the Theater, creating art that promoted socialist ideas
around people taking care of one another and educating people on the Nazi
PGR 249
While Lying on Death’s Bed
When power leads man toward arrogance, poetry reminds him of
his limitations. When power narrows the areas of man’s concern, poetry
reminds him of the richness and diversity of his existence. When power corrupts, poetry cleanses…
John F. Kennedy
PGR 250
Works Cited
“Bertolt Brecht.” Wikipedia. Wikimedia Foundation. Web. 21 Mar. 2012. <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bertolt_Brecht>.
BrainyQuote. Xplore. Web. 19 Mar. 2012. <http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/d/dalailama121172.html>.
Horton, Scott. “Brecht ‘To Those Who Follow in Our Wake’” Harper’s Magazine. Web. 20 Mar. 2012.
<http://harpers.org/archive/2008/01/hbc-90002129>.
“John F. Kennedy.” - Wikiquote. Web. 20 Mar. 2012. <http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/John_F._Kennedy>.
Appendix A
Interview
Angelika Frebert
Q1: I’d really like to hear what your interpretation is on “Charité”. After
researching Brecht, and reading your translation 10 or 20 times, the piece,
to me, signifies being at ease with death, and satisfied with what he accomplished in his life (Exilliteratur/Theater)
A1: To me it’s one sign that a poem is great when it allows different people
to read it differently. The way I see it, the poem describes a mental/emotional
development that Brecht went through culminating in a moment of enlightenment. He talks about 3 stages:
1) His fear of death
2) his state of mind after he had overcome his fear of death
3) the precise moment while he was in the hospital when he matured from somebody who feels joy subjectively to somebody who can appreciate a greater joy disconnected from his own life, his own ego.
To elaborate a bit about these three stages:
1) Brecht always expected to die young. You might know that he had a heart
condition (caused by rheumatic fever in his childhood)
2) At some point he got used to the idea of not living to ripe old age
3) Despite Brecht’s political views, as a person he was very selfish/self-cen
tered. He tells us in the poem that towards the end of his life, though, he
suddenly understood that he and his emotions were only a small, evanes
cent part of a greater whole.
So to me the poem is really about a moment of enlightenment occurring to
somebody who in all fairness up to this point could be described as a bit of
an arrogant bastard.
Q2: I’d also like to know what attracted you to Brecht. I enjoyed all three
pieces you submitted, but I was curious if there was any other factors that
made you choose the pieces you did.
A2: He was a very important figure as a playwright, director, and political activist. I thought the three pieces reflected nicely his personality as a
young man (Marie A.), middle aged (Those who Come After), and older man
(Charite).
PGR 251
regime.
Brecht, having lived his life in the midst of both World Wars, witnessed firsthand, the abuse of power, the corruption in society and ultimately
the despair, died two months after writing “Als ich in weissem Krankenzimmer der Charité”. Yet he was able to write the poem, and was able to die
feeling content with the life he had lived, feeling that there no more left for
him to achieve, because he had survived the Nazi and was able to use his gift
of writing poetry to make sense of the world and to reach out to those who
needed a voice and also to those who were to follow after him.
As for me, the meaningless job has been replaced by twenty two unit
semesters, a 3.7 GPA, and the excitement of attending a new school in the
fall. I can’t say I have yet fulfilled my hopes in this world. I’m still just starting out, about to step foot on new soil, but I am eager and accepting of the
fact that the dark times of despair can become the spark that catapults one
towards great things in life. After all, if Bertolt Brecht can overcome being
surrounded by genocide and go on to be an influencing figure, I can surely
overcome a few depressing years of uneventful work.
Q3: What part of the translation, would you say, is more about your style of
writing than a reflection of the literal translation of the original piece?
Q4: When you read the German version, what, if anything, got lost in translation that you struggled to put into words? Perhaps there is something that you
felt made the English version not flow as well as it does in German?
A4: “Amsel,” i.e. the Eurasian Blackbird is a much beloved bird in Europe,
a thrush not common in the US. So the English translation works well in the
UK, where people are familiar with (Eurasian) Blackbird song (Beatles!), but
not necessarily in the States. Blackbirds here are a different species, they
don’t sing as lovely.
“Da ja nichts mir je fehlen kann, vorausgesetzt Ich selber fehle” didn’t work
for as a more literal translation, so I translated more freely.
I had to defend “Now I was able to rejoice” against criticism that it was inconsistent. The class wanted me to change it to “now I am able to rejoice,”
which I could not accept. “Now” is a literal translation, and I feel it is important to keep it in English for how it precisely pin-points the moment in time,
while at the same time indicating that it will last. “Now = “Right then, and
from then on.” It is equally important to preserve the past tense in English in
order to keep the time line intact. Brecht is talking to us about his experience,
his moment of enlightenment in the past tense, i.e. after he’s released from
the Charite, which explains the conversational tone. I feel the message of the
poem is more interesting coming from somebody convalescing, somebody
suggesting he’ll be a better person from now on, then from somebody still ill
in the hospital fully expecting to die.
PGR 252
Q5: Anything about yourself that you feel is represented in “Marie/Charité”?
Anything about Brecht that may not have come across in the 2 poems that are
in this year’s PGR (Marie/Charité)?
A5: I share with Brecht an interest in Buddhism, which I detect in both poems.
Dead with Passion
by Lillian Berger
The Girl with the Golden Eyes
Honore de Balzac
translated by Carol Cosman
Hardcover price $34.95
P
assion, riches and adventure coax
the people in Paris to behave with a demeanor like no other place. Honore
de Balzac, author of The girl with the golden eyes, introduces the reader to
the “dreadful” Parisian face, which he infers to be a clear reflection of it’s
peoples’ horrible insides. There are two parts of this novella; the description
of Paris as a whole and a romance that follows. However, the two sections
do not seem to go hand in hand. The writing itself is witty; a clever mockery of the Parisian lifestyle is demonstrated-- yet this novella comes off a bit
choppy due to the polarized pieces of work. The same person writes these
stores, yet the genre itself seems to shift and it doesn’t present a fluid story.
It is explained that the haggard Parisian faces are due to the obsession for
passion and gold. As a result for the population’s greed, they inevitably die
off more quickly then anywhere else on the continent. The author explains
that it’s the poison that fills these people’s minds that make then so yellow
and gaunt looking. “No, not really faces, but masks: masks of weakness,
masks of strength, masks of wretchedness, masks of joy, masks of hypocrisy
all emaciated, all stamped with the indelible signs of a breathless greed”
(Balzac 1).
Honore de Balzac gives the reader an unfiltered representation of Parisian society. In The girl with the golden eyes, Balzac has the desire to make
Parisians sound quite awful and it’s entertaining to read this French novelist’s
harsh criticism of this sect of people. His work is written with such brilliant
dark humor that I had a hard time putting the book down. Balzac has something negative to say about everyone. “In Paris there are only two ages, youth
and decay” (Balzac 2), and essentially, they are both revolting. A mockery of
Parisians and Paris itself is present in the author’s ongoing dialogue of how
these haggard faces spend one day to the next in complaint and intoxication
(I took intoxication to mean more then alcohol, since there can also be in
PGR 253
A3: I try to stay as true to the original as possible, including word choice and
tone of voice. It isn’t always possible, as you can see in my next answer…
rather hasty to me. I far preferred the first section of the book, the compilation of the mockeries of the Parisian population, then the romance story
(which one would think would be the more interesting of the two).
The romance section begins with a beautiful man who becomes infatuated with a beautiful woman. They fall in love within pages and soon the reader
is introduces to a passion that sparks a desire to kill. The visuals were detailed
and captivating, yet it felt like there was so much happening so quickly. The
girl with the golden eyes is however the third part of a trilogy, called The Thirteen. I feel as though, if I had started the books from the beginning and not
the end, I would have perhaps gained further information that would have
made this part seem less choppy.
The girl with the golden eyes was well written but the novella seemed
to have two separate pieces of work included within it. Author, Honore de
Balzac has a fascinating voice, and his mockery of the Parisian people is hilarious but his novella jumped around in its structure. What was intended to
be an interlude into a story seems more like a completely different piece and
would be better off not coexisting with the same story.
Work Cited
Balzac, Honore de. The girl with the golden eyes. Translated by Carol
Cosman. New York: Carrol & Graf, 1998.
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“Preparers note.” The Girl With the Golden Eyes. 41 April. 2012 < http://
www.authorama.com/girl-with-golden-eyes-1.html>
Donte Tidwell
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toxication through passion and desire).
Balzac refers to Paris as an inferno. Four social classes make up this Parisian population. “First examine the class that has nothing,” (Balzac 4). The
worker is at the bottom of the food chain. It is explained that this man who
works hard should be the first to save his money, for himself and for his family. Yet he does not. He exploits his children and wife, making them work just
as hard as he. Then goes out late, greedy for pleasure, and throws his money
away. “They surrender to activities that make them twist and swell, grow thin
and pale, erupt in a thousand jets of creative effort” (Balzac 5). Now there
are those that do not gamble or drink away their money, but Honore makes
a point that they are not much better then the others. These are the few that
attend church and take care of their wife and children. Yet the author mocks
them none-the-less, for they are goody-goodies; they waste their time singing
in the choir and waking up early to go to the Opera. It is in fact a boring lifeor so Balzac so eagerly makes a point of stating. “He slips into the conjugal
bed, his imagination still captured by ephemeral visions of nymphs at the
Opera, and he turns the world’s depravities and la Taglioni’s voluptuous legs
to the profit of conjugal love” (Balzac 9). One cannot win with Honore de
Balzac, everyone is ridiculed.
Now the second class isn’t any better a the one underneath it, no one is
“better” than the other in fact- there is something very wrong with everyone
described. This next class is the wholesalers and civil servants. They work for
the third class- the upper class. The upper class doesn’t work hard at all and
spends way too much money on their children. The third class is the bankers,
lawyers, doctors and the manufacturers. They have no hearts, either that or
they leave them somewhere before going to work. “In the end, of necessity
they become cynical about all feeling, forced as they are by laws, men, and
institutions to hover like vultures over still-warm corpses” (Balzac 15).
“In Paris, vanity is the sum of all passions” (Balzac 17). And even the
fourth social sphere cannot escape this. The artist’s face is always wonderful but yet passion destroys them too. All people, in all classes are occupied
by the gain of pleasure. “This city with its diadem is a perpetually pregnant
queen who has irresistibly imperative desires” (Balzac 22).
The first section of the book concentrates on the description of the four
classes present in Paris. Following this long description of Parisian lifestyle,
the reader is introduced to a romance gone sour. I was forced to change gears
when getting to the part about the romance. I think that switching from a,
what seems like running dialogue of opinion, to a tail was confusing. Honore
de Balzac, though his intention was to prepare the reader for the personalities
present in his story, rushed a tie between the two and then sprung the meat
of the book (the romance) upon the reader. Even the romance itself seemed
by Lillian Berger
A critique of the poem, I See You, by Tawnya Sargent
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Do
you feel heard? Do you feel seen, understood and cherished? Growing up, every child deserves to feel this way. “I See You” is a
representation of the affections that a child deserves to experience in relation to their parents. “I see you” is the message that is relayed throughout
the poem, and each stanza, the reader gains more understanding of what
those words mean- what they entail. The child is being seen by her guardian;
acknowledged and valued for who she is. The little girl in this poem has the
opportunity to feel held both physically and emotionally. Because this support is present in her life, she feels safe to explore life without hesitation. The
love that she feels brings her into existence.
I find it rare to have a relationship that is so centered on love, such as
the relationship demonstrated in this poem. At the beginning of each stanza
the words, “I see you” are written and what follows is a representation of
those words. In the first stanza, the reader is introduced to a connection
between two individuals. It’s evident that the elder, the speaker, feels for the
other- a small person. We do not know yet, the sex of the two people or how
they ended up in each other’s lives. The child is glowing and free “you smiled
with the sincerity of a child still rich with the omniscience of angels.” The
speaker wishes to protect this child as he/she holds it’s hand. The last phrase
is “hold your hand and cry for you.” This shows the deep connection between
the two of them. In the close relationships that I have, I feel that sometimes
my tears are not my own, that I am feeling them from my loved one and releasing it for them. Parents do this sometimes; take on the guilt, sadness, and
fear onto themselves in hopes of protecting their child. This also gives the
child permission to access their own feelings without feeling burdened by
their elders to feel or act in a certain way.
In the following stanza, the child is being tucked in bed at night and
read a story. The guardian is watching as the child giggles and the characters from the story come alive in his/her imagination. Now it is said that the
speaker wants to protect the child, this was only implied in the first stanzathis detail shows fluidity from one stanza to the next. The second closes with,
“I tuck you into bed and cry for you.” At this point in the poem, the reader
sees that all the parent wants for the child is to experience joy. Perhaps the
caretaker is not blood related and has taken on the parent role in order to
protect the child.
The child grows older as the poem continues to develop. The reader
finds that the child is a lovely girl. The parent watches the child as she flirts
with a boy at the playground. The boy tugs the girl’s dark ponytail and she
gives the boy a look of disapproval. The visual that is displayed here is very
accurate for children; the awkward interaction and intrigue. The parent is
watching from a far, “I watch you glance back at him with shy interest.”
As I read this part in the poem, I can clearly see the little girls’ face as she
turns to look at the boy in a disapproving manor. I imagine the parent at this
point, letting his/her daughter find her own way and make her own decisions regarding this new being that she was interacting with. The little boy
apologized and the girl said “that’s ok.” The parent’s voice in this poem explains that he/she wanted the child to experience a crush and to experience
self-recognition and discovery. The parent wanted his/her child to feel and
experience and learn about the world. It is shown that the parent only wants
the best for his/her child; doesn’t want the child to feel pain- “I pick you up
and cry for you.”
I imagined from the first stanza that the parent figure speaking was a
male. After the last stanza this became clearer to me. “I held you safe with
the strong arms of a worthy father.” The father figure wants to protect his little
girl. He watched her grow and adores her every step of the way. I imagine
him being an only father the way my dad was, parenting the child on his
own. Because of my relationship with him, I understand the poem on a deep
level. My dad loved to hear me laugh and let me experience life yet held me
close. The fourth stanza depicts and even older age for the little girl. She has
friends over and is playing dress up- the girls run around, adorned in princess
attire imagining “a far away land” with castles and grand balls. The father that
I imagine, plays along with them and lets them take their strawberry jam and
biscuits from the table to play upstairs. The child throughout the poem has
not cried, she is happy and carefree, while the father says to himself “I call
you near and cry for you.”
At this point in the poem, I have found myself tearing up. The bond
between the two of them is precious. The little girl is the father’s everything
and every day is a miracle. So far there has been non-verbal communication
between the two of them and yet it feels as though they have had a dialogue
throughout the poem. The last stanza states, “I heard your words and embraced you wholly.” This wraps everything up because until now the parent
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You Deserve this Love
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Work Cited
Jones, Shari. Ezine @rticles. The Effects of the Father Daughter relationship on Self Esteem – From First Love to Self Love. 22 April, 2009. <http://
ezinearticles.com/?The-Effects-of-the-Father-Daughter-Relationship-on-SelfEsteem---From-First-Love-to-Self-Love&id=2257501>.
Sawubona! 5 August, 2002. <http://www.newt.clara.co.uk/isizulu/sawubona.htm>.
Life on the Border
by Bryan French
“Nowhere else do so many millions of people from two so dissimilar
nations live in such close proximity and interact with each other so intensely”
The Wind Doesn’t Need a Passport
Tyche Hendricks
Hardcover price $18.95
The book “The wind doesn’t need a passport, stories from the U.S.-Mexico borderlands” is a collection of true short stories detailing the lives of several different people all living on the U.S.-Mexico border. Written by lecturer
at the Berkeley University of journalism, Tyche Hendricks, the book takes a
close look into the lives of several people living on either side of the border
and the challenges they are facing. She follows the lives of Maribel Saenz,
a teenage hispanic girl who lives close to the border in south Texas, Maria
de la luz Modesto, the wife of a maquiladora worker, and Char Taylor, the
wife of a maquiladora factory manager, who live on opposite sides of the
Rio Grande. She also follows the lives of Lawrence Hurt and his brothers on
their cattle ranch in southeast New Mexico, Dr. Enrique Contreras, a mexican
physician in Nogales, Sonora right by the border, Harriet Toro, Tribal leader
of the O’odham indians who’s reservation lies right on the border, Bill Powers, a San Diego engineer, Britt Craig, a “minuteman” guarding the border in
Jacumba, California, and finally a Tijuanan man named Augustine Bravo who
is a former drug runner and methamphetamine addict turned counselor at a
drug rehabilitation center. Hendricks main argument throughout the book is
that the border region of U.S. and Mexico is almost a country of its own and
the people living there go back and forth across the border all the time for
work, vacations, and visiting relatives.
Hendricks writing style is very informative and for the most part impartial in expressing the opinions of everyone she interviewed over the issues
of illegal immigration, drug cartels and how the U.S. government is responding to these issues. Hendricks argues that the U.S. immigration policy isn’t
helping much to deter illegal immigration and in turn is taking up resources
that should be going towards enforcing more serious crimes like drugs and
human trafficking. The stories I found the most interesting were that of the
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has been listening without words. He has watched her grow and listened
to the non-verbal expression. Another detail is displayed; “I held you safe
with the strong arms of a worthy father.” This is what I thought from the beginning and I feel that the poet did an excellent job at expressing the inner
strength that a father holds. He listens wholly and holds his daughter close
telling her that everything will be all right; wrapping her “close until the
trembling stopped and all you had left was the grace of who you are and who
you will always be to me.” He laid out a gentle world for her so that she can
flourish. But at some point the child does face the hardships of the world and
her dad is there to hold her. He was and will always be there. She doesn’t cry.
He cries for her because she deserves it.
If you were to ask a woman who the first man she loved was, the answer would most often be, her father. As a baby, you enter this world in need
of a warm human bond. If the father was absent at birth, the arms of your
father are the first male arms to hold you and “though you were just an infant,
the bond between you and your father began to develop” (Ezine @rticles). I
See You holds true to this bond and shows how important a father/daughter
relationship is; how crucial a safe, loving bringing up is for a child.
This poem envelops the love that exists between this father and
daughter and the love that exists between other parent and child relationships as well. The writing is descriptive and clear. The voice is strong. The
journey that is presented is a beautiful one. The child is seen; she is heard
and accepted fully for who she is. In South Africa, “Sawubona” is a common
greeting among tribes. This literally means, “I See you,” as to state that you
are respected and acknowledged. “Sik’bona” is what is returned, and this is
translated to, “I am here,” which is to say- when you see me, I am brought
into existence. This poem demonstrates this special exchange between two
people. I See You brings the reader close because of the genuine look at this
parent-child relationship.
Britt Craig was a fifty-six year old Vietnam veteran living in St. Augustine, Florida when he joined the Minuteman patrolling the U.S.-Mexican
border in Jacumba, California over two thousand five hundred miles away.
The Minutemen believe that the border needs to be protected and the border patrol isn’t doing a good enough job of keeping illegal immigrants and
criminals out. Craig claims that the Minuteman are protecting the United
States from drug smugglers and felons but he also mentions that these illegal
immigrants come into our country and don’t ever assimilate “I know one guy
up here who’s been in the country for twenty-five years and doesn’t speak
any english” implying that immigrants from Mexico who come to the United
States are just taking advantage of our relative prosperity and never become
actual citizens who drive the economy. Hendricks included Britt Craigs story
to show the other side of the argument and the people who are in favor
of closing down the border. The Minuteman and other militia groups carry
heavy firearms and there have been incidents of assault, illegal confinement,
and intimidation. In affect these people are are making it difficult for the
people who live on the border and part of there way of life is to cross back
and forth across the border everyday.
Hendricks ends the book coming to the conclusion that although the
border appears to be just a line on a map or where one country ends and
another one begins, in reality its much more like a hybrid of both countries.
The region itself is home to millions of people on both sides who cross over
everyday for work, to go to school, to visit friends and family, or enjoy the
night life of either side depending on which side you live on. She also points
out that the U.S. government is fighting a losing battle with trying to turn
the country into a fortress because not only is not economically feasible,
but also contradicts what becoming an increasingly open world. She also
explains that the only way to solve this problem is a joint effort by both
governments to reduce the need for immigrants to find employment here by
strengthening Mexico’s economy. Ultimately, Hendricks makes the point that
if the U.S. government would just adopt a policy that reflected the way of life
for the border dwellers then most of the illegal immigration problems would
be solved and we could focus on bigger problems like cartels, pollution, and
the economy.
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O’odham tribe, the former drug mule Augustine Bravo, and Minuteman
Britt Craig.
Harriet Toro’s story is the most fascinating because the O’odham
tribe has been in the same spot for thousands of years, southern Arizona
right on the border, and part of there culture and way of life was to migrate
back and forth through the cycles of winter and summer long before the border was established. The problem Harriet Toro and the rest of the O’odham
people are facing is the encroachment of non-indians onto their land, theft
connected to illegal aliens, the increase in drug cartel violence that plagues
almost all settlements on the border, and the United States immigration policy. Toro tells stories of illegal immigrants breaking into people’s homes and
drug cartels recruiting children with great amounts of money or drugs. The
immigration policy of erecting a giant metal fence across the border cuts off
many O’odham with family members on either side of the border. Also, the
fence caused a loss of rituals like migrating with the seasons or pilgrimages to
ancient tribal burial grounds the loss of culture for the O’odham people has
caused many to develop diabetes and other health problems related to eating
processed foods from not being able to subsist on what they can grow all year
round.
Augustine Bravo, a twenty-eight year old recovering crystal meth addict, started running drugs for cartel bosses when he was still a teenager after
he was recruited by his girlfriends father living in southern Sonora. Pretty
soon Bravo was moving half a ton to a ton of marijuana at once to and from
Tijuana for his bosses. He describes the
feeling of invincibility from making money, getting high, and carrying a
pistol. After awhile he needed more money and more drugs to sustain his
lifestyle and addiction so he decided to start smuggling crystal meth across
the border into the United States and on his fifth run he was caught by border
police. He spent eight months in the San Diego county jail before returning
to Tijuana and went back to his criminal ways, stealing to fuel his addiction, where he ended up a bum sleeping under bridges and eating out of
trash cans. Eventually he was found by his family and taken to the Tesoros Escondidos rehabilitation center where he would eventually become a
resident counselor. Hendricks added Augustine Bravo’s story to the illustrate
the growing problem the drug trade is causing for the civilians of Mexico.
For example, how ordinary citizens are forced into becoming drug mules
to support their families or threatened into the business by cartels. Also, the
interdependent relationship between the Mexican drug trade into the United
States and the gun smuggling rings from the U.S. into Mexico, the United
States consumes the drugs and Mexican drug cartels receive the weapons to
enforce there empire.
Bleeding America
Voting season always seems to come around so fast and then suddenly
you’re either “Stuck” with a president you really dislike or your candidate
wins and you go through the next four years hoping the president lives up to
your expectations. Instead of hoping for the change you want, maybe you
should go after every angle and make them happen. To do so you must first
understand every aspect of the voting process, including Republicanism
in the South. Painting Dixie Red (PDR): When, Where, Why, and How the
South became Republican, edited by Glenn Feldman, is an intellectually
engaging book focusing on the politics in the Southern United States. This
book was carefully written in order to appeal to many audiences, including those who aren’t as politically friendly. For those who feel as though
politics are hard to learn about, or “boring”, should consider picking up
this particular book because it is an easy read that you won’t want to put
down. You will learn enough about southern politics to where you will have
the ability to relate it back to your own personal views and enhance your
knowledge on the reasoning behind Southern Republicanism.
Feldman did a really great job in remaining neutral, which I find important because the point of reading the book is to understand how Southern
Republicanism came to be, not to learn about how someone thinks it became to be. The book pulls in statistics and events from the present, but
mainly focuses on the past in order to give us a better understanding of the
different patterns of political views in the U.S. Generally every U.S. citizen
knows that republicanism is a main view in the Southern States. However
a majority of citizens will not know why this has come to be, which is
ironic because according to remussen reports in 2012 at least 36.4% of
Americans claim to consider themselves republicans. This statistic makes
Republicanism the main political view beating out democrats by about 3%.
Feldman had the intention of spreading more awareness around to
southern republicanism, and highly succeeded in doing so. There are so
many political issues that are going on everywhere around the world, so
why focus on Southern Republicanism? Why not just say it is because it
is? The fact that this question is asked shows just how much we needed
a book like this. After asking five Cabrillo College students (ages 18-22)
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By Lauren Coffelt
Painting Dixie Red: When, Where, Whe, and How the South Became
Republican
Glenn Feldman
Painting Dixie Red is great for anyone who wishes to have a better understanding of politics. Having taken a political science class myself, the
book creates an interest while giving you a better understanding of the effect of a republican government. If you want a fresh spin on politics, this is
the book for you. I personally would only recommend this book to people
who have an interest in politics or to students needing a way to learn more,
I found it very intriguing and capturing, but that is because I found the subject extremely interesting.
Works Cited Page:
Ramussenreports.com (democrat/ republican stats)
Republicanpresidents.net
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Cancel Your Plans
By Aubrey Alvarenga
Earth: The Operators’ Manual
Richard Alley
How many books does someone read in a lifetime? In a 2007 Associated Press-Ipsos Poll, the average American read only 6 books per year.
The American Library Association estimates about 120,000 libraries nationwide to house the books our country has to offer; it is very important for a
book to do its’ job. Therefore, authors must intrigue, captivate, and educate
its reader in order to join that privileged list of 6. Richard Alley successfully achieves a very informative and captivating book for all audiences in,
Earth: The Operators’ Manual. Through light diction, well-supported ideas,
and multiple perspectives Alley writes a book explaining the expected outcomes caused by global warming and different countries involvement and
what can be done. If we read only 6 books, this one should be mandatory
because Alley uses different perspectives and tactics to inform our reader
of a very possible grim future.
Alley recognizes that in order to make a connection with his audience, by beginning with his own background. He is an American Geologist and Evan Pugh professor of Geoscience at the Pennsylvania State
University authoring more than 170 referred scientific publications about
earth’s cryosphere and global climate change. He had previously worked
for an oil company, which grants him an insider’s scoop which he references throughout the publication. He also adds that in 2003 he was invited
to speak alongside Al Gore regarding global warming. Alley’s impressive
background only helps his book’s thesis. By providing a grounded history
of himself and his achievements he is able to establish his credentials.
In addition to his background, Alley incorporates multiple perspectives of global warming. He compares different countries usages of energy and fossil fuels. He describes China’s fast growing energy-dependent
populations along side the United State’s mass consumption of fossil fuels
with earth’s natural availability. By putting real trends into perspective, it
becomes apparent that our resources are not investments but debts. Fortunately, instead of simply using scare tactics to persuade the reader, Alley is
a little more sophisticated. He thoroughly reviews the entire realm of possibilities. He presents the positive outcomes of burning fossil fuels as well as
the well-known negatives while he adds his own opinion. Through this tri-
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three admitted to knowing nothing about Southern Republicanism and the
other two only knew that Republicanism was strong in the South, but were
ignorant to why. It is extremely important to know why the South leans towards republicanism, mainly, and obviously, because if the South weren’t
Republican voting results would be completely different (we’ve only had
18 republican presidents!).
The book is split up into three sections, starting with Part 1, which focuses on religion and partisan realignment, stating facts such as “in the election of 1980, Reagan carried 67% of the white evangelical vote…” (P30)
demonstrating the effect religion has on the election process. A president
needs to try to make himself appeal to everyone and Reagan, a republican
candidate/president, succeeded in doing so (at least in the beginning). Part
two talks about state, section, suburb, and race. In the first chapter of part
2 it states how Republicanism had increased, in Georgia, since World War
two had ended. Finally, part 3 draws attention to economics faction and
neo-confederacy, going deep into southern policies, strategies, and civil
rights affairs.
of 6 books read per year. Earth is the planet we live in and share. Alley has
made is apparent if we wish to stay, we must offer earth help in return.
Works Cited
Alley, Richard. Earth: The Operators’ Manual. N.p.: W.W. Norton &
Company, 2011. Print.
Ipsos Public Affairs, PROJECT #81-5681-13. N.p., 6 Aug. 2007. Web.
23 Apr. 2012. <http://surveys.ap.org/data/Ipsos/national/2007-08-09%20
AP%20Book%20Topline.pdf>.
American Library Association. Number of Libraries in the United States.
N.p., 4 Mar. 2009. Web. 23 Apr. 2012. <http://www.ala.org/tools/libfactsheets/alalibraryfactsheet01>.
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perspective, the reader is able to not only receive his statements but instead
have the option to choose based on his evidence and examples. Grounding
his work even further, is Alley’s ability to eliminate any bias persuasion. This
assists his writing because the audience then does not discredit his work as
blindsided. He is able to weigh both pros and cons of energy usage with
logic and science rather than personal opinion. Alley also incorporates science into his thesis by explaining the chemical structures of the atmosphere
and plants, comparing the current statistics with the past, and also explaining how to witness this for oneself. By comparing countries and scientific
facts he then moves to a more crucial source of contribution, the government.
For example, he explains how the government has already prepared
itself to be more energy efficient in the military and how they have been
working very hard towards energy alternatives. In support, he references
the Pentagon’s address about the importance of our climate and its effect
on a national scale, “Climate change, energy security, and economic stability are inextricably linked”. By providing the government’s opinion, he has
created a serious tone that institutes the importance of our climate situation.
Next, as a result from all the outcomes and consequences from our
current energy trends, Richard Alley offers solutions and social change to
accommodate our sick earth. Traditional solutions such as wind and water
turbines, solar power, florescent lights are mentioned along with the downsides. However, Alley also introduces social change as a necessity in an
effort to save our ill planet.
Lastly, Alley makes his the book to read because of his diction.
Though some books may be elevated highly in diction, the words get lost in
translation to some people. Not most people aren’t neurologists, archaeologists, lawyers, geologists, etc.. Alley recognizes a lot of the general public
become uninformed about current events not simply because they choose
to but because it isn’t readily available to them in a language an average
person can understand. In this case, Alley has eliminated this outcome. He
managed to condense a geological perspective in a form most audiences
can comprehend.
To conclude, Richard Alley has created a very informative novel on
our shared planet. He has done so by using ethical reasoning and logistics.
He has made his novel open to the general public by making it easier to
read in a language most people can follow. Due to his extensive credentials
and knowledge of the topic he is able to be trusted while he continues with
his thesis. Because of this, Alley has created a novel worthy of being 1 out
Donte Tidwell
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Ralph Cardoza
Jana Leo’s memoir, Rape of New York
The Feminist Press
Home is viewed as a place of safety and serenity, a place of love
and peace. A place where one can let their guard down. You come home
after a long day at work with groceries you found the energy to buy on your
way home. You carry two heavy armloads from the car to your front door
and set them down as you fumble for your keys. Suddenly you are grabbed
from behind and a gun is placed against your temple. An unfamiliar voice
commands you to go inside. Immediately your mind begins to race, what
could they want? money? your life? or something more? This was much
the situation that Jana Leo, author of the memoir “Rape New York,” found
herself in, on the 25th of January in 2001. She was sexually assaulted in her
own home by a man she did not know. This event changed the way she
viewed her home and the complacency that the familiar surroundings had
instilled in her. Through repetition and the safety that home represents one
fails to be as vigilant as they should be.
Jana’s story begins with a move from Princeton University to New
York. She had just graduated from Princeton’s School of Architecture and
was set to begin working and studying at Columbia University. After a trip
to New York to hunt for housing, Jana and her boyfriend, identified only
as “A”, went to Greece for a much needed vacation. While in Greece Jena
was involved in a motorcycle accident that left her with a serious laceration on her abdomen and a broken clavicle bone. After surgery and some
time healing Jana finished her move to New York and met up with “A” who
had left a short time before she did. Short on money and desperate to find
a place of their own, Jana and “A” begin looking at places in Harlem and
finally settled on an apartment on West 129th Street. They willingly moved
into an area known for crime and even convinced themselves that they
were safe there after a time. This feeling of safety was misleading, as crime
is indiscriminant in who it touches.
This section of Harlem is covered by the police officers in the 26th precinct, the same ones who took Jena’s story and took her to the hospital to
have a rape kit done. In the year 2001 the 26th precinct took a combined
total 945 reports of the seven major felonies, murder, rape, robbery, felony
assault, burglary, grand larceny, and grand larceny of a motor vehicle (The
City of New York). Of these only nine were rapes, or 0.95 percent. With
the percentage what it is, it is understandable that Jena felt safe in her own
home. Having lived there for months with no trouble put the danger of her
soundings out of mind. Even though the locks on both the front door to the
building and the door to the roof were broken, allowing criminals to pass
freely through the building as they pleased, the space that Jena and “A” had
made home felt safe. They asked the manager to fix the locks from time to
time, but the rituals of daily life washed the fears of the world way. Even
after “A” was required to return to his homeland of Spain for a extended period of time to retain his citizenship, Jena found the space home. She took
a roommate only to afford the rent, not because she felt she needed another
person in the place to be safe. The crime committed against her happened
in “a place of safety, intimacy, and joy.” The familiarity of her surroundings
did little to protect her regardless of how she felt.
After the attack Jana felt completely displaced, and was fearful for her
life. The place that she had associated with safety and love now represented
a dark and painful experience that she would continue to struggle with for
years. Regardless of that Jana returned to the apartment and stayed there
for the next three days, leaving only to visit the 26th precinct to look at
mug shots and surveillance videos in an unsuccessful attempt to identify
the person that raped her. After those three days one of Jana’s friends convinced her that the apartment was not a safe place to stay, so Jana packed a
number of her belongings and went to stay with “A”’s brother in the Upper
West Side. She stayed with him for the next two months and then went to
live nearby with another friend identified only as “L.” The plethora of emotions and thoughts Jana felt is common of victims of traumatic crimes, such
as rape and assault. The National Center for Victims of Crime states that
“Frequent responses to a criminal victimization include, but are not limited
to: shock; numbness; denial; disbelief; anger; and, finally, recovery” (The
National Center for Victims of Crime). Jana experienced many of these responses herself. Another thing that The National Center for Victims of Crime
discusses that affected Jana was her interaction with the justice system.
“Perhaps the most agonizing experience for victims involves dealing with
the criminal justice system if and when an offender is apprehended” (The
National Center for Victims of Crime) and for Jana this rings true.
In the summer of 2003, two years after the rape, the detective in charge
of Jana’s case contacted her with the information that her attacker had been
apprehended in relation to a shooting. When processing the perpetrator
DNA was taken from him and ran against a database of samples from cold
cases in the greater New York area. His DNA matched not only the samples
taken for Jana’s case but also those from another rape that remained un-
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Home is Where the Threat is
solved. It took Jana a year to decide to press charges, and joined her case
with the other rape victims. The Grand Jury heard her case on the 21st of
December, 2004. The months passed very slowly as Jana waited to hear
the Grand Jury’s decision. The date of the trial was finally set, for the 22nd
of April in 2005. The rapist pleaded guilty to both charges of rape and was
sentenced shortly thereafter ending the criminal side of her legal battle. The
civil case against her landlord took much longer however. It was filled in
2001 and took until 2006 to get settled out of court. Shortly after settling
the case brought against him by Jana, her landlord was cited for countless
code violations and sentenced to over 30 months in jail.
Jana’s story is one of tragedy and the will to overcome this tragedy. It reminds us that no one is impervious to crime, and it can happen anywhere.
It tells us to be wary of forgetting to be vigilant especially in places we frequent as they cause us to feel safe. Most of all it leaves us with an idea of
the true strength of the human spirit. Jana shows us this strength by sharing
her tale with us, so that we may learn from it, and to uplift those who are
facing the opposition life places before them.
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Work Cited
The City of New York. “NYPD - Office of the Chief of Department.”
Chief of Department. The City of New York.
NYPD - Office of the <http://www.nyc.gov/html/nypd/html/
Web. 20 May 2012.
crime_prevention/crime_statistics.shtml>.
“The National Center for Victims of Crime - Library/Document Viewer.”
The National Center for Victims of Crime - Library/Document
Viewer. The National Center for
Victims of Crime. Web. 20
May 2012.
<http://
www.ncvc.org/ncvc/main.aspx?dbName=DocumentViewer>.
PGR 272
A critique of Fernando Gonzales’ Clovers and Blue Moons
Whether you call her mom, mommy, or momma, your mother plays
a huge role in shaping the person you become. Your mother is the first
person to hold you; in fact she carries you for nine months. She feeds your
first meals, protects you from the world until you can face it, and finally
sacrifices of her own body to bring you into the physical realm. So the loss
of this giving nurturer is a hard event to cope with. The short story “Clovers
and Blue Moons” tackles this loss in an imaginative and touching way. In
the story a boy tries desperately to catch the moon in hopes of using it to
help his sick mother. Having lost my own mother as a young child, the
hope of some chance of magic, like the moon, healing her, rings painfully
true. You create worlds in your mind where you stop the sickness, or where
your mother never gets sick in the first place. However these worlds exist
only in your head, and come crashing down as the reality of the loss sets in.
The story closes with the line “The boy walked outside and sat on the edge
of the porch, in the distance, he could see a great storm cloud gathering
over the mountains.” This again rings true, as it foreshadows the difficulty
to come as the boy adjusts to life without a maternal influence. This story
captures the emotional roller coaster that losing one’s mother at a young
age puts you on.
The story opens by explaining the boy’s fixation with the moon.
“When his grandpa would come visit, he would sit the boy on his lap, and
tell him the story of the man in the rocket that captured the moon, and how
that man lived forever.” This line turns the moon into a form of magic that
sustains life. We learn shortly after the introduction of the moon that the
boy’s mother is really sick and that there is very little hope of her getting
well again. The boy then tries a myriad of different ways to catch the moon
in hopes of healing his mother. This complete faith in an unlikely form of
healing is as touching and sad as the likelyhood of it actually working. His
belief in a magical moon also mirrors one of the attitudes that young children dealing with sick parents take on; that caring for their sick parent is
their responsibility. I remember doing whatever little a five year old could
do when my mother first started to get sick, and longing to be able to do
more.
As the story progresses the boy finds himself unable to capture the
moon. “He tried over and over to reach the moon but it was too far away,
so he sat on the edge of the trampoline, sniffling.” His determination is not
broken by this though, as returns to the field the next night to ponder how
to net his elusive pray. His determination in his goal once again acts as a
mirror to the emotionally elicited response a child might have in a similar
situation. When my mother was admitted to the hospital it was in a wing
of the hospital that did not allow children. My younger siblings and I were
prohibited from seeing our mother when we wanted to see her the most.
We would beg and pled to be permitted to see her, but our cries would fall
on deaf ears. This did little to break our resolve, as we were adamant in our
position. Just as the boy in the story is eventually successful in capturing
the moon, I was eventually successful in seeing my mother in the hospital.
Like the boy in the story however, the reality of the situation and what I had
hoped for were to very different things.
“The boy’s mother opened her eyes and smiled at the boy. They
gleamed in the dim lit room, their
auburn haze welcoming yet distant,
glossy with the ominous coming of
tears. She held him close and told him
he had made her very happy and that
she loved him and would always be
there to talk to him, then she fell asleep
again, and didn’t wake up.” This passage is hauntingly beautiful in its subtle
pronouncement of the failure of magic.
Reality swoops in to rip away the walls
of belief that the boy has built around
himself. I had hoped, in a similar fashion that my visit to my mother would have some kind of magical power to
it, that would help her get better and bring her home to my siblings and I.
As I entered her room I knew that this would not be the case. My mother
was a shell of her former self, mind and body ravaged by her cancer. She
was unable to speak to me, and some days I question whether or not she
even knew I was there. To see her lying there, in all her frailty was reality
sinking it lustful fangs into my hope, into my magic. I knew then that there
would be no joyful return.
“Clovers and Blue Moons” is a powerful story. It commands an
emotional response from the reader that genuine. The ride that it takes you
on is one of truth. It is relatable even if you have never lost a parent. The
language plucks the heart strings like a harpist plucks a cord. Through the
use of the view point of a child a morbid topic takes on a tragic beauty. It is
even more so for someone who has felt the kind of loss the story describes.
The boy, through his actions and determination, takes you by the hand and
leads you through his emotional ride, one that mirrors the reality that a loss
of that magnitude puts one through.
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Momma, Where Ya Gone?
frozenfix.blogspot.com/2010-010_04_01_archive.html
Donte Tidwell
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