PGR 53
PGR 52
Porter Gulch Review | 2011
PORTER GULCH REVIEW 2011
Kevin Krugel
Introduction
Welcome to the 26th Anniversary Edition of Porter Gulch Review!
Come and embark on a literary adventure! Join us in a journey through the sea of poetry,
art prose, and screenplays, which embody the spirit of Santa Cruz and its local artists.
This year’s English 1B class, led by David Sullivan, carefully looked over and selected each
of these pieces to create a diverse anthology of writing and artwork. It was a long and
demanding process, but we whittled it down, and we are proud to present our favorites to
you and we hope you enjoy what we have chosen!
A big thanks to everyone, those who submitted their writing and artwork, as well as to
the production crew for working hard and editing all the manuscripts. Congratulations to
those who have been published in this year’s PGR.
Here’s your chance! Create any of the following: short stories, screenplays, poems,
paintings, drawings, photographs, or any other idea you can transfer to paper. Keep
written pieces under 5,000 words each. Submit up to five poems or two short stories.
Submit your work ELECTRONICALLY before December 1st, 2011. Please EMAIL all
submissions WITH names on them, and short, playful bios—in the body of an email and
as RTF (Rich Text File) attachments to PGR@cabrillo.edu. Please make sure your
subject heading states it is a PGR submission for 2012. Then email a donation ($5.00
suggested, more accepted!) to PGR, Cabrillo College, 6500 Soquel Dr. Aptos, CA 95003.
Virginia Draper
AND THE WINNER IS...
For Best Poets: Lisa Simon and Eden White
For Best Prose Writer: Helene Simkin Jara
For Best Photographers: Virginia Draper and Angelica Sarkisyan
For Best Graphic Artist: Kim Stirling and Stacy Frank
Virginia Draper
THE STAFF: Atar Barkai, Gabriella Bedolla, Christopher Camp, Shane Carle, Nancy
Garcia, Cody Gilbert, Fernando Gonzalez, Kayla Heidelbach, Mariah Hum, Emma
Kitzmiller, Amber Marini, Robin Marks, Shannon Marsh, Evan McAndrews, Bailey
McCann, Lauren McCann, Julia McCartney, Roderick Moreland, James Ohare, Velvet
Reitan, Heather Richard, Rachel Rose, Mark Shisler, Alexis Sicairos, Chelsey Sittner,
La’akea “Sky” Smith, Zachery Smith, Suryel Vazquez.
PRODUCTION CREW: Fernando Gonzalez, Shannon Marsh, Evan McAndrews,
Bailey McCann (cover design), Roderick Moreland, Rachel Rose, Chelsey Sittner.
TO HELP OUT NEXT YEAR
To participate next year, take the special section of 1B, Porter Gulch Review, next Spring,
or contact David Sullivan, dasulliv@cabrillo.edu, to do an independent study and work on
the production aspect of the Review. See ya there!
APOLOGIES: To Kevin Krugel, who did all inside art formerlly labeled as KOAK’s!
PGR 4
Contents
An Artist’s ObligationPhilip Wagner9
A Quick Stop at the Natural Life Aquarium Robert S. Pesich 10
CondomnationKierstin Bridger
12
The Boys ClubPhilip Wagner14
Darcy
Pam Davenport15
Wintergreen
Janet Trenchard
16
Autumn SonnetJohn Louis Koenig
19
To Charles* Manfred Luedge 20
The Short ManJeanne Althouse
21
Death and Sex
Philip Wagner 26
Confession Maggie Paul28
AutopoesisLen Anderson29
Shattered J. Zimmerman30
The Side DishGeneffa Jonker31
Daddy’s Little Boy Halona K. Zuck 32
Jasmine fills the air
Julia Alter 34
MidwinterRosie King35
Fall into Winter Laura Young36
Shapeshifting down Highway 1
Susan Freeman
37
Four Hubcaps & A Prayer Dane Cervine
38
Bang it, Baby Janet Trenchard
39
Country of Unknown Origin Myla Stauber
40
It takes a calm night
Lucas Narayan-Burns49
Another Round Robert Nielsen50
Murphy
Richard P. Guthrie
52
Doors Maggie Paul55
Ventanas (Windows)Sofía Rodríguez56
A Day in BaliDan Phillips60
Thin AirEden White61
Rose ParadeVinnie Hansen62
PGR 5
Anne Clements
I Was a Good Little Christian Soldier Melinda Rice 68
Nadezhda Memorizing Mandelstam’s Poems Muriel Weinstein
70
The Point Maggie Paul71
Safe Timer Erhan Ethem72
Dog Door to Heaven Robert Sward
81
I’m Having a Rough Time Getting Started Melinda Rice 82
An Ansel Moment Joyce Johnson
83
Carmel Hill, 2010 George Lober86
Summer MorningFarnaz Fatemi87
On My Husband’s 70th Birthday Barbara Leon
88
Encounter Melinda Rice89
As We All Are Ashlyn Schehrer
90
Blue Whale Joanna Martin92
Golden DragonDane Cervine93
Silvester Bay Storm Marcy Alancraig 94
Kitchen Madonna Julia Alter
96
Tulips Joyce Johnson97
Wild Poppies Marie Boucher98
Zoos are BoringJan Zivic99
Annie’s Wisdom? Sandra Schubert
100
Satan’s Corner Adela Najarro102
Vat Means Rad?Helene Jara103
Strange Wind Janet Trenchard
106
On Neruda Maggie Paul107
A Change of Heart Marianne C. Naegele 108
The Drowning Angels
Hyland Stevens
112
Ode to a WaspBeth Pettinger116
Objets D’ArtHelene Simkin Jara
117
In Concert Debra Spencer124
SirenLisa Simon126
It Will Happen
Adela Najarro
127
First Poetry TeacherKen Weisner128
Peripherals and Instincts Tony Purtscher 130
I Once Heard You Speak in Spanish Phillip Ramos
132
Jazzed Rosie King 134
Summer, 2008Shaun Malloy135
Love the Words While They Last Donna Becker
136
Extinction Phillip Ramos138
Global Warming according to Genesis David Thorn
139
Dios Mio, Skin and Tequila
Adela Najarro
140
Open CaseRobert S. Pesich 141
Author and Artist Bios143
Table of Contents for Book Reviews by 1B class members 153
as well as Submission Critiques by 1B class members
Contents
Sage Melcer
PGR 7
PGR 6
Sara Friedlander
KOAK Cover
Kevin Krugel 1, 11, 49, 63, 67, 116
Virginia Draper
2, 3, 38
Anne Clements
4, 18, 19, 45, 109
Sage Melcer
7
Peggy Hansen 8, 48, 70, 137, 149
Bill Clark
12, 14, 23, 33, 55, 58, 59, 79, 86, 112
Didi Fitzgerald
16
Angelica Sakisyan 20, 26, 27, 39, 99, 103, 125
Alissa Goldring
28, 29, 107, 110, 132, 133, 141
Sara Friedlander 6, 30, 56, 60, 129, 134
Diane Jacobs 31
Kim Stirling
34, 72, 96, 145
Eric Hasse
35, 89
Cody Gilbert
36, 80
Stacy Frank
40, 83, 85
Jermiah Ridgeway 51, 54
Diane Patracuola 69
J. McNeil
88, 138, 142
Uma Bodie
92, 93, 126
Marcy Alancraig 94
Jody Bare 97
Bob Newick
101
Don Monkerund 106
Justin Quinn 119
Mariah Hum
121, 122
Peewee Gonzoid
111, 131
Robyn Marshall
140, 152
Kiye-Paul Evans
151
Make a place for a friend to breathe.
Lie in the grass, touch the Naked Lady.
Philip Wagner
An Artist’s Obligation
Flood the skin with simple flowers.
Sew your coat of many colors.
Carve mud.
Make space where there was none.
Give the signal, make the sign: it’s never too late.
Throw a line to your drowning self.
Breathe into the reedy mouth of the deceased.
See over the curve of the earth.
Fall into the earthy pigment.
Raise the dead.
To save each other from the cold,
paint the bird that a long time ago fell into oblivion.
PGR 8
PGR 9
Make her fly with colored feathers.
Peggy Hansen “Bee”
They also sell snakes, lizards and parakeets.
We visit once in awhile. My son is 3 now
and trying to tap into every window
while I listen to a woman on the other side
among the freshwater tanks explaining to her friend,
When we finally separated, I changed my mind
and got my son a pet, zebrafish,
simple, a big bowl with rocks
and a decrepit castle.
My son is already there, tapping the glass
the fish zig zagging to his delight.
They are native to the Ganges
and in streams and stagnant bodies
of water in ditches.
And I want to correct her.
Yes, they are simple.
One for $1.99, three for $4
and you can also cut them slightly
at home in the kitchen.
Squeeze out the two-chambered heart.
Chop off a chunk, at its apex,
staunch the bleeding and push it back in.
I keep telling myself even now
eight out of ten make it and go on
to regenerate what was amputated
through a series of clots.
Scarring vs. regeneration not understood.
The first full moon will see a new heart wall.
The next full moon will see the heart grown back
to its previous form
if only that were true
for us here.
Kevin Krugel
PGR 11
Robert S. Pesich
PGR 10
A Quick Stop at the Natural Life Aquarium
Certain scents take me there. It is a place with a distinct wiff of warm lanolin. It
is a scent that makes me shudder with the shame and absurdity of adolescence. It’s
a scratch and sniff ticket to a time warp cringe fest.
I’m sure I heard Prince’s “Raspberry Beret” playing on the radio, and not for the
first time. The crusty analog clock radio, the waterbed, the posters of Jimi Hendrix,
everything in the room looked like a relic to Ariel’s Mother as a teenager. We were
at her grandparent’s house that weekend. Between the sexy songs and the sanctity
of that perfectly preserved bedroom, I felt like a naïve foreigner working double
time to decipher and translate the mysteries of everything Ariel threw my way. She
was two years older, and much more worldly. In her mom’s old room, actually in
the confines of her tiny little en suite bathroom, Ariel showed me my first condom.
We had just gotten back from dinner with her grandparents. We had been spying
on some cute, much older guys at the bar and grille. We went to the girl’s room at
least four times. I checked on my Madonna-inspired hair bow and Ariel sprayed her
hair stiff in her banana clip, and of course, both of us re-applied our lip smacker.
We longed for them to admire our unique fashion sense and unequaled beauty, but
mostly they seemed more interested in playing pool than looking our way.
Ariel had been giddy all evening about her little secret. Now I actually saw what
she had been talking in code about during dinner. She was certain that if the
cowboys had known the contents of her little purple purse, they’d be over here
PGR 13
Bill Clark
Kierstin Bridger
PGR 12
Condomnation
pounding on the windows right now. In my 12 year-old mind, I believed her.
I closed my eyes and saw their iron gaze, their dangerous swagger, the way they
held their beer chest high. I gulped, and with sweaty, shaky hands, I helped her
tear open the package. The smell of lanolin and unconsummated sex instantly
permeated the air. The contents were translucent and sticky slick. We screamed in
tandem and threw it down on the dusty linoleum floor. Then we dared each other
to pick it up.
After losing 3 out of 5 rounds of rock, paper, scissors, I stooped to retrieve the
little golden coin. Using only my thumb and index finger, I held it. Ariel, covering
her giggling mouth with one hand, plucked a long strand of hair from off the tip. I
trilled with disgust.
When her eyes seized my long black and silver curling iron on the top of the sink
I panicked. I knew what she was going to do with the condom and my trusty Helen
of Troy wand, and it made my ears sizzle with shame. She raised her right eyebrow
and grinned, “Give me that, let’s see how long it is.” As she unrolled the xxxtra long
skin over the long rod I triple checked the lock on the bathroom door.
Seeing that wrinkled and yellow “for her pleasure” rubber wrap over my curling
iron sent me into a fit of nervous laughter. I crouched down on the floor hiding my
eyes both from Ariel and the glowing cylinder. I tried to pretend the situation was
hysterical and not lung constricting.
The thought of the two young cowboys at dinner scared me. It was as if they
really did see through the cheap vinyl pocket of her purse to the throbbing
prophylactic inside. It was an invisible talisman, proof somehow, of our attraction
and unquenchable lust.
I stood up, grabbing the towel bar for support. I wanted to prove to Ariel I had
the nerve to touch it again. Unfortunately, in my momentum I lunged at the
curling iron, sliding the rubber off with such a violent thrust and jerk it came off
in my hand. Just as quickly I flicked it away. It sailed through the air and onto
the windowsill. Ariel plucked it up like it was alive and threw it in the garbage.
My hands were guilty with emollient. Like a preteen Lady Macbeth there was no
amount of washing that could rid me of that oily lubricated film.
To make matters worse, when we wiped the curling iron clean and then heated it
up, the smell of burnt lanolin was worse than wool sweater flambé. That snake oil
was everywhere. My nostrils were full up.
I remember after we retrieved it again we tried to flush the vile thing down the
toilet. It floated to the surface, seemingly buoyant with a life of its own. We then
swaddled the wet and slimy disaster in so many layers of snowy white toilet paper
it finally choked and died. We buried it in the trash under a heap of hair from our
brushes, yards more of toilet paper and sweet and low packets we had liberated
from the bar and grill. We were desperate to hide the evidence; desperate to hide
our misbegotten curiosity and transgression. By then the crackling sound of the
radio in the bedroom, the bawdy ballads and their titillating lyrics, felt like a
personal anthem in my portable pocket hymnal of wincing guilt.
We were 12 years old. Or maybe my friend Darcy Verzwyvelt was 13 by then—I’m
not sure. Darcy wore a leopard skin bikini. I finally talked my mother into buying
me a two piece bathing suit. Gray. With a touch of white lace. It covered my entire
torso but for a small band of midriff, and still I tugged at it constantly, lying on
the sand at Hanauma beach. Darcy strutted across the sand, with me by her side.
Darcy had breasts. I may have, maybe not, but who would notice? Tugging and
pulling at my suit, obsessed with covering whatever was or wasn’t there—Lolita I
was not.
The Boys Club
We had a stash of oatmeal cookies.
We howled like wolves chasing animals.
We were secret brothers, agents, an undercover
pack of wolfmen mixed up with mysteries.
Of course we all had a magnifying glass and smoked a clay pipe.
That summer we spent with the microscope
lost in a spell over winged milkweed seed,
the seven-plated humpback of a shrimp or sow bug
and the new clues that kept pouring in encrypted
pattern language on the spiral of a garden snail,
the cave-painting inside an abalone shell.
Butch showed us how to make fire.
Clue indeed! Vance Anderson was older. His sperm
under the microscope, desperate
for days struggling for who knows what. Then they all surrendered.
Of course, no girls allowed; they couldn’t keep a secret.
For no reason it rained for a week, the San Lorenzo River flooded
and Mrs. Galloway’s baby drowned, a little girl
her family buried with a gold crucifix.
Somebody will dig her up one day.
After that, Mrs. Galloway stopped talking,
we hiked the swollen river looking for an explanation,
wore shell necklaces, abalone, cowry, sea turtle,
and one night, snuck over to Mrs. Galloway’s house
to tuck magic puka shells under her door sill.
No one knew why
we blew milkweed seeds on her lawn.
I was the skinny brown-haired self-conscious girl Darcy needed to accent her
voluptuous blonde hair and already curvy figure. And maybe I needed the color
and moist texture of her world.
I remember going to Darcy’s house on a Saturday afternoon. Her father must
have been out to sea. Fathers were always out to sea. But the other navy mothers
whose husbands were away on their ships didn’t seem anything like Darcy’s mom.
She was a large woman. Large in size, voice, and gesture. I don’t recall anything
particularly attractive about her, no daintiness, a state the other women seemed
to aspire to. Not delicate at all except for the sandwiches she served to the group
of sailors sitting around her living room. Those sandwiches fascinated me. Egg
salad and tuna salad. Nothing striking about that. But these sandwiches were cut
in quarters, corner to corner. And therefore they tasted like nothing I’d ever eaten
before. The sailors didn’t seem too interested in the food. They drank beer, listed to
Darcy’s mother and laughed. But I couldn’t get enough of those little sandwiches.
They were so feminine. Exotic. My mother was from the Midwest and sandwiches
were meant to be cut in a sensible line that dissected the bread in the middle. Her
sandwiches tasted fine. But sensible. The taste of Darcy’s mother’s food and Darcy’s
house was sensuous. I knew but didn’t know that something was happening there.
It seemed more humid at her house, more sultry. More of everything.
I wanted more. But I was an obedient girl, and so I stuck to existing on the
outskirts of the scene at Darcy’s house, and I walked by her side on the beach. The
older boys saw her, and that placed me in their field of vision. This was enough, for
then anyway: to nibble on those little sandwiches until I’d had my fill and to know
that I didn’t know what was happening, would probably never really know, to come
close to the hot center of the earth without getting burned.
PGR 15
PGR 14
Philip Wagner
Bill Clark
Pam Davenport
Darcy
The week before school started, my brother, Jimmy, and I spent our days in the
library. Being new in town, we had nothing else to do. A book in the metaphysical
section caught my eye. Intrigued by its deceptively stupid title, I read my way
through “The Betty Book”, Alice Bailey and others, books full of séances, past lives,
and channeling. One channel described the nature of God as a form of electricity.
He granted that it would sound strange to us down here. It sounded strangely
sensible to me.
Terra Linda, a small town in southern California, apparently had its share of
silver-haired vegetarians. Those early messengers of the New Age, had generously
stocked the library with their own brand of wisdom. And I was soaking it up.
Finally school started and the big trend at Lincoln Junior High was peppermint
toothpicks. All the kids carried their own stash and sucked on them during class to
our amazement. Walking up the lonely hill to Grammy and Grampy’s , Jimmy and
I wondered where to get the toothpicks. The test was, of course, to just appear in
class with your own stash, without asking questions like an outsider.
I met a lot of boys that winter but the one I fell for was bad-ass John Dart. Dart,
as everyone called him, was aloof but friendly to me. He’d pick me up after school
in an old Mercury, and on weekends we went to parties together. Though with a
group, we appeared to be a couple. One day I heard a popular girl say, “Everybody
calls him Dart. Even her, and she’s his girlfriend!” Incredible. I was his girlfriend.
So this is how it happens, I thought. You write his name on every square inch of
your binder and on the the rubber trim of your tennis shoe, and one day a popular
girl says, “she’s his girlfriend”, and its sealed.
On Sundays we went house-hunting with Dad. We toured a model home at a new
development called Escondido Verde. I t looked expensive. The salesman translated
in a meaningful voice, “Hidden Green”, and Dad turned and coughed, hiding a grin.
PGR 17
Didi Fitzgerald
Janet Trenchard
PGR 16
Wintergreen
He laughed softly in the car and proclaimed, “Hidden Green!” all the way back to
Grammy’s.
The next day he found a house for us on Ventana Ave. It was very plain. A dusty
green box. Our house in Pasadena seemed so beautiful in comparison, with its
peach colored stucco and its dichondra lawn.
“Here we are! ‘Escondido Verde’….the ‘Green Hideout!’ He announced.
When Dart picked me up from school I showed him the house we were going to
move into. He dropped his head, slowly shaking it. “No.” he muttered, “Not that
house.” Sure, it was ugly, but I knew that wasn’t it. All the houses down here were
more or less ugly.
One night he explained it to me. We sat in his car outside a party and he drank a
can of Olympia in silence first.
“There was a girl named Ann Lee.” I had heard this girl’s name before in hushed
tones, linked with Dart’s. “She lived in that same house on Ventana Avenue.” I
knew it. Our new house. The Green Hideout.
“Night after night I’d wait outside her window. She’d climb out. Just to be with
me….” he paused, ”We were in love.” He said with finality, then looked down at his
hands.
”One night her brothers were waiting for me. I didn’t see them in the bamboo. I
guess they thought they’d kick my ass. I broke one of the guys’ ribs and ended up
in jail. While I was in jail, they moved away. I never saw her again.” Dart was quiet.
He was lost to me. He seemed to gaze through the windshield into some other
dimension. Some astral realm where a young girl throws a white thigh over a dusty
green windowsill again and again throughout eternity.
“That’s why I can never fall in love again.” Dart looked over at me sadly. God. He
was so dramatic. I felt kind of relieved. I liked being his girlfriend, but I was scared.
He looked so much older. Too old for me, I now suddenly felt.
I stared at a religious medal he was wearing. I told him religion had always
fascinated me. He explained the Blessed Virgin’s Divine Role to me. She was there
for women, whose intimate feelings can only be shared with a female deity. But
why personalize something that is virtually a form of electricity? I wondered
silently. Girls were always wondering silently at things boys said, so maybe that’s
why they need a female deity to talk to. Anyway, Dart had his own female deity. He
worshipped a moonlit thigh.
Then to my surprise and gradual horror, Dart began to soulfully sing Elvis songs
to me. Sure, I liked Elvis. But I liked the fast songs. Dart was singing the slow ones!
Dart was starting to look a little stupid to me.
The next week Dad, Jimmy and I moved into the Green Hideout, and I stopped
waiting outside the junior high for Dart and started walking home with Jimmy
again. Meanwhile, Jimmy had gleaned some important information. The
toothpicks were homemade! You bought a bottle of peppermint oil and soaked
them in it, laying them on paper towels to dry. We were excited. I couldn’t wait to
suck one of my very own peppermint toothpicks right in homeroom. We walked to
I walked upon the leaves of dying fall
And sifted them with footfalls fast and swift
Until a nearby summons seemed to call
From under some sienna colored drift
Anne Clements
PGR 18
The summons’ whisper turned to chilling moan
As carefully I searched the rustling leaves with dread
Until I spied a flash of bleached white bone
And looked upon a weathered, severed head
With quaking knees, I cowered down to see
Death’s visage in the golden autumn light
Its hollow eyes were staring up at me
The gaping mouth spilled forth a sorry plight
I shook as I began to understand
And touched a mirror with my bony hand.
Anne Clements
John Louis Koenig
Autumn Sonnet
PGR 19
Palermo’s market after school.
“Oil of peppermint’s all sold out. All we’ve got’s oil of wintergreen.” We bought
a box of toothpicks and a bottle of oil of wintergreen and went home to our new
house. Old fashioned, long, narrow windows with dark, dusty screens flanked the
house. No soft dichondra for a lawn, only patchy straw-colored grass. “Look.” I
called to Jimmy and pointed over the fence into the backyard. Dry bamboo and
a clothesline. Backyards in Pasadena had banana trees and swimming pools. But
wouldn’t we feel a lot more grown up coming here alone after school instead of
being watched by Grammy and Grampy? Wouldn’t we be a lot more cool? And
weren’t we about to prove it right now by making our own peppermint toothpicks?
Oh well, wintergreen.
In the living room Jimmy poured oil of wintergreen on a plate and dropped
toothpicks into it in small handfuls.
“Where’s the paper towels?” he asked me. How do I know? We should have bought
some at Palermo’s. I got some toilet paper, balled it up and brought it out to the
living room where Jimmy was leaning over the back of the sofa pulling back a gauzy
curtain to see something outside.
“Somebody drove by and threw a beer can in our yard.! “He said with curious
disgust. Somehow I knew it was Dart. I didn’t say anything.
Desperate to try out our new toothpicks, after all this time, to finally savor the
tingling coolness I had only dreamed of, I stuck one in my mouth. Then I scratched
my cheek. It felt hot. My tongue was on fire, and I rubbed my lips. Jimmy was
quickly in the same predicament.
“Don’t touch your eyes!” I cried. We dropped our toothpicks and stared at our
hands, trying not to touch our burning faces.
Dart drove by a few more times, throwing an Olympia can each time, into our
sad, straw-colored yard before disappearing into the evening. Jimmy and I sat
silently on the mohair sofa surrounded by our oil of wintergreen and our precious
toothpicks as flaming red patches spread over fingers, arms, cheeks and lips in the
slowly darkening room.
The coroner determined
he had died of natural causes
and the funeral next day was
attended by his bookie,
five whores, red-eyed from grief
(or gin, who knew?)
and one destitute critic from
the LA Times
silently crying over the loss
of his favorite
sujet.
PGR 20
Angelica Sakisyan
All things considered
this had been one of Chinasky’s
better days.
*A tribute to Charles Bukowsky
The phone rings, but I refuse to answer.
It’s five-thirty Sunday afternoon and I’m celebrating happy hour here on
my couch. So what if I’m alone here in my living room? I chew a potato chip and
hear the crunch in my ears—it blocks out the phone noise. I’ve had a couple of
Coors. Well, three bottles to be exact. Nothing wrong in that. I’m relaxing after a
bad experience with Dave.
Dave Glazener—he’s been my best friend since college. Hard to believe
we’re almost fifty. Now’s the time to get moving if we’re going to win a Nobel
Prize. But Dave—he’s wrong about me. He wasted my time today bringing over
that priest of his from St. John’s Episcopal. The Father says he understands me
because he’s one himself. A recovering alcoholic, he says. Imagine a man of the cloth,
drinking. Shameful, those Episcopalians, they’ll do anything. Even let their priests
get married.
The phone stops ringing. Thank God. That was annoying.
Anyone who teaches English knows recovering is a verbal. My students often
make mistakes with verbals. The most common error is beginning a sentence with
a verbal, but not following with the correct subject. A recovering alcoholic, Morgan
Hadley’s wine rack held only pop bottles. Nothing like an addicted wine rack. And I
hate that expression recovering alcoholic. Either you’re recovered or you’re not. I
tell my students, make up your mind in your writing. Take a stand. I’ve had more
students win the All-State Writing Contest than any other teacher. Now would
that happen to a drunk?
Dave—he’s an engineer. Sees everything in black and white. No shades of
gray. Just because he finds my car parked a tad more space from the house than
usual. “Morgan,” Dave says, “You left it in the middle of the street with the engine
running.” That’s an outrageous exaggeration. I was simply tired and parked badly.
No it didn’t happen over and over, only two times. It’s been a hard week.
It’s just like Dave to blow last night’s tree accident out of proportion and
invite the church over to back him up. He never does anything without some drama.
They stood at my door together, shuffling their feet like those religious tract folks
who go door to door. Father Barall in his blacks, with the white collar tight around
the rolls of fat on his neck. When he’s introduced, I’m thinking of pronouncing it
“barrel” since he looked like one, but I bit my tongue. Dave all suited up for Pete’s
sake. He did look nice, as if he took some care, wore the baseball tie I gave him last
Christmas.
I felt I had to invite them in. Dave rescued me from jail last night so I had to
be polite. No, it was not alcohol related. I’ve recovered from all that—been recovered
for nineteen months. The brakes failed and the car ran itself into a tree. Is it my
fault the tree fell on an electric line? I had just taken an antihistamine for my
allergies. Those things always make me dizzy so of course I couldn’t walk a straight
line. Yes, I have had several run-ins like this with the police, but it’s nothing more
PGR 21
The day they found
Chinasky dead in his motel room
He had fallen out of his bed wearing a tattered
wife-beater shirt
and piss-stained boxers.
He had knocked over an open
bottle of vodka.
Best kind you could get at Louie’s
Discount Liquors. He could afford to live it up
because he had just been paid for
his latest poem about
life on the skids
And all the fuck that comes
with it.
Ashes and cigarette butts dissolved in booze
had soaked into the worn
wounded carpet.
Jeanne Althouse
Manfred Luedge
The Short Man
To Charles*
Bill Clark
When Dave left I felt the air clear in the room. Like a weight had been lifted.
It’s always been this way with Dave. When we’re together I feel like his charity case.
I don’t know why—I don’t feel this way with others. It’s like a short man standing
in a line with a lot of other short people; you don’t think about it until a tall man
steps up. Then, if he’s a certain kind of man, fills the air in a certain way, you’re
reminded about being short. You’ve got no choice; whether you like it or not you’re
one of the short men. I doubt Dave knows he’s like this around me—engineers,
they don’t dwell much on relationships.
There’s the phone ringing again.
I know it’s Dave. He’s regretting what he said. Just like last time, he’ll invite
me to the game Saturday as if nothing happened. He’s lying when he says he’ll
never talk to me again. He needs someone to rescue. I stand up. I walk over to the
phone. It’s still ringing. He’s nothing if not persistent.
If I did have a drinking problem, which I do not, and if I ever did decide to
go to that alcoholics’ meeting again, if I ever did consider it, even for a moment, it
occurs to me it would be a shame to have to give up these lovely beers. I set down
the empty, head to the fridge, and get a cold one.
The phone rings again. I can’t stand not knowing who it is. I pick it up.
It’s Laverne. “Morgan, the reason why I am calling is to see how…”
“You don’t need why in that sentence,” I say. “You’re using your connectives
incorrectly again.” I like to switch roles and boss her once in a while.
I can tell by her voice she is snuggled into her rocker next to the phone, in
her slippers and bath robe, afraid to face another night alone. I prepare myself to
do my duty with a little sibling chat.
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PGR 22
than jealousy on their part. Everyone knows they are out to get any man with a red
sports car. I’m still upset about the car—the damage was pretty bad—and now I’m
stuck at home without transportation.
Dave’s always been a goody two-shoes—with his perfect kids, gorgeous
wife, on the Vestry at church, troop leader for Boy Scouts, front yard always looks
like it just had a manicure. Dave thinks it a major sin if he pays a bill a day late.
Yelled at Annie once—his daughter, cute as a button—for an overdue library
book. A library book, for Pete’s sake. I would do anything for Rose—she’s the most
beautiful woman I’ve ever met—but she doesn’t like me much. No, the family life
is not for me—after two divorces, don’t think I’ll try marriage again. Like to play
the field. No strings attached.
The phone starts again.
I could answer. It’s probably Laverne. Her usual weekend call. Lonely, poor
woman, since her last breakup. I have mixed feelings about my older sister. I love
her and all that, but we get together and suddenly she’s bossing me around again,
the little brother, just like we never left home.
Instead I grab another beer from the fridge. I love the feeling of a cold bottle
in my fist. I crunch more chips. It’s five forty-five. At six I plan to stop drinking
because I never drink on a school night.
Good—the phone has quit.
When Dave sat down on my couch he ranted and raved like you would not
believe. About how next time I could kill someone. Someone’s parents. Leaving
their children orphans. Orphans? For Pete’s sake. “The car is a weapon in your
drunken hands,” he said. Imagine that—the car a weapon? Dave is nothing if not
melodramatic. Father Barrel tugged on his arm, trying to get him to calm down,
but Dave went on and on about taking me to some place the church runs and how
he’ll pay for it. He likes to think of himself as so God-damn generous. We all know
engineers make more than teachers.
Then the Barrel gave his little speech. About how he almost died from liver
failure over drinking communion wine, but frankly my eyes glazed over and I
hardly heard this sad tale. I picked up my Playboy and started thumbing through
the pages. Father scrunched up his eyes, staring at the cover. He’s probably starved
for good reading after the Parish Quarterly.
Eventually they both ran out of steam and sat there on my couch, waiting
for me to react. Finally, I put down my magazine and stared out the window, just
let them stew for a minute. The grandfather clock in the hall—mom’s gift to me
when she died—began to chime. Five o’clock. Happy hour.
I looked at Dave and then I looked at the Barrel. I cleared my throat. I said,
“Anyone want a beer?”
That ended our meeting pretty quick. I slapped my knee and laughed over
my little joke, but Dave didn’t think it was funny. Before he and Father Barrel
walked out, Dave threatened me, said he won’t ever see me again unless I take the
cure, and not to call him for help. Not to call him for any reason.
It is after midnight when the phone rings again. This time it must be him.
He wouldn’t be asleep yet. He and Rose had a Sunday night dinner party. I wasn’t
invited. They always stay up afterwards to wash dishes—Dave can’t go to sleep
with dirty dishes in the sink.
I pick it up. “Hi, Dave,” I say.
“Morgan,” he says, “just called to see if you were okay.”
I can sense him sighing, probably expecting another plea for help. I don’t
say anything. Anything I say he’ll use against me.
“St. John’s Center has a good reputation. I’ll drive you over tomorrow
morning.”
“No, Dave,” I say. I can feel him frown. I shiver a little, almost losing my
nerve. It might be harder to give up Dave than to give up happy hour. “I don’t want
your help. I want to do this on my own. In fact, I don’t think we should see each
other for a while. Maybe permanently.”
“You can’t be serious. We’ve been friends for thirty years.”
“Dave, if I’m going to change I need…” This is harder than I thought.
“Need what?” he says quickly, wants me to hurry up. He’s tired and wants
to go to bed. I’m a duty call.
“I need to take care of it by myself.”
Silence on his end.
“I’m just tired of…” I pause to swallow. There’s a damn horse in my throat.
“I’m tired of ending up the short man.”
“What are you talking about?” he says. “You’re not short.”
“Metaphorically speaking.”
“Nonsense. You’re drunk.” He hangs up on me.
I lay down on the couch. Blood is pumping in my head and I see black bugs
crawling all over the ceiling.
Monday morning and the sun coming through the living room window
wakes me up. I’m cramped from bending my knees, head feels blown up and achy,
mouth’s dry as newspaper. I roll off the sofa, crouch on hands and knees on the
carpet. I’m still dressed in yesterday’s clothes, looking dragged from the hamper
and reused. I blink my eyes open and I have a feeling something big has happened—
something big has changed. Like the death of someone close rearranges your
life, your identity shifts. You’re not someone’s husband any more or you’re not
someone’s son. You’re not Morgan, Dave’s friend. You’re on your own. Every day,
on waking up, it hits you again and you struggle, adjusting to it. It was like that
when Pop died.
I stood up. It took me a second to realize it was a school day and I had no
car. I would have to call a taxi. I should go to the bathroom, I should take a shower,
I should review my lesson plan for the day. I walk into the kitchen. I stand in front
of the fridge, my hand on the door handle, waiting. Hoping it will pass.
PGR 25
PGR 24
“I’ve been stuck at the house,” I say. “Car’s in the shop.”
“What happened?”
“Brakes failed. Don’t worry—no one hurt. Ran her into a tree.”
A long silence at her end. Here it comes the big sister lecture on road safety.
What she says is “I find that hard to believe Morgan.”
“The tree’s fine,” I say, hoping for a laugh. I pop open the new beer.
“Morgan?” She pauses. “Are you drinking again?”
I let it hang there, draining the beer while I wait. I drink it too fast; the cold
burns my throat going down. I set the bottle on the coffee table next to the others.
I feel disoriented, as if I’m watching myself from across the room.
“You know I love you, right?” she says.
Here it comes.
“And I’m the one person, along with you, who has seen it all before. With
Pop. He lost his job, his wife, everything.”
“I’m not like Pop,” I say. I look down at the bottle making a ring on the
wood. I lift it, wipe the table with my sleeve. “Pop drank every day. I never drink
during the school week. I’m fine for the kids.”
I realize my voice is shaking. I think it’s the mention of Pop. He died ten
years ago. Liver failure. I still see his foot sticking out from under the covers of the
hospital bed; close to death his toes started turning black. It’s only the beer, makes
me emotional.
“You’re a binge drinker,” she says. “Weekends. It’s still a problem.”
Binge Drinker echoes in the air. Binge Drinker, Fringe Inker, Hinge Clinker.
My mind goes to crazy rhymes. It’s the poet in me.
“Oh Morgan. After nineteen months. What happened?”
Damn woman, I don’t need her pity.
“Please go back to Doctor Waverly,” she says. “Or you could try one of those
asylums. The school never needs to know. Take a leave of absence.”
“I’m not drinking,” I say and hang up.
I sit there in the darkening room, staring at the line of bottles in front of
me.
The school never needs to know.
I would miss those kids and their damn grammar mistakes. They frequently
slip up when using the past perfect tense for the verb drink. Students write: I have
drank instead of have drunk: Today I drink, yesterday I drank, and in fact I have drunk
for years. Drink, Drank, Drunk. That’s the correct conjugation.
I listen to the empty house. The sound of mother’s clock ticking, the hum of
the fridge, the noise the floor makes when it settles, like a footstep in the hall. No
wives, no children. Free as a bird. Just me and these bottles of beer.
I don’t really know what happened. Why I had a beer after so long. But
I’m in control. I can stop any time. Beer—it’s not like drinking whiskey. And I’ve
stopped before haven’t I? It must be Dave’s fault. He expects me to fail. Maybe
what I need is to give up Dave.
Death and Sex
—an autobiography
As he pushed me out the door
the Publisher yelled
“You’re boring! Your autobiography is boring!
Nobody would ever buy it…
not enough death or sex.
That’s what sells: death and sex!”
So what if in my next life,
I start out dead, —get that out of the way,
and just move on, —into sex.
Wake up in an old people’s home
get better and better every day
finally thrown out for decadence, depravity
and “feeling good”, like James Brown
skip town, get down, boogaloo with my little honey dripper
Mary Magdalena sugar cube bikini-clad in Miami sunshine
on social security, dance, romance, bleached blond hair
long and loose, we Coppertone!
Angelica Sarkisyan
PGR 27
PGR 26
Philip Wagner
Angelica Sarkisyan
Twenty years later I’d start work
where on my first day, I get a gold watch and a party!
Then a factory job until I’m the right age
to lose my virginity, rock and roll, drink n’drive; get a Harley, and,
hardly adjusted to high school, I have to bone down for grammar school
where teachers point their fingers, yell, “The wages of sin is death”,
but I already collected my wages, —the death part
and everyday my wicked past is racing past me
going in the wrong direction! Sin can’t catch me
so why worry?
Whoa! I was just kicked out of first grade
because I wet my pants!
Now look—I’m the little kid pulling a red wagon
with a Donald Duck decal
to a kindergarten class where I sit in the back row smarting
with the new rope burn of wanting my first kiss!
I pull Polly Axon’s pigtails, drink ink, squirm in my seat, squawk, kick my feet
for my mother’s fantastic breasts...upon which I wrecklessly feast, delirious for two years
until I scream and scream and undo my being born by moving back into the dark
warm well of my mother’s womb, that cozy little hot tub, where I just float, tap the walls for room service, grin, grow gills and a tail. Curious that as time passes,
my amniotic place gets roomier and roomier,
my voice, smaller and smaller
until a special minute arrives and suddenly I’m speechless
vaporized and sprayed up into a cloud charged with sunlight
where I float orange and atomized forever
a gold and billowy orgasm.
I am all about desire.
So my Buddhist friends say,
You are not free!
I am a fountain of desire.
So Catholics send me to confession.
I am a wavelet of desire.
So dancers adore me.
I am a dream of desire
when my children wake me.
I am a forest of desire
each time the birds sing.
Autopoesis
With infinite care and without cease, the cook works in the small kitchen of
a cottage hidden deep in each synaptic gap of the brain preparing moments we
mostly don’t notice, hardly taste, just swallow or spit out. It seems a pity, but really
it isn’t because some we do taste and they hang around as aromas, like ghosts that
haunt us forever.
Len Anderson
Alissa Goldring
Maggie Paul
Confession
Some fools argue about a secret cookbook, or whether there are recipes, even
whether there are any cooks at all. I am one of those fools. I try to write recipes
down. All in the hope of knowing my own ghost aromas. I’m such a fool that I want
to meet the cook, thank her and shake her hand.
PGR 29
Alissa Goldring
PGR 28
Indeed the cook recycles, remixes and reheats these ghost flavors into each
moment with infinite—OK, perhaps I exaggerate, but there must be some care
or the whole thing would not go on. Without these ghosts, the world would be
perpetually so new that we would be divine idiots locked in eternity, would never
know what we are eating or what we are, never know what a moment is. So the self,
the substance of our being, is primarily a cottage full of ghost aromas that dance in
and out of us at the will of the cook and drive our pleasure or pain.
Shattered
I have scattered your ashes on the wind
Light trembles and reassembles patterning
The bones of saints and wings of water
So that vineyards smuggle your atoms
So that wheat and barley hold you
I have raised your ashes to the wind
Does the whole hand fly when it flings seed?
The scatterer wants also to be thrown
Upon the bones of saints and wings of water
Because we ran on Olympian fields
Because we climbed through Knossos and Mycenae
I have painted your ashes onto wind
You stopped my fall, pursued the drowned
Hunted hidden ceramic and lunar light
Your bones and wings write messages of water
An unsaid promise and a slender vial
Balance half a century’s struggle
I have lain your ash upon the wind
Stained the bones of water and the saints wings
Geneffa Popatia Jonker
I don’t know how to say sorry in my father’s language,
but I can now say cucumber.
Kah-kree! He spits,
punctuating the word with a whack upon my head,
this spindly English-garden variety green—a side dish—
suddenly central to his point.
Kahkree! A pendulum dashing against one cheek
then swinging to the other
so I can all the time remember
he doesn’t want zucchini in his raita even though
the Cooking Indian Yourself recipe cites it as an option.
The produce matters as much as anything.
If there’s not a Gujarati word for it, it just won’t do.
Not in my father’s raita. Not in the world of his language
where long green vegetables serve many purposes
before they reach the plate,
and most dinners are eaten in silence.
Diane Jacobs
PGR 31
PGR 30
J. Zimmerman
Sara Friedlander
The Side Dish
When I was nine and Halona was seven daddy and mommy got divorced. Daddy
said this meant mommy would no longer be living with us. He also said mommy
thought Halona and I should not visit her anymore, because she was sick. When he
said these things Halona began crying and screaming at him. He called mommy to
speak with her, to find out if what he said was true. It was. Daddy kind of smiled
oddly at Halona when mommy was talking with her. After that call, Halona packed
mommy’s little red makeup case and ran away. She came back that afternoon. Her
head was down and shoulders bent over like she was looking at the ground. When
she did look up her eyes were red and puffy. Later that afternoon, I heard Halona
yelling and crying at daddy to stop doing something. Halona sounded hurt. I stayed
in the living room. They were in his bed room.
When I was almost two Halona came to live at our house with daddy, me, and
mommy. When I smiled at her she would giggle and wiggle and gurgle at me. She
had soft yellow fuzz for hair and big blue eyes that turned green. Mommy told me
that mine are a gray/blue color. Daddy played with me when he was home, but not
with Halona. Mommy looked at her a lot. Daddy yelled at mommy. When he yelled
I would curl up on the orange nogahide chair in our living room or go to my room
and keep the door open. The floor of our house where we lived was made of cold
tiles with squiggly blue and pink lines. A wall heater was in the hallway.
When I was four and Halona was two mommy would disappear. Once a neighbor
brought her back to our house when she was found. She had no clothes on.
Sometimes mommy would hold Halona up to the sky to look at the sun. Sometimes
mommy would just lie on her bed and not move. Daddy yelled and yelled at her to
clean the house, but mommy wouldn’t do it. I played with my friends Bruce and
Jeff Nichols in the wood fort in their back yard. Bruce was older than me. Both
had dark hair combed back and dark eyes. Daddy buzzed my hair short and I had
to wear dark gray glasses with a black strap around my head to keep them on.
Sometimes mommy would be gone along time. Daddy said mommy was sick and
getting better. Bruce’s parents didn’t yell.
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When I was seven and Halona was five mommy went to live at a hospital far from
our home. We would visit her on Sundays. The hospital had lots of grass to run
on. We would sit on a white bench with mommy. Halona would sit on her lap and
mommy would slowly run her fingernails up her arms and make Halona squirm
and smile. Halona would brush mommy’s dark long hair. I would sit near mommy
and lean my head against her soft arm. Sometimes I could feel the hard bone inside
her arm. She wore white and looked sad even when she smiled. All the people at
the hospital wore white, even the doctors, but the doctors had a black rubbery
looking thing around their necks. Daddy said it was something to listen to the
insides of people to make sure they were okay inside.
Bill Clark
When I was five and Halona was still three daddy got so angry with mommy I
thought he hurt her. Curled up on the orange chair, I put my fists to my ears to shut
out daddy’s yells and mommy’s crying. If only mommy would make daddy happy,
but she never did. Then I heard daddy yelling even louder at Halona, and knew
she had gone into their room. Mommy sounded hurt, like when a cat’s tail gets
stepped on. My daddy is a vet-er-a-nar-re-an. He helps animals he says, but now he
looks at cows that hang up in the air on big metal hooks. Once I saw him looking at
the cows. He was wearing dark green rubber boots and walking through red gooey
stuff. The cows came in from outside on the hooks. They would be screaming and
wiggling, but couldn’t get down. I don’t go there any more.
Now daddy only talks with me, unless Halona does something he doesn’t like.
Then he yells at her. Halona has started to hit me and throw things at me, and
she calls me names like, “stupid”. I don’t fight back. Daddy says Halona is going to
become sick like mommy, that he can’t understand her. I hear him tell Halona that
he and I don’t know what to do with her. The only time he talks with her is when
she has done something wrong. Halona does not know how to make daddy happy.
I hate Halona and wish she’d never come to live with us.
PGR 33
Halona K. Zuck
Daddy’s Little Boy
Midwinter
I pause in the dark
on the stairs to my house.
Above me, shadowy on the railing,
three owls—all heartbeat and breathing.
They’ve come in winter,
in drought.
Rosie King
Eric Hasse
There will be no child.
I stretch out my hand
in the way of the falconer,
my left hand and wrist,
arm from the heart.
Their quick claws.
Their beaks click.
I hear in their ruffle of feathers,
Let your arm lift
like a wing.
PGR 35
Jasmine fills our mouths, tiny nectarbitter flowers—Jasmine fills our kisses—you
push your face into my hair—I’d tucked a break of flowers there—you make an
mmmmm sound, wild bee
honing
in
on
treasure.
We rumble onto the balcony, weighing the afternoon in measurements of sky and
swallow—we hold the clouds pressed into the hills—I tell you about the beekeeper
who showed up at my door with a bowl of honey still on the comb—she pointed
to the amber colors, cave colors, told me the dark was sweetest. She left the bowl
and all day and night I walked by sucking honey from the comb, from fingertips,
pushing the smoky wax against my tongue and teeth and
there
you
were
last night, pushing your honey mouth into my hair, jasmine breaking off the stem
tucked behind my ear. Inside the kiss you say Some people grow hair—you grow flowers.
And we put our feet up along the balcony’s iron spine and praise these bluejays and
night-blooming, day-blooming, lip-blooming jasmine and I won’t compare your eyes
to
an
incoming
storm or a just-crashed wave because a wave would never look at me that way and
a storm would never say don’t look at me like that but my body gave off jasmine like
something about to burn and the sky gave its heat to our kisses there on the balcony
and I showed you where the sun would rise and told you of the three double rain-bows
I’d seen since I first moved in and how the sun would set behind our backs—
magenta, coral and blaze—colors that seemed to rise up from the heart of the earth
and something rose in my blood, some nectar scent—this spring light giving off
white and blue and you take a sip of the vodka’d lemonade I made from the neighbor’s
lemons, the rinds still juiced and pulpy on the cutting board downstairs and I am
watching
your
thirsty
mouth
drink.
Kim Stirling
Julia Alter
PGR 34
Jasmine fills the air
Fall into Winter
Awake I encounter strange relief.
Eyes stretched I witness heaven’s seasonal concession.
After months of fierce harmonizing,
Amongst blues, greens, all analogous hues,
Marked only by blackbird wings,
Today sky bows, bends into languid, patient gray.
No competition now,
With rustled limbs left altered and ambered by September.
Deciduous trees trill beneath winter-paled morning,
Burnt- orange whispers reach,
Flame into quieted November.
Evergreens sigh, settle,
Suddenly fragile with frost.
Over all this world,
Skies commence to weep, trees turn.
This moment suspended between two seasons.
Cody Gilbert
Glimpsed,
I smile behind folded fingers,
Conceal how much I long for this unleaving.
Susan Freeman
Home starts at the edge of the solid world.
Four-wheeled and fast along the western coast,
I’m driving to beat the dark
on a damp day when the sky is so thick
the familiar turns phantasmagorical,
and what is ordinary shifts into something else:
the hunching hills exposed,
heads yanked out of the clouds, rearing up
like brown bears at the roar of high tide.
Spanish moss unfurls from branches of Monterey pine,
lace flags, old hags, gnarled and disheveled.
Obscured in the spitting mist,
churning the grey water white,
humpback waves bite at Bean Hollow,
rampage the sand, then tug themselves
back into oblivion.
I can see only as far as I could swim,
the dark oozing in with the fog,
headlights tunneling toward the night.
In the lithograph wash that devours the road,
everything is rock, swell and shadow,
the stuff of folktales where travelers get lost
trundling south in a twilight space
as the light divides and fades
and they’re carried off.
No discerning a horizon.
No clarity of sight,
but almost supernatural
and full of surprises.
Call it home, and the only place I know
where the wind is cousin to my own breath.
PGR 37
PGR 36
Laura Young
Shapeshifting down Highway 1
Four Hubcaps & A Prayer
Our old van turned eleven this year,
two hubcaps missing, the other two mismatched.
In a sudden swelling of affection, I comb the yellow pages,
make calls, find Craig at Anthony’s Auto Wrecking
who locates a matching set of four—a little banged up,
but adequate—has them sent up from LA.
I drive past the railroad tracks on 17th, turn down
the narrow asphalt & dirt alley past a mélange of tin buildings,
wrecking yard, body shops—find the open door,
file past the reconstructed engines & vinyl seats
in the lobby, examine the four hubcaps
waiting on the counter. Like my life,
they are sturdy but dented, a bit of their sheen intact.
I take them, thankful for the lost symmetry they embody,
kneel in the dirt, pound them one by one into place.
I could grow old like this forever,
loving each dent, each bruise, each missing part.
Angelica Sarkisyan
Angelica Sarkisyan
PGR 39
PGR 38
Dane Cervine
Virginia Draper
Better blow some life
into those eyes,
sweetheart, go down
and get a drink
at the All Faiths Bar,
where your friend, Preacher,
looks you in the face
all the way through,
saying softly, “Can you
get yourself together?”
and you wonder
as you back away,
you don’t know
if you should get a tattoo
or a turban,
or maybe just a bourbon,
you’re teetering
on the edge, a barstool
away from salvation,
when out the window
you see a gang of misfits
and mystics, troublemakers
and troubadors.
Someone hands you
a tambourine.
Janet Trenchard
Bang it, Baby
Throwing out pets like so much trash; it gave him a bad thought. He thought:
I’m surprised no one comes and eats him, the bastards. He wouldn’t put it past
them. He’d seen it before. He’d seen street dogs eaten. It was just too much. What
kind of place was this?
White Belly had been a pet, a loved pet. Why then was he thrown away? Why
throw away that which once lived and caused no harm so unceremoniously
while you build a thousand temples to the long dead and venerate spirits with
no body. Inconsistent. Yes, he knew, Buddha’s law did not consider animals and
people equals. Animals suffered a low birth order, but are they meant to suffer
such indignities because of it? Of course he knew that life is not permanent. But
sometimes, sometimes you have to care outside of your habits.
Why does the watch repairer not care? Does the watch repairer take it all into
the cave of his heart where there is pain as he meticulously works and works in
his narrow world; yes, he’s upset he just doesn’t show it? No, it didn’t seem so. It
seemed that he didn’t care about anything. He really can’t understand this watch
repairer. Why does this man not care about the faithful pet that stayed in his shop
for so many years? Why does he not look up from his work in grief on this morning
of sad revelation, why does he share no moment of collective sorrow over the death
of White Belly? Why? That is the anger that drives him furiously around the lake:
the watch repairer, the watch repairer!
The threat of tears is back, hot magma beneath a volcano that he would really love
to be able to release and rain down upon an unsuspecting world but he hasn’t cried
since he was a child. Why should he, no one would see his tears, bitter and salty as
a shallow choked sea. He bit them back and they tasted every bit as poisonous as
he felt inside towards this heartless man who stood day after day with his watches
and his ordered chaos.
Thuong Duc village, 1967. Mai sprints from the paddy toward the thatched
house, terrified: they have come. She wasn’t expecting it despite what she knew;
that they were there, all around and closing in, the net drawing tighter week by
week. A Huey hovers, it came from over the tree line, popped up like a bad insect,
making her run. Its mates joined it and now there are three helicopters and it feels
as if they are chasing her. Gun fire from the jungle and the helicopters destroys the
world which had been tranquil just moments before. The noise of the choppers
is deafening, the false wind generated by their air slicing blades flattens the rice
stalks and long grass, scatters the animals, blows off her hat, tears at her clothes.
She runs away from them with shrieking sounds raining down.
Yes, the Viet Cong were there in the village, yes, they were. She knew this.
They’d come and taken food from her family and they’d had to give it over to them
willingly, happily. She’d prayed daily for her family not to be touched and for peace
but now she could see her prayers were not good enough. Is she the target? Is
she? Are they going to fire at her? She cannot see because she has her back to
them. She dares a look up and backwards and sees only green and black machines,
gunners sitting on thin rails, their legs hanging over the sides, completely surreal,
only helmets, goggles, no eyes, no faces. Wildly, her head rotating all around she
sees an orange fireball erupting from the jungle behind her. She prays now for her
own survival, heart exploding in her chest, breath in ragged shards. To reach the
hut before the bombs and the bullets, run! She’d heard tales of fire guns being
used to burn houses, villages. Liquid fire! Were they going to start a fire? Why,
she thinks, what did she do? Is it because she talked to VC soldiers? She had to!
They walked into her house while the others were away, barefoot, silent, hungry,
menacing, sending a message: we are watching, we know who is home and who
isn’t. They stared at her while she fed them her family’s food. It wasn’t her fault.
She didn’t ask them to come. When she had returned home, Mother had been so
angry at her from one side of her mouth and yet smiled and placated the soldiers
with the other.
All was confusion, social unraveling. The Viet Cong were meant to be respectful,
responsible, but she could see that some of them were common thugs, lording their
new found power over unarmed villagers, disrespectful. She was confused; didn’t
they bring the new dream, the better plan… didn’t they? And now look, look what
she brought on them all, look…it was her fault, she thought. She died thinking it;
a seventeen year old girl taking the madness of the world into her head and coming
up short of answer. Yes.
The watch repairer who is not yet a watch repairer has woken with a start from
his mat into this world of explosions and chopper noise, leaping from the nap that
he now deeply regrets. He launches out the open door and she is running to him as
he is running to her and her face is a twisted horror, her mouth is open in screams
and her tears are streaking and he sees her body jig and jag and she falls face
forward with her arms spread as wide as crane’s wings. They are firing on them,
villagers, Viet Cong, it doesn’t matter. If the village is in the way, and it is, it’s over
PGR 41
(This story was published in full in The Long Story, Vol. 29)
Stacy Frank
Myla Stauber
PGR 40
Country of Unknown Origin
time to fill it in: these villages are done. To his everlasting shame he is paralyzed.
This incomprehensible world is thrust upon him, as he is burst freshly from his
village existence where he’d been trying on his new role as a husband into a searing
pain that he cannot wrap his mind around and so he does not wrap. He does not
integrate he merely breathes to continue his organism living, that is all, and even
that is not by choice. He failed as a husband, and this is his shame forever as she
was pregnant with his child and he failed to protect them. Failed.
She was out at work while he slept. He slept because they made love so intensely
he had to sleep it off for an hour but it had energized her and she went out as he
grabbed at her leg playfully, already dozing. She went out to tend the ducks, to feed
the pig. The rest of the family would be back soon from market, she’d better get
the chores done or they’d know how the two of them had been fooling around. It
is okay now, we’re married, remember little Mai Mai? He’d remind her, tugging on
one of her long black braids as she’d giggle. Newlyweds. Newlyweds in their little
hut that the family had built them, in back of the main hut with their mats and
their rice bowls and their small altar, all gifts from the family. One room paradise.
Soon there would be a baby in a tiny handmade cradle. Gone in a flash.
They knew about the attacks in the area all around, heard them, but what could
they do, where could they go? The VC hadn’t yet gotten all the way around to them
except to make their presence known, and since the Americans hadn’t yet shown
their faces to them directly, they seemed like distant threats; thunder clouds to be
ignored until the rain was imminent. Perhaps the fickle wind would blow the black
clouds to some other horizon making it all some other unfortunate’s problem to
deal with. It is wrong to pray for misfortune to befall another but yes, that is what
they prayed. Wind; blow some other way.
But now the storm was here and its catastrophic power to destroy could not be
controlled or predicted. The days had flowed and the animals needed feeding and
the rice needed planting and the food needed cooking, despite the coming storm.
They had each other, the family, they heard the bombs and the gunfire, heard the
stories, but they had each other, they still giggled in bed despite it all. They had
each other’s skin to discover…each other’s skin for cover. He’d put his hand on her
hot belly pulsing with life, his life. He never thought, he never really thought it
would all go up in smoke. And now his mind only comes up with one chant: gone,
gone, the world is gone.
And he saw her buried then, shovels casting mud on her, on them, those who had
been in the way. The nasty VC who had a real thing against him spat at his feet,
cursed him for not protecting his woman, said they didn’t even want him around,
that he wasn’t worthy to join their brotherhood. He was secretly relieved but he
knew it was posturing for the sake of the other mourners, a show. They’d be back,
they wouldn’t leave him alone. Eventually, they’d take every able bodied man and
he knew that when they took him, his life would be made a hell by this one who
had humiliated him and shown him up as weak. He was, there was no denying it.
He saw her last through silent tears streaming down as she had become so much
PGR 43
PGR 42
for them there. He bellows and screams but his screams are drowned out by the
now retreating blades, called home by their masters, the death birds do an abrupt
right bank in the air and reverse direction… why do they not kill him too: kill me
too! He runs towards them as they retreat… murderers! KILL ME! He screams…
kill me too… because my heart is dead.
He knows she is dead. He knows it. There was not a hopeful moment that he’d
run to her and cradle his first and only love in his arms and hear her last words
breathed out to him as he tenderly touched her beautiful face. No. He knew what
he would find. He can’t touch her, even as the choppers recede, leaving their wake
of instant destruction, destroying him over and over in tsunami waves of shock.
Had they meant that for her, or was she just in the way, how could they have meant
that for her? Mai, Mai… his cherry blossom. His. He can’t touch her, stares at her
unmoving body; arms flung wide in the emerald grass, the triple gunshot wounds
a red constellation on her upper back. Of course he goes to check if she’s alive, of
course he does. But she isn’t of course. Already there is grass in her mouth; this
mouth that kissed him. He recoils and he cannot cry, only make a growling roaring
sound while he beats savagely at the earth and pulls at the long grass which sounds
like hair being torn out by the roots.
They had made love a few hours before and his skin still carried her sweet scent.
He thought he would lose his mind. Paralyzed, he couldn’t take care of her body.
They’d only been married three months. He was only eighteen. So, the Cong do it
for him, taking care of business. They come out of the tree line slowly, he thinks:
look how they enjoy this, to come melting out after the fire power and show of
strength has retreated. They come out like dark ghosts and poison the land some
more after the other poisoners have run away; to show the people who are left to
witness this mad parade: yes, we are here. We are the barefoot army that will never
surrender, and you will be on our side too. You are on our side.
From out of the periphery they creep silently from the jungle with their black
headbands and superior looks on their faces, no fear, no pity. Fear and pity
dehumanized out of their faces; faces that often had yet to sprout a boyish hair;
sinewy bodies jauntily sporting cobbled together Russian machine guns. He hates
them. All of them are what killed her. Their politics are not his politics. His love
was his politics and now it is dead and so he is dead.
They are cruel to him and call him a coward as he kneels on the ground near his
Mai in pathetic paralysis. He tries to save face, as they alternate between political
posturing and cruelty, one hits him in the chest with the butt of the his gun, knocks
him down, they kick him in the ass as he tries to get away. They pick up his woman
for him and they try, they really try to be respectful but all must fall in the wake
of importance of the new shining dream and a dead girl…what is she but just one
more this week. She is taken one village over where it’s already happened to them
last week and laid gently but unceremoniously in a common grave, a ditch really,
along with the others killed in the week long guerilla warfare. Other faces, other
bodies jigsaw puzzled in next to each other, dusted in white lime, the Cong say it’s
eyes.
He’d let Mai’s laugh
bird go after she’d been
killed. Why let it starve
to death? At least one of
them could be free. He’d
opened the small bamboo
cage door and after a
moment’s hesitation, the
bird took off with jagged
Anne Clements
speed and one last laugh toward the jungle. He watched it go, longing to be of its
kind, longing to take off fast and furious, to any country of unknown origin but
this one. It was another piece of her to let go of and he did it for her, now glad she
was gone so she did not have to live in this hell of a place as the net drew tighter.
She was too sweet, too kind to be in this newly minted nightmare.
Five days after she was buried the Americans came back as predicted to burn
the houses, sending his mother and father and younger brother and him packing
while his mother cried and shrieked. What he thought might be ranks or perhaps
factions were scrawled on their helmets or tagged on their raggedy jackets if they
wore them, most didn’t. All wore silver tag necklaces with the letters and numbers
repeated from their helmets. Fletcher, Brown, Lonewolf, Diaz, Minetti, Perez,
Petroffski, Giovanni, O’Shea, Washington… what could these symbols mean on
their persons? Names? Names so freely displayed even as they committed crimes?
He never knew of soldiers wearing their names literally on their sleeves, he felt
like he should read the words, if they were words, to be given a clue about their
meaning here. The soldiers eyed him suspiciously, “Cong? Charlie? VC?” They too
pushed him around with the butts of their guns.
Red headed freckle faces, dark coffee brown faces, light mocha brown faces, lanky
blondes… how could all these tribes be fighting under one flag? He had never seen
a non-Asian until the Americans came. It was his first time to peer into blue eyes.
He studied the crystalline sea blue eyes of “Fletcher” in which he detected at the
very back beyond the tough act: fear, and beyond that stretching into infinity;
sorrow.
The Viet Cong were soon to be adamant that he and his brother were to pick up
guns for the shining new dream. Yes he would, they said, that he better get over it
quick. Yes he should, because it’s all new now, brother. It’s a new world. They were
all suffering together. You see how it is, little brother, they don’t care for you; they
don’t care to liberate you. They care to kill you. Only we will liberate.
Little brother? Why, the insult. Some of them were younger than he. They knew
it and he knew it. Some of them kept their mouths shut from such insults, not yet
far enough away from their mother’s kitchens where boys were taught to speak
properly.
The long way around the world in motion began while he remained fixed in time.
PGR 45
PGR 44
refuse with the other human refuse. Yellow rusted mud slapped wetly in the open
grave as the relatives of the dead in their white funeral headbands wept, a high
keening sound. Pulling at their hair and beating their chests, posturing as if they
too would like to go into the grave, they wailed monotonous prayers. He couldn’t
look at her anymore. She was a thing now; he had to think of her as a thing. He
only wanted to turn away.
Buddha wasn’t helping at all. Nothing was working. He lit the incense he kept
her memory, he tried but he never felt the same again and he could trace it to
that day; the stiffness of limb, the wooden body, the desire to see no more. The
mind that had once expounded upon his coming fatherhood wished now only for
closing; needed to narrow in order to survive. Would it have been a son? What use
is this speculation now? All gone.
Give him instead a narrow view and a narrow precise job to keep his hands very
busy and a very narrow shop in a narrow city with no horizon to be seen or to
terrify, no green land stretching to the jungle from which hot birds of death could
arise at any time. No view, none needed.
And give him the longest way around to this narrow shop, the hard way, coming
by way of crash landing. Come with no choice and under the thumb of many who
are under the thumb of war, pulled by invisible strings from one part of the country
to another. Let him land with no fanfare to yet another permutation of life. Let it
make him very good at being nowhere at all but in a small place in his mind where
he could think of the order of things, not people.
More had been handed out when a bullet took his younger brother right in front
of him, only a year after Mai. First he had been standing side by side with his
brother and then his brother was down, gone before he hit the ground. He was
left again, the last one standing. He had to find a cog in a wheel that turned the
world sensibly, somewhere. So he learned the watch trade with his hands to assure
his mind of some order in the world. Sense: without it, the mind has no place to
rest its ghostly wanderings, no place to hang its hat if all is chaos and death and
destruction. A man could clearly go insane and so to find a point of focus. Focus.
Memory eats and eats privately from the stock of one’s insides but there are
memorials displayed on the outside to quiet the devouring. Quiet things that no
one need know; that she once had a bird in a cage, a black faced laughing thrush,
the laugh bird, the same kind of bird that now hung in its cage in front of his
shop. It had been the sound of the bird that assaulted his memory as he walked
through the market one day, the ha-HA loud in his ear that struck a secret chord
in his memory; the chuckle of the laugh bird. It had been a bold move to invite
such memory home but he found the sound comforting and almost human, just
as he had in the past when Mai had hung her laugh bird outside their little one
room paradise. The sound of his three month marriage, its laugh sometimes had
punctuated their conversations. He’d say something sassy and husbandly to her
and the bird would laugh; ha-HA. He remembered this while his fingers rubbed the
smooth bamboo bands of the cage as he regarded this new bird, same shiny black
the coarse treatment of the little dog so personally. He wouldn’t have spent all
afternoon and evening in a red rage that gradually gave way to exhaustion and
defeat. He wouldn’t soon have the only dream he remembers having since he’d
been four years old and the fevered polio time lay upon him. Moaning in his cot
as he finds a little street pup behind a familiar stand of debris receptacles on Time
Street, he scoops up the puppy. Somehow his body magically works fluidly in the
dream, he notices that and he’s free, thinks it must be like flying, moving smoothly.
He puts the little dog into the storage compartment of his bike. He takes it to the
watch repairer’s shop and presents it with the morning cigarettes on the counter
top next to the cat, which wakes, backs up and hisses. In his dream he doesn’t speak
out loud but somehow conveys, look Uncle; for you… and it gives him pleasure in
his sleep to have given a gift. Both his hands are normal in the dream. He takes a
moment to look at his hands, normal, a new man, a repaired man, a man that never
was broken. The watch repairer does achieve a small smile around the corners of
his mouth before reaching under the counter for a hammer to smash the pup. The
cigarette seller awakes, heart pounding, with a strangled cry in his throat, at last
happy that he does not ever dream, and that the day is the dream and the night is
black. Bring back the lid of the night.
Perhaps they could have sat together on the lip of the store’s tile where the dog
used to lay and they’d say wasn’t he a good friend, yeah, he was. And they’d sigh
and they’d refill their tea cups for isn’t that what people do, they go to each other
when there is death and pain and sorrow, they go and refill each other’s cups. And
there could be a track of a tear in a worn face, perhaps. It could happen. It could.
It may not be what men do but perhaps when you have a friend perhaps a tear, a
single tear can be shared and not discussed, it is enough that it falls. Imagine that
they could have been friends; friends can meet in the strangest of ways, even over
the petting of a dog, the giving of a fruit scrap to a bird, delivering the same pack of
cigarettes for five years, daily. These things have been known to create friendships.
The cigarette seller had seen a dusty chess set in the watch repairer’s shop. They
could have silently played chess, passed some hours pleasantly, been those kind of
friends. No need to dredge up unpleasant memories from the past.
There are no laws against a man sharing his devastation with another, but there
are laws. There is a closed vault where the plague of a man lays its head and this is
not to be tampered with in its black sleep.
There would be no tea; no found dog.
Later that evening the cigarette seller came back from his fruitless lake circling
frustration, finally spent, finally with no where left to go but home to his cot. He
waited in the shadows for the watch repairer to duck behind the beaded curtain
separating the shop from the kitchen area for a dinner break. He feels naughty
doing it, like a school boy pulling a prank, but that’s just the surface. It’s got a
deeper meaning though he couldn’t put words to it, he feels it. He opens the cage
of the black faced laughing thrush, reaching his hand in around the laugh bird, so
sleek and soft, so light, so incredibly loud for its insubstantial body weight, for its
PGR 47
PGR 46
With no say in his own matters while the world he knew traversed downward in a
trajectory away from him, falling away in flames. It was a long way to orbit from his
mat in his hut with his giggling new wife.
And the living beings around him then seemed only as characters in a play. They
are not real so they do not feel and he does not feel them. And this became his
solace which he needed as events explored ever new regions of hell on earth within
a very short span of time.
He never got over it. Would anyone? They said they did but all he knew of getting
over things was his self in space and time. Life got much worse as he plunged from
eighteen, into the war years, past twenty one into this madman’s dream of a way
to live. It was no way. But he lived.
Some people would move forward, would confide in others like themselves who’d
suffered and lost and they’d make their way up and out of the past, would soak in
their sorrows but then soothe their bruised skins, warming from their personal ice
ages in the sun that still rose. The scabs would form and new skin would grow over
like a miracle, leaning ever forward into commerce, into family; but not so with the
watch repairer.
There was something about the way it came, so fast and furious to his heart and
soul at the time of the destruction that he never felt that he’d caught up the way
he knew others had. It was that it had caught him with a sucker punch to the soul
while he had been too open and too in love, his personal pendulum swung too far
from center to allow for the catastrophic directional change in mid flight. Others,
they embraced life, they moved forward whereas he was left with only the idea of
time moving forward, the image of it. He had what it took to put into the gears to
the wheels of the day, to assess what needs to move time forward, to walk and talk
and eat and do business. Yes, he would work to move time forward in every way, in
a productive way, in a way that made the outer shell of life seem lived. There was
no other way, for his heart did not function; only his hands and his mind, the parts
that were needed to make the appearance of forward motion.
He stood in his shop his feet rooted on the cracked tile while the world buzzed
and the cat slept and the dog snored. (The dog made him think of his little brother
in an abstract way, when they were kids, before the war, when they’d float in the
muddy river, brown bellies up to the sun.) The birds (her birds) laughed and cried;
he was in the midst of life but his mind was not there and that is why he looked
through things; he did not see them. He no longer saw the helicopters and the
mud on her face, true; time does heal the immediate gaping wounds but he did not
truly see what was in front of himself either. The world was small and manageable
through a jeweler’s loupe, but that was all that was worth his seeing, everything
beyond his small controllable circle of light was just too much to bear. Just because
he was no longer trapped with the bullet in the muddy grave of memory did not
mean he was free.
If only the cigarette seller could know these inner machinations. If only he could
have been given these inroads to the man’s behavior then he wouldn’t have taken
seeming worthlessness. He feels its worth, its tiny beating heart. He holds it for a
moment, and he wills it to be free, to have a life so that it can live as it is supposed
to, free, he thinks… free… go… and it goes, without hesitation, up to the rooftops,
the tree tops, chuckling loudly. He leaves the cage door open to send a message:
not all of these should die without a thought spared for their existence.
When the watch repairer notices the laugh bird is gone he stares at the open cage
door and is transported back to Thuong Duc village where once he left a cage door
open to send a message that certainly no one got. The memory stabs him in the
unguarded chest; he is not prepared to be triggered by the sight of the open cage
door. Perhaps he had left the message for himself thirty three years ago. He recalls
opening the cage door in that time of devastation and the flight of Mai’s laugh bird
bringing a moment of sweet relief, the sight of freedom to cut through the miasma
of pain. And here was the message again.
When he’d seen it in the market, he’d thought of this new bird as her bird, secretly
called it Mai, his Mai bird. In his mind he thought, “good morning Mai” every
morning as he uncovered it and fed it and hung it up for the day, but he never said
the name out loud. Why should he, after all these years, show his affectation? A
man gains some affectations.
And now she was gone again, the tiny beating heart of her that was left to him. A
cage door had opened. He hoped the heart lived on.
Kevin Krugel
and it takes a quiet place
to hear its faint cooing
underneath the muttering of so many trees,
drunk on moonlight
and unsatisfied with the reach of their boughs
PGR 48
It takes a trained eye
and a focused ear,
but the darkness is a patient teacher;
impartial as a sieve
through which the trickling of all things
is eventually distilled
Peggy Hansen “Ken and Rosemary”
PGR 49
to know solitude,
recognize its rigid formlessness
among the soft weave of branches
carving initials in the static air
that no one will ever read
Lucas Narayan-Burns
It takes a calm night
Robert Nielsen
Another Round
Poor bastard
He was a pretty good photographer
Saw things well
Shot them with a Nikon
Polished the pictures in Photoshop
Loved his long lens,
400 mm zoom, and a fast ISO
that made for grainy pictures,
good for a war zone
Like that day in the south,
an oasis where the desert gives way
to mountains dry old and worn
this side of the Khyber Pass
He had raised his camera, ready to shoot
and a kid back at Alpha Base
watching on a monitor the image
from a drone high overhead
Jermiah Ridgeway
Thought the lens was a weapon
ordered in a rocket
took out the photographer
and the guys he was with
One army patrol
one newswire reporter
a couple of translators
some kids and a goat
Just like today, Mr. Secretary,
collateral damage, friendly fire
more happening, more shit
More return on investment
of our national debt
PGR 51
PGR 50
Shit happens,
said the Secretary of Defense
back when we captured the capital
and locals looted the gold in the museum
Somewhere else in the world, it might have been a leisurely hike; but in Vietnam
in 1967, this part of Binh Dinh Province was what we called “Indian Country.” We
knew we had anything but a walk in the sun.
Stretching a hundred yards up the narrow ridge trail, B Company was in single
file, with four or five paces between soldiers. First Platoon in the lead secured our
move with a point man ten or fifteen yards to the front. All three platoons had
scouts out the same distance at either flank. It was especially tough going for the
scouts: even as they struggled to keep up with the main body on the trail, they had
to try and plow noiselessly through dense low scrub.
Walking behind 1st Platoon, my heart pounded and my stomach was tight. I was
tensed for a fight as I strained to detect the merciless killer I knew lay lurking
behind every bush, rock, tree trunk or shadow. I was certain my next move would
put me square in the sweet spot of his crosshairs, and with one squeeze of the
trigger, he’d drop me in a hail of lead from his AK-47. Along our column, I could
see heads jerking, eyes darting back and forth, scanning nonstop. Squinting in
the bright sunlight, each one peered desperately for any irregularity, any sign of a
shooter’s lair, or the nylon monofilament that would trigger a booby-trap.
As each cautious step took me beyond my last chosen refuge, I scanned frantically
for a new haven. Each one of us focused on his immediate space, reassessing which
inadequate shelter—stump or depression—he’d dive for when the inevitable chaos
of gunshots ripped asunder the morning calm. This movement to contact in enemy
territory was horrifying. And yet—although it would be years before I’d recognize
it—being on the hunt this way was also exhilarating.
We’d been underway for half an hour when I raised my arm to call a halt. Time
to give the troops a few minutes to readjust equipment, take a drink from their
canteen, swap out the heavier loads -- and listen for sounds of the enemy. Our file
came to a stop without much accordion effect, and the men dropped to one knee
and faced outward -- one looking left, the other right -- in a herringbone. Medic
Toby Milroy stayed on his feet, and quietly worked the line, pausing at each man to
hand out a salt tablet or to pantomime encouragement to drink. Only the leaders
spoke, giving terse instructions in a hushed whisper.
After a few minutes, I ended the break with a wave at the platoon leaders. As we
stood to move again, I overheard Pvt. E-2 Lloyd Snow coaching a man who’d been
“infused” into the Company just the day before:
“Now, Jonesy, whenever you get up from a halt,” Snow whispered, “You actually
feel around with your hand … make sure you didn’t leave nothing behind.” He
demonstrated in exaggerated motions, patting the dry grasses at his feet.
“See? See what I’m doing?” Snow said in a low voice, “Get in the habit of checking
like this, even in daylight—so you’ll do it automatically in the dark… Now you
do it.” Snow watched the newcomer check around his feet, and his head bobbed
approval.
“Everything we carry is important,” Snow went on, “And we all depend on each
other to have the right things. You leave a grenade or a Claymore behind, and we’re
sure to need it that night. And what’s worse, they’ll find them and use ‘em on us
later… so you always check.”
Lloyd Snow wasn’t a squad leader, or even a fire team leader. I doubted he was
a high school graduate. B Company was lucky to have him, and all the others like
him.
Where the ridgeline turned due west, I took the ninety-odd men off the trail.
Facing left, we plunged downhill into the thick vegetation. Cautiously moving
down a slope so steep we skidded, it was difficult to stay on line. And as soon as
we dropped below the crest, the hill masked the last traces of sea breeze, leaving
us at the mercy of the hammering midday sun. It was slow going through the
thickets: about every third step, our load-bearing harness, the pouches, and even
our weapons, all seemed cleverly designed to snag on the “Wait-a-Minute Vines.”
By high noon, we were several hundred meters down from the ridge trail. There
were more tall trees, and the ground cover had thinned out. Here and there through
gaps in the trees, I caught a glimpse of the varied greens in the checkerboard of
paddies far below. As we stumbled warily down the slope, we occasionally passed
a neat stack of firewood left by woodcutters who’d come through some weeks or
months before us. What we didn’t find was evidence of recent military presence.
Just as I reached for the handset to call off the search, Lieut. Sourwine radioed
that one of his soldiers had found a suspicious hole. Kicking foot-holds into the
side of the slope, I contoured around to where he stood proudly pointing at a
tunnel entrance smaller than a basketball.
An animal digging its lair would have left the spoil where it landed. But here,
I could find no piles of loose dirt. Whoever made this one must have concealed
what he dug. But this opening couldn’t be an entrance–it looked too tight to
accommodate even a small man. In training at An Khe we’d learned that larger
tunnel complexes need ventilation systems. Could this be an air intake of some
kind? Unfortunately, our training hadn’t taught us what to do about air intakes. I
shuddered to realize there might be a whole NVA regiment just a few yards below
our feet! The Army had a program to train soldiers on techniques for neutralizing
tunnels. I’d been told that we’d be getting allocations to send a couple of volunteers
to the in-country “Tunnel Rat” school in the near future.
As I stood staring at the hole and wondering what to do next, I heard thrashing
in the brush behind me.
“Sir… Sir! I hear you need someone to go down a hole. I’m ready, Cap’n. ”
He came alongside me and squatted to examine the opening. Nicknamed
“Audie Murphy” after the WWII hero, this short, wiry, two-fisted Irishman from
Scranton, Pennsylvania had joined B Company only after we arrived in Vietnam
—so he wasn’t with us for the intensive training at Fort Hood, and he’d missed
the shipboard bonding as well. Nonetheless, Private First Class Murphy lost no
time establishing himself as the one man who—in tough situations—could come
PGR 53
Richard P. Guthrie
PGR 52
Murphy
Bill Clark
up with the irreverent wisecrack that coaxed a laugh. His wry humor alleviated
tensions and dispelled the loneliness and fears we all felt. Every unit needs such a
soldier, and the brash Murphy soon became a valued member of the family. I wasn’t
surprised that on this steep and scary hillside, he was the one volunteering first
for a mission that nobody rational wanted to take on. Even without the specialized
training, Murphy had appointed himself “Company B’s own Tunnel Rat.”
“When we find the people entrance Murphy, I’ll send you in,” I said. As an
afterthought, I told him not to stray beyond calling distance.
“Roger that, sir, I’ll be standing by… and Cap’n…” he eyed me, “I put fresh batteries
in my flashlight just this morning.”
James John Murphy was going to live forever.
Doors
There’s a door that begins with a hole in the heart.
—Richard Jackson, Heartwall
Let’s say the fruit fell before it was ripe
because the season didn’t know itself.
Everyone knows we’ve had an early spring.
I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s time for a blue moon.
Maggie Paul
Jeremiah Ridgeway
Let’s say the atmosphere was thick with understatement
because translation is so difficult.
Everyone knows the mind and heart only put up with each other.
I wouldn’t be surprised if they killed each other off somehow—
Everyone knows when one world ends, another begins
because our lives are made of doors.
I wouldn’t wonder if we never looked back.
PGR 55
PGR 54
I wouldn’t be surprised if that means freedom.
Everyone knows it’s the soul that matters
because nothing else really lasts
Let’s say we’re stuck with the invisible thing.
Ventanas que nos miran los cuadros
ventanas por las que miramos
entre una cosa y otra
la respiración del amor
el círculo de cuatro lados,
la eternidad del instante.
PGR 56
¿Pueden las palabras desatar al instinto?
Hacer del tiempo un reflejo variable
hablar primero del fuego
correr a gran velocidad
abrazar lo mas distante
Un cuadro nos ve leer un libro
un cuadro nos ve escribirlo
un cuadro lee, se va y pinta su imagen,
un libro recuerda su imagen
sueña con ella
se escribe a si mismo,
mientras las palabras corren
Would it be possible to write like a river,
like the wind,
like the earth itself?
Open depths
store mysteries.
Can words keep mysteries like stars?
Can their material feed us?
Give us back life
and the death
snatched from us
and from our dead?
Can words still move us?
Carry on the vibration of a single wave
our journey through this world?
Can they talk of memories and kisses
of lost summers?
About the unsurpassed obligation of purity
that things painted by hands and feet have?
Sofía Rodríguez
Windows
Windows watch us, like paintings.
Windows to look through,
poised between one thing and another:
the breath of love,
the four sided circle,
the eternity of the instant.
Can words unleash instinct?
Transform time into a variable reflection?
First talk about the fire,
run at high speed,
embrace the most distant.
A painting sees us read a book.
A painting see us write.
It goes away and paints its image.
A book recalls its image,
dreams with it,
writes to itself,
while the words run
PGR 57
¿Será posible escribir como un río,
como el viento
como la tierra misma?
Abrir profundidades
guardar misterios
¿Podrán las palabras guardar misterios como una estrella?
¿Podrán ser materia que nos alimente
nos devuelva la vida,
nos devuelva también la muerte
arrebatada
a nosotros
a nuestros muertos?
¿Podrán las palabras aún conmovernos?
Llevar en la vibración de una ola
nuestro viaje por el mundo.
¿Podrán hablar de recuerdos y besos
de un verano extraviado?
De la insuperable obligación de pureza
que tienen las cosas pintadas por pies y manos.
Sara Fridlander
Sofía Rodríguez
Ventanas
y trazan caminos de cangrejo
en la arena
rastro de la revelación.
and design crab paths
in the sand—
traces of revelation.
¿Podré pintar un cuadro que no me mire?
Un cuadro que sea ventana
ventana y no espejo,
un cuadro para mirar afuera.
Can I paint a painting that doesn’t watch me?
A painting like a window
not a mirror?
A painting for looking out.
Bill Clark
PGR 59
PGR 58
Bill Clark
Morning (di pagi )
Afternoon (di soré)
On a hot afternoon,
I recline on the cool tile,
take refuge from the heat
under the shaded pavilion where seated cross-legged,
slender musicians bend like bamboo stalks in the breeze
to strike the seven iron keys
of the Gamelan Selonding of Tengganan, slowly and steadily chiming
the melody and counter melody
of the passing moments of my life.
Night (di malam) PGR 60
Purnama, full moon goddess,
I swell under your gaze
like jackfruit heavy on the bough.
I rise in your image
like a rice seedling in a flooded field.
On this night most auspicious,
like a palm in the breeze,
I pray you sway my love to me.
Sara Friedlander
Sometimes I hear myself talking to thin air
‘cause no one else is listening to shape of the words that
Are broken, unspoken, restless and listless
I see them fly from my lips and bang against deaf ears
that would rather think my thoughts than try to hear as
I cogitate, conjugate, obfuscate, and frustrate word-carriers who
carry my words but don’t understand my meaning.
The jagged lines of noise I live with, tuning in to long-dead radio stations
playing music I plugged into while my baby body was plowed into.
Trouble is,
I can’t remember one without the other:
Hot child in the city, running wild and looking pretty.
Yeah that was me.
I imagined myself dark hair flowing as I ran in my white nightgown
far away to stone-walled corridors that dripped wet the tears I could not
cry.
Seemed like the walls were always salty.
and fractured bits of me fell like rain,
some for joy and some in pain.
A little freedom from the thrum of slapping flesh and raspy breath, the kisses
that made me bleed and move to my
very own soundtrack.
Now the silence in my head echoes graveyards and junkyards and abandoned
schoolyards
and I wonder if I will ever find the real shape of the music and
words that someone
scribbled over long ago
or will I have to write it all from scratch, catch a melody and
patch it
over the scores
and sores?
PGR 61
Thin Air
I wake to the tunes of
motors, insects, birds, humans
and even a gamelan orchestra.
Thoughts shimmer
with every shade of green
as the leaves sway
in the early morning breeze.
Here and there, red and yellow hibiscus.
What surprises will the day bring?
Eden White
Dan Phillips
A Day in Bali
much better. He pounded his right foot against the linoleum trying to restore
feeling. He wouldn’t have stopped at all if the Goddamn foot hadn’t become a numb
block on the accelerator. He had wanted to continue across the desert at night. Get
there in under forty-eight hours. Show everybody. Not pay forty Goddamn dollars
PGR 63
“Not a single Goddamn pair of underwear!” Mitchell dumped the rest of the
suitcase contents onto the threadbare carpet. “After all that Goddamn driving!”
He hurled the hard-shell case and it cracked against the chipped baseboard. The
wall had seen a lot of abuse.
If there’d been a blunt instrument on hand, she would have killed him there in
the middle of the Utah desert. But the motel room held nothing. Just a saggy bed
littered with previously folded tee-shirts.
Aberdeen didn’t say anything, but her fingers itched and her eyes scanned the
room--not even the usual pen with pad of paper on the battered dresser.
Mitchell stomped into the bathroom and slammed the door.
Aberdeen perched on the bed. Years ago, in their hometown of Philip, South
Dakota, a fellow had shot his wife in the face. She’d thrown her wedding ring into
the weeds along the highway. But, Mitchell didn’t wear a wedding band and she
didn’t have a rifle.
She refolded the shirts. Mitchell didn’t have to be driving at all, but he couldn’t
stand it that Wayne had offered to fly them to California. And she’d had his boxers
folded and ready to pack and wouldn’t have forgotten them if Mitchell hadn’t fallen
into a rage about the mess one of their schipperkes had made, if she hadn’t been
called from the packing to clean it. Besides that, she would have helped him with
the driving if Mitchell ever let anyone else drive.
Aberdeen considered the base of the lamp. What if she had yanked it from the
plug? But the outlet was behind the bed. The cord might have snarled in the frame.
And there was the awkwardness of the shade. And Mitchell being so much taller.
She walked past the missed opportunity, picked up the orange suitcase and
placed it on the bed. She retrieved the items from the floor.
Fifty years, she thought.
She heard Mitchell settle himself on the toilet; he wouldn’t emerge any time
soon. She glanced about the room. It would be difficult to be emptier–one dusty
landscape opposite the bathroom door. The frame was gilded and elaborate, but
the oil painting, in spite of the trees and stream, managed to look gloomy. She sat
back down on the bed and slowly repacked.
Fifty years!
She sighed and thought about the beginning, how it had all come to be. One
could say natural phenomena drove them together. The Depression had scorched
the Dakotas like a devil’s breath and grasshoppers were everywhere. How she hated
them landing on her legs with their twitchy tobacco juice spit. They stripped the
alfalfa fields, gnawed the silk from the corn (rendering it sterile) and shredded the
bark right off the trees. Her parents’ haystack had steadily shrunk. Well, they’d all
been in it together; all the ranchers and farmers had depleted their reserves of hay.
Mitchell himself had been working in a federal program that paid ranchers and
farmers ten dollars per cow to drive their starving livestock north of Cottonwood
to be shot and buried. With no livestock and no crops, they all went dancing. “Idle
hands,” her Ma would say.
Aberdeen settled back on the pillows which stank of stale cigarette smoke.
Using her feet, she pried off her tied athletic shoes and let them drop to the floor.
She sighed–deep this time, all the way to her pelvic bone–and squeezed her eyes
tight shut several times to rinse the gritty lids with tears.
Mitchell rode into her life in 1938 at Grindstone Hall. She’d never forget that
moment. Her Ma had helped a group of local women decorate the tin-roofed building
with mile-a-minute crêpe paper wisteria and hanging kerosene lamps. The aroma
of coffee, brewed in a wash boiler, filled the hot air, but people furtively passed
around homemade chokecherry wine; she licked her lips at the remembrance of the
jolting taste, like her Ma’s jam with a kick. She stayed away from the one hundred
and eighty proof alcohol for mixing, making its rounds among the men folk.
From the doorway of the hall, she saw a horse prance into the yard. Atop the
handsome bay sat a lanky young man with soft, brushed back brown hair, round
spectacles, and kissable lips. Like a dandy, he sported a wine-colored satin shirt.
Knotted around his neck, he wore a white silk kerchief stitched from special flour
bags. He looked like a star from a western movie.
Inside the bathroom, Mitchell released an expulsion of gas and instantly felt
Kevin Krugel
Vinnie Hansen
PGR 62
Rose Parade
When he emerged from the bathroom, Aberdeen knew Mitchell’s anger would
be spent. For him, it would be like his tirade never existed. Nothing more than a
gust of wind. Fighting it would be like combating a ghost, so instead she allowed
her mind to follow the memory of their courtship up to that fateful night.
His hot breath and the hum of his words had filled her with excitement and
terror. It was a crisp night and she was wearing her rust-colored coat that she’d
taken in so it snuggled her body, the lamb’s wool collar soft against her neck. When
he removed it, she shook.
Now she sat up on the hotel bed, shaking away the image. Sex in automobiles
was overrated, she thought. Uncomfortable and sticky.
She propped her back on the flabby pillows against the rickety headboard and
pffftted at the memory of her young, naïve self. She hadn’t known how to tell her
mother, so a few months later she’d danced with a horrid man, the most notorious
bachelor in the county, and had left the dance with him.
And the next day, her mother had asked, “Where did you go with that Gerald
Kilpatrick? He has a very bad reputation, you know?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she’d muttered. “I’m pregnant, anyway.”
Her mother had stood solidly in front of Aberdeen, placed both hands on her
shoulders and said simply, “You don’t have to marry him, you know.”
But she did. She just regretted that she’d taken in that rust-colored coat.
She’d never wanted someone ordinary. Mitchell was handsome and interesting.
He could fiddle and draw, was highly opinionated, and had studied stagecraft for
a year. Plus it seemed like fate. In South Dakota there were towns named Mitchell
and Aberdeen.
In the bathroom, Mitchell relieved himself. He’d lost sensation in his Goddamn
foot again. He stamped it on the floor. Goddamn it. When a man started to let
his kids support him that was a sign of the end. Next thing you know, they’d be
planning to put you in one of those homes to die. It was one thing to tell people
in the Park Inn Café about his son’s MBA, but for Wayne to offer to pay for their
tickets, like they needed charity, that was too much. No, Mitchell thought, if he
ended his life without a penny to his name, as long as he didn’t have any debt, that
would be damn near perfect. He’d have come out even.
Aberdeen remembered her wedding dress. Since she clearly wasn’t a virgin,
she’d settled on a black velvet dress with a design of roses and had clutched a
bouquet of sweet peas over her swollen stomach, the baby kicking all during
the short ceremony. They’d been living with her parents when Wayne was born.
Nothing had prepared her for the pain.
On the hotel bed she writhed with the memory of it. It felt like fire and being
split open.
Her mom poured ether on a pad of cotton in a sieve and held it over her nose.
The midwife Mrs. Eggens was there. Mrs. Eggen had delivered Aberdeen, too.
She was a big, stout countrywoman in a flowered dress.
“I’m disappointed,” Mrs. Eggens said.
Tired and sweaty, she’d struggled to sit up, to see the baby.
Her mother and Mrs. Eggen had their backs to her and Mrs. Eggen was wiping
up the newborn. She hadn’t been able to see. The grip of panic stabbed through
the haze of the ether. She remembered it even more than the pain. Did he have a
misshapen body? Was he too small?
“Why are you disappointed?” her ma asked the midwife. Her voice sounded
strong and natural and Aberdeen felt calmer.
“Why the baby coming so early,” Mrs. Eggen said.
“The baby didn’t come early,” her Ma said. “The wedding came late.”
That shut up the woman.
PGR 65
PGR 64
for this dump.
His foot stung. Hell, the whole shebang seemed aimed toward Abby, anyway.
Their anniversary wasn’t even until April and what did he care about the Rose
Parade? He should have stuck her on a plane by herself.
Still he felt proud that his son had offered to fly them both to California, that
he could so easily afford the expense. Mitchell had relished telling everyone at the
Park Inn Café. So he had to go.
Now that his foot had been knocked back to life, prickly sensation ran up his
leg. Whelp, he’d always liked this kid anyway, their first born, a golden-haired sweet
baby. He’d enjoyed putting that baby on his stomach, the infant clasping a finger
with each hand, as they played standy up, sitty down.
And Aberdeen. What a beauty she’d been back then. He remembered her
standing there in the door of the Grindstone Hall. Nineteen years old with dark
thick hair, five foot four and mostly leg, her fine-shape revealed by a thin summer
dress. He didn’t really remember, but he imagined it was flowered.
The memory aroused him, even now. He’d heard about her. She was the baby
of Grindstone homesteaders, an autumn child, an “oops,” so she was a bit spoiled.
People said that on a school picnic, Abby had gone swimming in the nude. Truth
be told, there wasn’t even a swimming hole at the picnic spot. Not that a little fact
like that ever slowed down a good story. Still . . . .
Dancing her over the wooden floor, he’d looked into kaleidoscope eyes of all
colors—blue, green, gold and brown. Above her high rouged cheekbones, they had
seemed deep set and mysterious. She was quiet and he couldn’t tell what she was
thinking. Hell, some things never changed. But he knew what he’d been thinking;
he’d been thinking about her slender form, naked and wet.
He knew what he wanted, but it had taken him all the way until October to get
it. His parents’ brand new 1938 Dodge had sealed the deal.
He remembered her rust-colored coat, because she looked like autumn in it,
and because he had to wrangle her out of it. He’d led her to the back seat.
“You know what we gotta do,” he whispered in Aberdeen’s ear.
Wayne had arranged for special seats along the parade route, and Shirley
Temple Black led the opulence of flowers, more flowers than all the florists in the
United States would use in five years. The Grand Marshall sat with her bouquet of
red roses astride a dark brown Andalusian, with a thick black mane, arching black
tail, and a star on his forehead. The horse strutted, the silver ornamentation on his
bridle flashing in the sun.
But then a strange thing happened. A red rose petal caught in a puff of air.
It lifted and then drifted down in front of the gelding, and even though he was
gentle, trained and vetted for the occasion, his head jerked up, his ears pricked, his
nostrils flared, and his eyes wildly regarded the strange red object. His tail lifted
like a flag, and he danced to the side, ready to turn and flee.
Mitchell did not hesitate. He stepped from the crowd, grabbed the reins, and
brought down the horse’s head. He patted his shoulder and spoke to him like a
baby. “Shhhhh, shhhhhh,
it’s only a flower.”
The petal came to rest
on the ground and the
horse calmed.
Shirley Temple Black
smiled
gratefully
at
Mitchell, thanked him, and
handed down a rose. For
a moment he was a hero
again and Aberdeen loved
him again. Then the horse
continued his jigging step
down Colorado Boulevard.
Later Aberdeen pressed
the rose in the leaves of a
tome from Wayne’s college
days and they forgot it in
California.
Neither one cared.
Their hearts belonged
on the prairie and they
yearned to be home. For
all the fairy wonder of the
hoopla, they preferred the big tamarisk out on the plains, the tough, intertwined
branches waving delicate, pollenous clusters of pink into the clear Dakota sky.
Kevin Krugel
They arrived in California the next day and time passed like a dream–the
Pasadena warehouse filled with five-gallon buckets of gladioli, flower petals
floating in the air, the scent permeating her hair and skin, the redolent perfume
overpowering even the hot glue used to attach flowers, leaves, nuts and twigs to
the float. Aberdeen was surrounded by humming volunteers, swathed in rose and
gold.
Each day arrays of donuts, urns of strong coffee, and bottles of cool water
magically appeared on folding tables. Even though Aberdeen imagined all the
volunteers felt the urgency of the deadline as she did, everyone spoke courteously:
Please pass . . . Could you please . . . .
And when the float was finished, a dozen or so of them stood back to admire the
creation, murmuring at its magnificence.
PGR 67
PGR 66
Mrs. Eggen split a raisin and laid it on the baby’s navel. Then she pinned a band
tight around his little stomach and gave him to Aberdeen. Mitchell’s middle name
was Wayne, so they flipped the order and named their son Wayne Mitchell. Naming
never proved their long suit.
Her Ma showed her the placenta. It looked like liver, shaped like a bag with a
thick white cord coming out of the middle.
“You have to examine it,” Ma said, “make sure it’s whole, that no fragments are
left behind.”
Her mother buried the placenta in the back yard and later, above it, Aberdeen
planted a tamarisk.
She’d always loved flowers. For a long while, she’d even made them, using her
thumbs to push four by four squares of velvety paper into petals gathered around
plastic stamens. Her fingers had been so nimble then, coiling green crêpe paper
around wire, working in purchased leaves, and then dipping them into molten
wax. She’d made money selling them until she could no longer compete with the
cheapness of plastic and the realism of silk. Perhaps Wayne had been remembering
this hobby when he’d arranged for her to participate as a volunteer float maker.
She felt apprehensive, though. They’d be using real flowers, precious flowers, and
her fingers were 69 years old.
The toilet flushed.
She put Mitchell’s pillow back in place and glanced at the lamp. What a stupid idea.
He was half again her size. And they’d been together a long time. She understood
it all–his ingrown toenails, his bloodless diabetic feet, his son upstaging him, and
his wounded pride.
When he came into the bedroom, his member was swollen and he’d left his
teeth in. She quickly stood.
“Hell,” he said, “we’ll just stop at the first Sear’s.”
She ducked into the stink of the bathroom, shut the door, and considered the
underwear he’d shed onto the floor. If she washed out the skid marks, would the
fabric be dry in the morning?
She decided against it. Damp underwear would send him into a new fury. She
cleaned up for bed, and took out her teeth.
At five, I liked the vision of Mary, Joseph and Jesus,
all three of them in a manger—the mystery of the angels
and the roundyon virgin accentuated by candlelight.
I suspected he’d had help being so perfect, never crying,
but the moms said, no, he was just that good.
So, now I knew that babies were bad when they cried,
we all were bad, compared to Jesus.
PGR 68
Throughout grade school I sang along to Jesus Loves Me
but I didn’t believe it. I had trouble liking a guy
who, no matter what I did, was always better than I was,
a guy who never was weak and wouldn’t let me be strong.
I talked to him each night before bed, but only
for my mother’s sake. I didn’t see the point,
he never answered me. Once again, the moms
said that I must not be doing it quite right, must not be
asking for the right things. This wasn’t to be a wish list
to Santa, I should be seeking salvation.
By the time I was twelve, I had a pretty good idea
of what was in store for me. Counting myself among those
of little faith, I wasn’t about to try stepping out of a boat
on a lake in the middle of a storm. And I didn’t believe
that Jesus had done it either. I knew I couldn’t keep this heresy from God,
and that therefore, all-knowing and all-loving he’d be sending me to Hell.
God himself must have preordained it
when my parents prayed to have another baby. (Shouldn’t he
have at least warned them, given them a chance to say no thanks
to having a baby that would eventually be damned?)
Well, he hadn’t and I wasn’t about to tell them either.
And so, I was married in the church,
although one of the devout confronted me
a few years later as we debated the logic of the tenets,
asked me what my intention had been (in what?
sullying the sanctity of marriage?).
She didn’t seem to buy the line, I was raised in the church.
Tradition then.
As for my kids, I believe in knowledge.
To know the stories is important and it could protect them
from zealots later on. I didn’t teach them Jesus Loves Me,
but preferred things more like: He’s Got the Whole World
in His Hands.
And Mom? She knew better than to ask.
Funny thing though, even after she died
I still had a little trouble saying:
Get behind me, Jesus.
PGR 69
I was a good little Christian soldier,
trained in the basements of stalwart churches
by volunteer moms who did their best
with the doctrine, taught me about this jealous god
who sacrificed his son to a gruesome death,
forsook him and didn’t say a word. Being fair,
he promised Hell for us
if we didn’t believe. So we followed Jesus,
battling the foe.
Think of all the time Mom had spent making those Easter dresses
and driving me to Wednesday choir practice. And what about the story
of her friend who’d passed love by to be true to her beliefs.
How could I tell her that I didn’t love Jesus, thought he was a wimp.
I mean, wasn’t he a little bit old to be a bachelor who didn’t believe
in sex outside of wedlock? I don’t think he believed in sex
if he couldn’t have it immaculate like Daddy.
A little problem with being human.
Diane Patracuola
Melinda Rice
I Was a Good Little Christian Soldier
Osip Mandelshtam was arrested by Stalin because his poetry condemned the Russian gov’t. He was
sent to a gulag and his works were destroyed. His wife, Nadezhda, memorized every poem so they could
live on in a free country.
This ball point pen—
narrow river mouth,
wetland of multiple darknesses,
all that could come to the cursive sweep
of ink on paper
stops dead in its tracks
when I realize
it’s broken. Then, searching
upstairs and down,
through purse and drawer, the bottom
of my son’s lunch box,
hoping for a blue or a black or a red—
(please don’t make me resort to red)
until I settle
for a pencil. If I’m lucky
a Number 2 with a sharp point,
though by now even a dull tip will do
since the thought is fading
and only half of what I had in mind
remains translatable
to this pencil, that childhood instrument of telling
in a world which is not, after all,
waiting for what I have to say,
couldn’t care less, really, if I ever write it down.
Not even my mother would care
and there’s the world, right there.
So I do it. And for a moment
the moon questions its own omniscience.
The earth is not round but square.
Maybe I don’t really know anything.
Maybe I never really knew her.
Maybe that is why I write.
PGR 71
She collected his words
she sheltered them
held them as if fragile to the touch.
She swaddled them, sang to them
in Strunino, Perm, in Moscvah
and Leningrad.
Sleepless, pacing nightly,
she chanted his words
she drank in his words
she ate his words
they could never leave her body
she had to save them…save them
they wanted to burn his words
wanted to burn him
she knew they’d force him into the Gulag
she knew he ‘d never return
she would gorge herself
eat thousands and thousands of his words
it was the only way
she could hide them
till his words could breathe free air
till his words lived on paper again
only then would she stop her nightly vigil
murmuring them, fingering them
on their strings of sentences like rosaries
she held his words inside her
in her brain, in her heart,
his words were now her words.
She could save him
make him live forever
his words would become the world’s
his words, his words, his words.
Maggie Paul
The Point
Peggy Hansen “Taos Pueblo”
Muriel Weinstein
PGR 70
Nadezhda Memorizing Mandelstam’s Poems
Kim Stirling
ROB (CONTD): all of the cash in the register.
ROSA: Oh my God!
Rosa opens the register and takes out the cash.
ROB: If you touch the alarm I won’t think twice.
Rob draws a bag from his trench coat and gives it to Rosa.
ROB (CONT’D): Now open the safe!
ROSA: I— I can’t . . .
ROB: Do it now bitch!
Rosa walks to the safe crying.
ROSA: Okay, okay.
Rosa goes to the safe, she enters the code, it doesn’t open.
Safe Timer
Rosa drops the moneybag to the ground.
INT. COFFEE SHOP
ROSA: It won’t open . . .
Rosa, 22-year-old barista, serves a customer.
ROB: Why the fuck not?
ROSA: Large Americano to get you started this morning?
ROSA: It— it’s on a timer. It doesn’t open during certain times of the day.
CUSTOMER: Thanks Rosa, you’re a saint.
ROB: What? Well when can you open it?
He leaves the store, holding the door open for Rob, a man in a black trench coat.
Rob walks to the register with hands in his pockets.
PGR 72
ROSA: Good morning what can I get for you today?
ROB: I’ll have a medium hot chocolate and . . .
Rob pulls a handgun from under his coat, points it at Rosa.
Rosa looks up at the clock.
ROSA: About 10 minutes . . .
Rob tucks his gun into his coat and sits at a nearby table
ROB: Okay, fine. I can wait 10 minutes, but don’t try any funny business.
PGR 73
Erhan Ethem
ROB: Open the fucking safe already.
ROSA: Do you still want that hot chocolate?
ROB: What? Sure.
ROSA: What’s your name?
ROB: What, Why?
ROSA: Usually when we take orders we put the customers name on the cup.
Rob raises an eyebrow
ROB: Oh, I’m Rob.
Rosa makes hot chocolate; she places it on the counter.
ROSA: Okay, hot chocolate for Rob.
Rob gets up from his seat hesitantly; he walks to the counter and takes the cup.
Ted leaves the shop. Rosa picks up the moneybag and begins putting the money
back in the register. Rob stands up and takes the gun out.
ROB: Hey! What are you doing?
ROSA: I need money in the till if customers are coming in and out.
ROB: You’re being robbed.
ROSA: I know, but you haven’t robbed us yet. It’s suspicious if I give a free coffee
to everyone who comes in. after I open the sage I’ll give you the money from the
till, okay?
Rob studies Rosa suspiciously as she pus the bag on the safe.
ROB: Okay.
He puts the gun away and sits at the table again. Several awkward moments
pass.
ROB: Thanks. What’s your name?
ROSA: So . . . Why did you become a robber?
Rosa points to her nametag.
ROB: For my namesake, why did you become a coffee server?
ROB (CONTD): Thanks, Rosa.
ROSA: I’m a barista FYI.
Rob goes back to his seat. The front door opens and a man in a business suit
(Ted) enters. Rob reaches into his coat.
TED: Mornin’ Rosa, gimme the usual.
Ted takes his wallet out; Rosa looks from Ted to Rob to the moneybag.
ROSA: Oh, don’t worry it’s on the house Ted.
TED: That’s sweet.
PGR 74
TED: Alright, you too. Take it easy.
Rosa quickly makes his coffee.
ROSA: Here you go, have a nice day.
ROB: Excuse me, why did you become a barista?
ROSA: I’m paying my way through school.
A teenage girl with a pink handbag walks through the front door talking on her
cell phone. She walks to the register.
GIRL: . . . and he was like, “so who are you going to the dance with?” and I took
one look at his plaid shirt and was like, “not with you.” Hold on. Yeah, I’ll have
a caramel coffee with extra caramel. So anyway, like he kept trying to get my
number, and I was like . . .
ROSA: That will be $3.50.
The girl takes a pink change purse out of her bag. She hands Rosa money.
PGR 75
Rosa nods. They stare at each other in uncomfortable silence.
The cops enter the shop
Rosa looks at Rob who gestures to the girl and rolls his eyes. Rosa giggles. She
gives the girl the coffee who leaves the shop still talking.
ROSA: Can’t she call her friend back after she orders?
ROB: I don’t know, that sounded like a pretty important phone call.
Rosa laughs then Rob laughs.
ROB: What do you study?
ROSA: Excuse me?
ROB: You said you were working here to pay for school, what do you study?
OFFICER 1: Give me something tall, dark, and strong.
OFFICER 2: I’d like one of those too.
ROSA: Wouldn’t we all?
Rosa and the officers laugh, Rob chuckles nervously
ROSA: Okay. That’ll be $6
OFFICER 1: I’ll get this one.
He takes out his wallet. He begins to ay when he notices the moneybag on the
safe.
ROSA: Well. I’d like to be an actor, but I’m studying business.
OFFICER 1: Planning on making a withdrawal today, Rosa?
ROB: Why not act?
Rosa sees the moneybag, turns to the officers, and laughs.
ROSA: Because people need job security. But they also need adventure.
ROSA: Yeah, I was going to take all the money and run away.
ROB: What if I told you I was a famous director and I wanted you for the female
lead in my next production.
ROSA: Famous directors don’t go around robbing coffee shops. (beat) So why do
you do it?
ROB: I got sick of taking orders.
Rosa smiles sadly. A police car parks outside the store.
ROB: You called the cops?!
ROSA: What? No!
PGR 76
ROSA: Good Morning officers! What can I get you today?
She looks at the car; two officers get out and start for the shop
ROSA: Those guys are regulars, just be cool.
OFFICER 1: Well, it’s a good thing we could get our coffee before you left.
He happily pays her; she makes two coffees and gives them to the officers. They
sip their coffee.
OFFICER 2: That’s just what I needed.
OFFICER 1: Yeah, thanks Rosa, I’ll see you tomorrow, unless you run off.
ROB: Don’t worry, if she tries anything, I’ll stop her.
The officers turn to Rob and stop smiling.
OFFICER 2: And just who are you?
ROB: Um, Rob, I’m Rob.
OFFICER 1: Well, Rob, even if she were robbing the safe I’d have to kill you on
PGR 77
GIRL: . . . gross, like get some fashion sense; Oh my God, did you see Becca’s
bellybutton piercing? So cute!
ROB: (CONT’D) I don’t know what you’re going to do when they show up
tomorrow.
sight if you hurt a hair on her pretty little head.
ROB: I, uh…
Rosa puts up the last of the cash in the moneybag, then opens up the register.
ROSA: Give him a break guys, he’s my boyfriend.
ROSA: We’ll be long gone by then.
Surprised, all three men turn to Rosa
OFFICERS: He is? ROB: I am?
Rosa throws the bag to Rob, who catches it, surprised. She walks out merrily as
Rob follows with an uncertain “Charlie Brown” smile.
ROSA: Yeah, we’re moving in together, he’s a famous Hollywood director and he
wants me to be his lead!
They turn back to Rob.
OFFICER 1: Really? Well, congratulations! Take care of her for us, you’re a lucky
man. We’re gonna miss her.
ROB: Well, sure, uh…
OFFICER 2: We sure will. So what movies have you directed?
ROB: Well, I, uh…
ROSA: “The Stolen Heart,” it’s about a girl who leaves her mundane life when
she falls in love with a small time robber.
ROB: Small time…
OFFICER 1: Sounds sappy.
ROSA: I think it’s romantic
OFFICER 1: Right. Well good luck you two, I wish you the best.
OFFICER 2: Here, here.
Rosa unlocks the safe and takes all the money out.
PGR 79
ROB: Your boyfriend?
Bill Clark
PGR 78
The officers cheer their coffee cups and leave the store.
PGR 80
Cody Gilbert
“I can out-think, out-work, out-fight any dog
in that world or in this.
Woof fuckin’ woof. I told you before, I’m here
to look after your father. Relax, dammit!
Besides, like the man said, ‘Death is an illusion.’
Bow wow, bow wow!
Anyway, who else is gonna lie against him,
draw rheumatism from his body?
Dog, that’s who.
Even now he sleeps with his hands on me—
Yeah, even in heaven.
Dogs are doctors, too.
Heaven, this ‘other side,’
is one big hospital and, like I told you,
it’s filled with dogs,
New Guinea Singing dogs, Xolos, Shepherds, dogs
that listen to you and protect you.
You think someone dies and God’s gonna make them
whole again?
God’s not perfect either. Woof, woof!
People say ‘Heaven is a place that cannot be found,’
but if you got a dog,
you can find it.”
Robert Sward
As spirit guide, whose job it was to guide his master into the next life and then to testify as to his master’s goodness, dogs of intense devotion and loyalty were needed.
“Looking at the Xolo,” artnet.com
PGR 81
Dog Door to Heaven
the titan tree trunk lies comfortable
in its bed where dirty snow melts
on the forest floor
it crosses granite boulders
and newly awakened streams
then stretches up the hill to filtered sun light
that reaches down through the canopy of its brother trees
the dark at the bottom of the forest
connects in mid air
to the wide expansive light at the top of the world
Joyce Johnson
An Ansel Moment
PGR 83
I’m having a rough time getting started this morning,
there isn’t a dog in sight—
or within earshot for that matter.
Erica doesn’t walk her fluffy little grey and white happy dog
until the mail comes, and that will be a few hours yet,
and the lady with the big dog—the one with a huge orange plume for a tail—
Heather I think the woman’s name is,
is probably at work.
She took the dog swimming in the pool
back during that heat wave in June and
I will admit that I did consult my homeowners manual on that one.
Dolores next door moved with her dog,
the one whose name she taught me to say,
something about starting with a P and ending with aloha,
but Paloha doesn’t sound right to me now.
The dog who lives behind us, the only one that ever barks,
is quiet this morning,
and the fog is thick and drippy, uninviting,
so a walk to the beach is out of the question
even though I could find some dogs there gamboling down the shore,
chasing sticks into the water, peeing on rocks.
And there would be their owners tagging along with the leashes
full of little plastic bows
just waiting for Fido to poop
so that they could scoop it up and take it home.
And that brings me to my own dog,
a Lab back in western Colorado,
he’s probably out prowling our acreage right now,
digging for gophers, snapping at the sprinklers in the alfalfa field.
I miss him,
but I’m sure he’s happier with friends
living the kind of dog’s life he’s always known,
free of leash laws
or walking only when I’m up for it.
As strange as it seems,
I actually think he prefers a little privacy when he’s pooping,
wouldn’t want me waiting there impatiently, plastic bag in hand,
attending to every little doggy detail.
Stacy Frank
Melinda Rice
PGR 82
I’m Having a Rough Time Getting Started
PGR 85
PGR 84
Stacy Frank
Summer Morning
I have seen no summer,
have witnessed
what happens when
an entire season
suddenly shudders
under a cold May wind,
turns its collar, and disappears,
I pad naked to the cat bowls, not caring
whether the neighbors are offended
through the unscreened door.
Let soft fur rub my uncovered calves
for one pleading moment
then relinquish my pleasure
and fill their bowls.
I am no longer the headline.
and I have watched
from a kitchen window,
cup of tea in hand,
the flat gray of March return,
sealing the sky shut
from June until September.
Farnaz Fatemi
George Lober
Carmel Hill, 2010
Robed, I step into the yard,
salt shaker in hand, can barely contain
my pre-dawn excitement.
I have woken
to washed-out mornings
in July when fog rushes
the pines like ghosts,
and I have listened
in a wool sweater in August
to afternoon mist
pattering the patio.
Listen to the tomato leaves
uncurl into daylight; I could stare
at the zucchini stems and see them enlarge—
it’s summer, after all.
In the labyrinth of the little kitchen garden
nothing else exists:
ladybugs, caterpillars, oxalis,
tomatoes, deep wormy soil,
and an oxygenated air that
moves my lungs for me.
And when the skies
have broken
in late September,
I have learned to sit quietly
outside and appreciate
the evening light,
its frail texture
and lack of warmth
upon my jacket,
before the coming cold
and ever earlier dark.
Today I let my hands be my eyes,
reach deep into the thicketed
lower branches of a Black Prince,
gingerly pull the fruit that is tenderest
in my palm.
My teeth sink through the skin
into the garnet colored flesh,
and my tongue helps suck the seeds
and juice down my throat.
My head tilts back as I swallow,
so nothing is wasted.
PGR 87
Bill Clark
PGR 86
The salt is for the second bite.
On My Husband’s 70th Birthday
Winter was real, then. The wind from Mt. Mohonk
burned our cheeks, as we tacked plastic
over windowpanes. Snow-dusted firewood
leaned on the side of the house. At night,
we huddled around a pot-bellied stove.
Melinda Rice
Yesterday
while driving along the boulevard,
I saw a bicyclist coming toward me,
a bouquet of flowers in his hand.
He wasn’t pedaling
like someone in a 19th century painting
dawdling through the park,
no, he wore a helmet and spandex shorts,
was zipping down the bike lane
intent on his destination.
The image was fleeting:
a man with flowers
and a smile,
but it made me happy
as if he were bringing them to me.
Eric Hasse
Barbara Leon
J. McNeil
Encounter
Here the seasons slip by unnoticed.
We drive the freeway
to your brother’s house, amid the roar
of a thousand engines. Soon
there’ll be champagne, bakery cake.
But now, time flashing past the window,
I wonder, might we ever return
to sit by the fire in that bitter cold,
joined, in this winter of our bodies.
PGR 89
PGR 88
But spring was real, too,
picking dandelions for wine,
setting the jug in a cupboard to age.
We were young, our union new,
on one week, off the next.
Who could guess we’d be together,
40 years later and a coast away.
I remember sitting there, looking up at the plethora of stars depicted above me,
and marveling at the sight of something so daunting yet so majestic. That night
sky above me was the same one that I had the chance to see every single time that
evening rolled around, that vast thing that we all constantly take for granted. But
when I truly laid down and stared up into the dark navy rolls that output such
silence, I began to understand what it was. Not just a mystery, but an abundance
of knowledge and stories that people would never be able to understand.
I remember even at a young age my dad lying there with me, and he would point
out the constellations above as though they were something to be related to
mediocrity, blind sighted to the secrecy and wonder that they undeniably radiated.
He’d talk about how the Hercules Belt star line would come down and spank me if
I wasn’t well behaved, and about how the stars were nothing but symbols of lives
we had yet to live. He would discuss the meaning of life and how the constellations
were all that the stars were good for.
What are they for, daddy?
They’re just up there for our enjoyment down here on Earth. That’s all.
The problem with his answer was that the night was too much of a beautiful
thing, something so solid in its own stillness that I knew, I just knew it couldn’t be
something simply made to be overlooked by mankind. Those stars were something
way beyond us, something cast out and feeble. Those stars were desperate. Pleading
for someone to listen to them, to look at them and see more than just shapes or
ancient names.
I remember lying underneath the sky ten years later and still there they were,
these same old stars, shining down on me, begging for relief. They were still up
there, stuck and trapped, waiting patiently to tell their stories. To relate their pain.
Their strife.
I began to feel sorry for them and in retaliation I would go out every single night,
getting comfortable and lying down in the cold chill of the evening. The cool grass
would wrap its arms around my body as though in welcoming of a new friend, and
even if it was cloudy outside I would still go, for something captivated me about
those balls of light above, unmovable as they reached out for salvation that no one
would offer.
People would look at those stars and shrug them off, or they would overanalyze
them until there was only a tainted lack of genuineness left. People either looked
too closely or tried too hard, much as they did in real life with other humans or
themselves. For the longest time mankind would refuse to let something just be.
Be still. Be free, liberated. Exist.
I soon realized why people like my father saw these magnificent objects as
images for pure entertainment, something to ignore, something to look at and
then forget: because it was too much truth for him to handle. Because without
names and ideas of what they were, the stars were just reminders of how we will
all eventually end up, how we will all live life. All trapped, mice in a maze searching
for our highest desire and purpose but getting blocked by walls and frustration,
mistaken and unheard. Because we all want to be important, we all want to make
our mark on society, but aren’t we all just one of many? Isn’t every one of us just
one of those stars that go unnamed and looked over, passed by, and forgotten by
everyone treading along our path?
And when I came to this realization I felt this great sorrow, this great pain in my
body that made my heart go out for the world, the sad and lost world. And the stars.
And I realized that I couldn’t do anything to help the earth, I was as meaningless as
my father, or you, or anyone else on the planet. But I still hurt, I still felt distress
for the misery that was cast over everything. So the only thing I could think to do
was just lay down and look, stare into that sky above me and try to catch glimpses
of even the smallest star, regardless of the conditions or the excuses that could
cause me to neglect them.
The only thing I could do was react on my moment of desperation and attempt
to control over contempt and obscurity, the muddy and raw truth of everyone, of
everything, and I tried to understand it, take all of that negativity in and process it
so that those stars could feel better about themselves, justified, so that they didn’t
have to suffer. I tried to listen to all of them the way that I wished just one person
would listen to me.
I watched those sad and pitiful stars every night, trying to validate their grief
and grasp just a hint of their gloom. But the reality was that it didn’t matter how
many nights I lay out there hoping to revisit them, they were still trapped and they
always would be. And when I realized this I suddenly understood something else,
that those stars were probably thinking the same thing about people. About us.
You and me both.
Maybe they’re the ones out there every night, shining down, and trying to
understand our pain, but never being able to free us, helpless and hopeless as we
all are. You can feel remorse over pain that you have no control over and attempt
to assist the despair that isn’t yours to work with, but in the end it only adds to the
desperation. Hope is a pandemic plaguing the lives of those that wish to make a
difference in the world but end up nowhere. Because in the end that’s where all of
our roads lead to. Nowhere.
We are no different from a star trapped up high in the sky, being looked over
and forgotten about if we’re even acknowledged. And in this world there are no
exceptions. Our lives are all a rendition of the same old thing, interpreted as we
wish it to be, but we can’t escape the fact that we’re all trapped in this elaborate
maze. So tomorrow night I won’t be watching or listening to things of which I have
no vitality to change. And just like everyone else in the world, I’m giving up on
trying to help others with desolation that isn’t mine to burden.
PGR 91
Ashlyn Schehrer
PGR 90
As We All Are
Joanna Martin
Uma Bodie
My young son talks all evening about past lives,
as though he could not be contained in eight meager years.
Uncle Steven visited, talked with Gabriel about reincarnation
while doing odd jobs around the house. Now,
the stories come—how he remembers being a monkey,
a man who invented pencils, the way in which he died
each time. Most of all, he remembers being a Chinese warrior
poised over an enemy—when an arrow hits his forehead,
sword swinging into his opponent as they fall.
He says dying isn’t so bad after-all—
Blue Whale
Barnacle constellated carcass,
iridescent stretch of vast blue flesh,
reflects clouds adrift
until even wind arrests, shocked,
and sweeping clouds stop, imbed
a shroud over the blue whale’s blunt body
Dane Cervine
Golden Dragon
you feel pain at first, but then you don’t.
He says this with such conviction that I believe every word.
Twirling about the room, he puts on a yellow Chinese hat
made of silk, golden dragons circling the small red tassel
on top, a long braid attached. The one he picked out
in San Francisco’s China Town, the one present he must have.
Perhaps he was picking up where he left off,
braiding the threads of his life together. And I think:
I will love you in any guise, my young dragon—
see how he beats the air with his arms, already lifting away
into the only life I can bear losing him to.
washed up between patches of ice plant,
dwarfing swarms of evidence-gathering scientists.
Did this whale dare plow through a freight lane,
and, clipped by a ship, now lies with a gash
the length of its flank? Or did the mammoth mammal
swallow a million whirling krill,
PGR 93
As the scientists ply acres of flesh with instruments
will any think to measure what size the spirit that lifts
from such a tonnage of rotting animal body?
Uma Bodie
PGR 92
each miniscule creature storing a single
drop of toxin, the sum total adding up
to a poisonous ingestion?
Marcy Alancraig
I cannot see her light in this darkness but its memory is here in pools of warmth
caught in the water, small moments of promise that puddle between eddies of cold.
Come, this way, she beckons. I try to obey, rising to blow, to breathe. Inhaling rain.
This coast tastes of hard-boned granite, of hemlock, cedar and fir. Needles brush
against my skin, small pinches like the touch of lice. Hail falls, pebbles pockmarking
my back.
The calf moves. Stay put, I urge her again. Last time, her brother came too soon,
bursting out further south but still too far from safe water to live. The pangs came
on suddenly. I was unprepared and in deep seas. Though we tried to reach the
concealing kelp beds near the shore, he was too weak to move quickly. Orca lurking
above the Monterey canyon made short work of him despite how I flailed my flukes
at their killing bodies. So new to the world, he was not strong enough to fight, too
young to know how to resist when they pushed his head between them, holding
him down so he could not breathe.
The calf turns in my belly, restless and eager, as I rise through heavy swell, cresting
a wave. A night storm hurrricanes through the above world, roils the below. Stay
put, little one, I urge her, it’s too soon. I am swollen and ripe from the youngling
curled inside, but I cannot go into labor in this gale, so far north of the warm
waters of the birthing lagoon. We are only half way through the long passage, soon
to cross the twisting currents of Queen Charlotte Sound and then navigate the
familiar eeled coast of Vancouver Island.
Why did I linger so long in the northern cold instead of going south like the other
mothers who summered near me? I didn’t want it to be like last time when I left
with the first group. This year, I allowed the krill song to lull me, their music a
chorus of high pitched voices that promised to strengthen the babe, to fortify us
both for the migration. Perhaps I should have turned away from their unusual
blooms, huge swarms for so late in the season. But how could I know what would
be best? And, I told myself, I needed to feast in order to birth a healthy calf, to
successfully complete the journey. Surely the unexpected bounty was a gift from
the Great Mother. How could I refuse her offering, she whose waters provide so
little food for my kind during our time of travel? So I stayed, though the snow and
ice began to seal the layer between the below world and the above. I hung back as
if I were not weighted with another life, and could propel myself easily through the
high seas and downpours to come.
Now, the calf and I fight the pull of the tides, high waves that try to push us east,
against the howling shore. I struggle through their deep troughs to stay on course,
following the depth contours on the below bottom and above me, the mother star.
When the last to migrate passed me, hurrying south, I realized I could not
follow as was usual. Though my youngest living offspring were among that group,
juveniles whose happy voices called to me, I had no will to join them. I turned
north, finning for Vancouver Island. Perhaps its twisted coast and sprinkling of
small islands could hold the barnacles of my pain. I passed a difficult winter there,
storm tossed and lean, rooting my sadness to the rocks of Meares Island. I had a
hard time tearing myself away from that longing, but was finally able to journey
south the next year to mate. This calf is the result of that long slow swim into life
again. Hold on, I tell her. Stay in. Great Mother, help me. I cannot bear to lose another
one.
She answers in the crest of a wave that carries me high, thrusts me forward,
allowing a moment’s rest. I breathe. I blow. I dive. Coming up, I am pushed forward
again. Listen to the shape of the wave, I instruct the young darling inside me. This is
the rhythm that will preserve your life. Breathe. Blow. Dive. I move with the storm
now, finding a way to let its song carry me. Breathe. Blow. Dive. Each time I surface,
I startle sleeping birds. For just a moment, I can hear the flurry of their wings as
they rush up into wind, sputtering from the surprise of my rising body and the
force of my spout. Breathe. Blow. Dive. And fly. Into the above world, into the
ancient place, the land of air. The babe quiets in my womb. Breathe. I inhale the
storm. Blow. Send it back again into the night. Dive into the embrace of the sea.
PGR 95
PGR 94
Marcy Alancraig
Silvester Bay Storm
Afterwards, I circled those waters of grief again and again, as if the large bay could
give him back to me. My unused milk seeped from me like tears. I had lost calves
before, many of them—taken from me in the womb or by weakness, by famine, by
harpoon, by orca—but the sorrow had never contracted my heart, shivered across
my tail flukes, as strongly as now. Was it because I know I am nearing the end of
my birthing time? Perhaps this dead male, this failed promise, would be the final
youngling to emerge from my body. I keened. I dove. I sorrowed.
straight stems held high your tight red buds
presented as promises of blooms
promises of colors
more promise than flower
more hidden than shown
Joyce Johnson
Kim Stirling
Tulips
Kitchen Madonna
She measures the cinnamon, the flour from memory;
her palm reads heartline of sugar, lifeline of piecrusts
in a cathedral of ovens. Praise the gods of baking powder.
Praise the fork around the pie tin pressed like a kiss, a kiss
a kiss. She leans over a gold pond of butter, smacks her lips
at her reflection, part baker, part mermaid. She hums
the sifted song of passed-down bowls and today she cries
no tears in the batter. Praise the feast of breads and winter
orchids set out on the table. Praise the eggbeater
dripping gold and the knife shouting out its silver blade.
Her husband smells of nutmeg and wax. Her cats are gingersnaps. The secret god in her fingertips coaxes the dough to stand
and dance. Praise daylight through the window slats.
Praise the apron of sunlight and flour-spun constellations,
the galaxy of wishes landing on her palm and the wooden spoon.
She tastes of lemon zest, distilled vanilla. Her dreams taste of
November going on June. She removes a dozen topaz
from the heart of the oven, pushes closed its stained glass door.
PGR 97
then you
bend over with the weight of your life
turn your face to the outside
open your petals fully to the world
give all you have become
show depth of color, shade of light
only now reveal nuances of patterns
hold back nothing, give your best show
then disappear
Jody Bare “Gate of Emptiness”
PGR 96
Julia Alter
in your prime you stood tall
grew blooms with wide solid bases
of velvet color
bulged outward hinting at a full life
before closing together near the top
as if afraid to disclose all you were
too fragile to fully give of yourself
your youth past,
your prime spent turned inward
Angelica Sarkisyan
Feeling like a fallow field;
Yet knowing
Fertility lies deep within.
Till me, reap me;
Watch that first tendril
of life
Push up through silty soil
After winter storms subside.
Terrestrial creature, am I,
Longing to find roots,
Craving comforts of home,
And at the same time,
Reckless,
With the urge to cross-pollinate on foreign land,
Grow in crevices of sandy soil,
Poke out of cracks of rocky walls,
Drink in Arabic lullabies,
Inhale fragrance of lavender
in adjacent fields,
Listening to myriad tongues filling the air:
“Labess?” “Çava?” “Kulshi behir.” (Berber Arabic, Hello?)
(French: Are you well?)
(Moroccan: Everything is going well)
PGR 98
So many voices, so many words and emotions tangled
In the maelstrom,
Why not just lie naked in the sun,
Waiting for rains to come,
Drinking in natural wonders,
And populate fields with wild poppies…
Zoos are Boring
“Why don’t you just go to the zoo? Stay home where it’s safe?”
Because in the zoo there is a glass cage separating me from the poisonous tree
frog that was inches from my nose in Costa Rica where I could appreciate the
exquisite beauty in his tiny neon red and green and yellow body, and in the zoo
there are twigs and leaves for the scorpion to hide under in the lucite tank, but
when I was surprised by one on my suitcase in South Africa I could reach out and
stroke the curve of his tail had I dared to, and when I was photographing the 500
pound silverback gorilla in Rwanda who I could smell before I could see, one of
his three females circled behind us and pushed my partner into the dirt, nor were
a rhino and her thousand pound calf safely corralled in an outlying pit in the zoo
when they charged and sent us running across the Tanzanian savannah into an
acacia bush whose three-inch thorns scarred my left arm and chest permanently,
or when the hippopotamus grazed outside my tent at 3 a.m. on the Okavanga Delta
in Botswana, there was only canvas between me and the tons of flesh and teeth
that could have simply bit me in half and spit me out instead of just keeping me
awake chewing and snorting until the next morning safari ride when I watched a
dangerously close cheetah whose mouth was covered with the blood of the impala
she was eating consider me in my open-cab Jeep, but I knew she wouldn’t eat me
because her stomach was already full and I was safe.
Because when I came home where its supposed to be “safe,” the doctor told me I
had a malignant brain tumor, and when I asked, “What will this mean for my life?”
he said, “It will be shorter” and I knew for certain that I’d rather be trampled in
Tanzania by the bull from the herd of 200 elephants who charged us than die in the
ICU. And, because zoos are boring.
PGR 99
Watch me take off in wild abandon,
Illuminate a hillside with crimson red poppies,
Like the ones growing wild, sauvage, along Mediterranean shores.
Yes, wild, red poppies bursting in fiery flames,
Soaking up provençal sun,
Dancing in mistral winds,
Waving at the sea,
Beckoning to lovers.
Jan Zivic
Marie Boucher
Wild Poppies
PGR 101
“No matter what happens, don’t be a bitch,” said Annie.
“I’m not,” I said indignantly.
“But you can be,” she said, proceeding to list several occasions when I’d been,
well, less than friendly to men in bars.
“They were rude and drunk,” I protested.
“Sandy, give me your word.”
So, I did.
It wasn’t a completely blind date—a friend had introduced us at a conference.
He was funny, nice, cute. So, despite my reservations (based on experience), I
said yes to the set up.
He arrived forty-five minutes late, a faux pax that would have left him knocking
on an unanswered door if it weren’t for Annie.
But, I said to myself, parking is difficult on the beach on a Sunday.
When he got there, I invited him in while I put on my shoes.
While waiting, he noticed the wine I’d poured and said it looked good, so I
poured him a bit.
After sitting there for a long time—he didn’t seem anxious to leave—I
suggested heading to dinner, as I was feeling a bit light-headed.
“It’s fine with me if you get a little drunk,” he leered.
“Don’t be a bitch,” Annie said, as I smiled and said, “Well, not me, let’s go.”
We walked a few blocks down the street to the restaurant, past the end of the
beach day activities, people heading home—wet, tired, sun burnt and happy.
He kept bumping in to me for no apparent reason—I was recoiling.
“Don ‘t be a bitch.”
We were seated in a booth. I sat on the end of one seat. He sat across.
“I thought I’d get to sit a littlie bit closer to you this evening.”
“Don’t be a bitch,” said Annie, while I smiled and said, “What?”
He, shockingly, repeated himself with a suggestive wiggle to his eyebrows.
Annie screamed in my ear as I smiled.
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll be fine over there.”
He ordered a bottle of wine at dinner, pouring profusely and trying to order
more despite my protests.
Again, “Really, I don’t mind if you get drunk, it loosens things up.”
Annie screamed at me.
I smiled to hide my irritation and moved my glass out of his reach.
I’d put it down, he’d start to reach for it, I’d move it. It became a dance of the
wine glass, Annie screaming, “Don’t be a bitch.”
After dinner, he suggested dessert and an aperitif.
“No. I’m tired and have an early day tomorrow.”
“It’s not even eight.”
I smiled again. “I know—can you believe how tired I am?”
I tried to lose him at the downstairs door.
“A gentleman always walks a woman to her door.”
Then, again, at my front door.
“Would you mind if I used your restroom—it’s an hour drive home?”
I situated myself in the living room so that he could not sit next to me.
He strolled in, lounged on my couch, rested on one arm, crossed his legs, then
patted the space next to him. “Why don’t you come over here and get a little
closer?” he said with a toss of his head in the direction of his patting.
I smiled. “Really,” I said, “You need to go home, now.”
“But, baby, c’mon.”
I listened for Annie, smiling, and sweetly I said, “Really, now, or I just might
have to be a bitch.”
And Annie agreed.
Bob Newick
Sandra Schubert
PGR 100
Annie’s Wisdom?
Angelica Sarkisyan
Adela Najarro
Satan’s Corner
When sick, shaving a moldy hot cross bun
into warm milk, might make for homemade
penicillin. Another folk remedy states boiling
willow tree limbs into tea alleviates swelling
and pain; some beliefs line up with eventual
scientific discoveries. Aspirin, antibiotics, the tried
and true verified by equations and reasoning.
Still it is a wonder why a flower ceases to bloom.
Mathematicians may diagram the collapse of individual
cells, the processes by which we all come to a stand
those who cast shadows have souls, and that
the devil will pay a bountiful price to snip yours
and place it in a jar, a jar on a shelf in the hallows
of Satan’s Corner, a cul-de-sac lane where track homes
bloom, where owls talk, where rats ferret
over hardwood floors, where the black cat purrs
just like Mrs. Nolan. When in danger of losing
your shadow, ring a bell three times, sprinkle
PGR 102
holy water in all corners of your house,
and roast garlic to burn Satan’s left foot.
Vat Means Rad? A Monologue
Russian woman in her fifties walks in, puts purse and bag on table. Hello. You look like born in USA. I’m hoping you help me. I have big problem.
Very big problem. I came California 2008 after my husband died and bought house.
Big payment for mortgage. Bank vant take my house. This country difficult for
me. Very hard. At McDonald’s, boy say to me, “For here or to go?” Vat means
this? He say again, “For here or to go?” Boy and other Americans behind me not
happy. Boy say, “Make up your mind.” I say, “For here and to go”. Boy shake head.
At Safeway store, girl say to me, “Paper or plastic”? Vat? I don’t vant buy paper or
plastic. I buy food.
I tell American friend bank vants take my house. Vat can I do? (sit) She say to me
good idea rent bedroom to student. Learn American customs. I look internet. I
find ad on internet. Craiglist. (holds up Craigslist ad and shows to audience)
Please tell me vat means “ASAP”. I can’t find in dictionary. Zis boy say many
vords not in dictionary. Let me read you, “super mellow” Vat means this? “Laid
back.?” Boy write he’s “neat freak”. Neat is good. I like neat. I’m neat… Freak? I
vorry.
PGR 103
for light. We have been sorcerers, conjure women,
shamans, mid-wives and witches. It is said that only
Helene Jara
still. But what about beginning? With enough
of the necessary a seed unfolds, digs in, and reaches
I ask him vat means zis, he say, “Oh, sorry. Dudette.” Zen he look at room and say,
“Sveet digs. Zis place is sick.” Is not sick, I tell him. I clean every day. He laugh
and put big board for ride in ocean on vall. I tell him he look like nice boy. I ask if
he go to school. He say he “school vaves every day.” I don’t understand. Vaves? He
ask me ver he can hang vet suit. I tell him not good have vet suit. I tell him he get
sick if suit vet. I tell him I dry for him. Boy say I am “gnarly.” Vat means “gnarly”? I ask boy if he is drug person. He say he take “remedies from herb.” Who is Herb?
He smile. Like joke. Zen he use more vords I don’t understand like “chillax and
“ride ze svells.” You agree vif me? Not good choice. I tell him take board for ride in ocean and vet
suit and go home.
Last person is girl vif hard hat and shoes vif veels. She say she is “Derby Girl”. Vat?
She has ring in nose and in lip. She has the tatoos on arms and legs. She say her
name Violet, but people call her Natasha Slayer. Natasha? That Russian name. I
am happy. I ask vhy nice Russian girl put the tatoos on arms and legs and rings in
nose and lips. Is American custom? Zis Natasha say to me “Zey’re fuckin’ cool.” I
don’t understand zis word. I sink is bad vord. I ask her if she “dence during day and
make pasta at night time.” She answer she “roll and kick ass at nighttime.” I ask
vat means “kick ass.”? She say she show me sometime. I say, Natasha, “Vat time
you come home after “kick ass?” She say at 3 in ze morning! Ve sit down on couch
and I ask her what means PBR from Craiglist boy. She say “Some people say PBR
means “hipster piss” but she say to her is “delicious.” I ask her is PBR California
food? She say is like “house vine of dive bars” and she take can out of purse. Beer. I don’t like, but I vant to be like American. Natasha Slayer is not good choice even if Russian girl. American friend say put
different ad on Craiglist. Maybe get better persons. I need pay for house. I don’t
vant bank take my house. I read you: Laid back, super mellow, rad, Russian voman vif vierd furniture rent
room American student. Neat freak ok. Golden fish are chill. Friendly with 420
(four two zero) and delicious hipster piss. Ok dence during day and make pasta at
nighttime. Carob ok. Roll and kick ass before 10 p.m.only. Vill dry vet suit $10.00
extra. ASAP, DIY, backflips and MGMT one per veek only. Meetings for sexual
orientation ok one time every month. House vine of dive bars available vif one
year stay and good grades. $600 every month.
Is good? I tell bank not to vorry. I have money soon.
PGR 105
PGR 104
Zis boy says he is like “Goldie Lox. Every sink is just right.” Who is Goldie Lox? A
golden fish? Vhy zis boy talk about golden fish ven vant rent room? Boy say he like PBR’s. Please tell me vat means PBR’s?
I read zis to you. “I vant to live vif people who are chill.” Vat means chill? Boy
likes cold? I use sveater ven cold. I read more. “I’m a free sinker (pause) so I don’t
care how old you are.” Vy boy care how old I am? “If I like ze vay you sink, zen that’s
rad.” Rad? Vat means this? Zis boy writes he is 420 (four two zero) friendly. 420? Vat means this? Vhy all these letters and numbers?
Vat is sexual orientation? Vhy he need accept zis? Is meeting for understand
sex? Americans not understand sex and need meeting? I read you more: “I vant place that’s cheap and laid back. DIY! ASAP, PBR and
now DIY! I get ache in head. He writes he like “veird furniture”. I have couch. I
have tables. I have beds. …“firepits are always cool too.” I don’t offer zese sinks in
my house. Do all Americans zem? If zey do, zey charge more money?
Ever sink is confuse to me. Tell me, is American custom “dence during day and
make pasta at nighttime?” You do zis every day?
He like “backflips.” Not in dictionary. He like “The Cure,… for vat? The Smiths
(nice people)?, xiu xiu, (exeu, exeu) (is candy?) and MGMT? Vat does zis boy
require? I like boy who pays rent and cleans room. I like boy who studies.
Boy says he is “cool vis pets”? I don’t vant pets. Is boy crazy? I have room. I don’t
have ASAP, PBR, DIY or other crazy sinks.
American friend tell me put room on Craiglist and meet more American students.
Maybe find better. Three come to room. Let me tell you.
First voman bring cake. She said vas glutten-free. Vat means zis? She said vas
“vegan carob muffin”. I sought “carrot”. She said “No, CAROB.” I taste cake. Not
good. Her name “Sunburst.” Dress vif many colors. Vore scarf on head. Zis girl
vant purify room vif plant name “sage”. I tell her room is clean. She vant have two
more Americans friends in room, “Blossom and Acorn.” I tell her room is only for
vun person. She say zey are like vun person. Zey share “same spiritual guide.” I
tell her I vill call her. Ze next American vas tall boy vis yellow hair. He look at me and say “dude”. Ven
Don Monkerund
PGR 106
Look how he numbered his poems
as they spilled out over the rim of his life,
currents always heading in the direction
of his Mathilde, in whose hair
he saw stars and vines, whose hands
furnished him with prayer,
certain dark things to love.
Like a pomegranate, his heart’s center
grew crowded with seeds and stars, which he
sprinkled across his garden
as a way of insisting on beauty,
so that now, his voice pulls me in
to the earth’s core, the underneath of love,
which is more love.
Maggie Paul
On Neruda
PGR 107
It’s a strange wind blowing up this street,
The windows are odd shapes,
reflecting everything, revealing nothing.
Antlers nailed to a doorway
point to eternal things.
The agents of entropy are all around us,
they come to us thirsty and hungry
in our times of trouble.
If I could just bake them a cake of my darkness,
fill chipped china cups
with the wine of my regret,
they would eat this food for us,
as only they know how to do.
Alissa Goldring
Janet Trenchard
Strange Wind
“Are you insane?” Janey’s frenetic mother screeched. “Do you know how
much your father and I have spent over the past six and a half years on all of those
rehabs, not to mention bailing you out of jail, God knows how many times? Do you
think we’re made out of money?”
“No, Mrs. Simpson,” Janey walked away casually, with her back to the screaming,
“and I know it doesn’t grow on trees, either.” she called over her shoulder.
“Remember, you drilled that into my brain when I was twelve, just ‘cause I wanted
to get a pony, like Elizabeth Johnson had.”
Suddenly, Janey turned sharply on her heels to face her adversary and releasing
ten years of resentment and hurt, she spewed, “ But, oh, no, you absolutely HAD
to have those diamond earrings and a four course dinner party with twenty-five of
your closest friends at the Chez de la Rue for your big 4-O, didn’t you! Who knows,
perhaps, if I’d bonded with a gentle equine companion in my youth to make up for
lack of affection from my stiff-as-cardboard”, raising her voice, “‘mommy dearest’,
maybe I wouldn’t have turned out to be a ‘disgusting, ungrateful, low-life drug
addict’ you lovingly used to call me!”
Flippantly, she added “Oh, well, too late; I guess we’ll never know, now, will we,
Mrs. Simpson.”
Janey had started addressing her this way, instead of, “Mom”, during the
sixth grade, when her rebellious pre-teen, pre-drug personality had started to bud.
Adding alcohol to the mix, had been like pouring fertilizer on an unstoppable weed
that grew so voraciously that, within a couple of months, it overtook and made
unrecognizable, the garden, that had once been the sweet and gentle nature of a
lovely young debutante, named Janey.
Turning back around, she headed straight to the refrigerator for another bottle
of the ice-cold imported beer that her father had started stocking after his early
retirement as CEO to help him unwind after a hard day’s competition with his
cronies, on his private golf course in their backyard. Janey never had understood
how anyone could spend hours hitting a little white ball around on acres of rolling
lawns, sand traps and ponds. It had to be the most boring waste of time she had
ever heard of and the fact that it was considered to be a sport was ludicrous! But
hey, it made Dad happy and at least, it gave him a chance to get away from the
nagging that was now ruining her buzz.
Mrs. Simpson stormed, furiously, into the kitchen after her wayward daughter,
“How in the world do you get off drinking in this house? And I shall never forgive
you for getting drunk and humiliating our family at your cousin Katie’s wedding?
Besides, didn’t you learn anything in ANY of those programs! You know they all
say that alcohol and marijuana are ‘gateway drugs ‘and will lead you back to the
hard stuff!”
“The ‘hard stuff’”, Janey laughed, as she removed twist-off cap, with her
Anne Clements
teeth, leaving her right hand free to hold a half-burned cigarette, whose ashes she
dropped onto the pristine white marble floor, when she took a puff, and upon
which she also spat out the cap.
“My God, young lady!” The usually dignified and reserved older woman ranted,
overwrought with frustration and anger. “Look at what you’re doing! Have you no
respect for our home? Your father has allowed you to stay here to get you off the
streets and off drugs, and maybe even save your life, God damn it, but you act like
you’re in some kind of flop house! And stop calling me Mrs. Simpson! I am your
mother, for Christ’s sake.”
“Mrs. S, you’ve been watching too many ‘80s crime drama reruns. Nobody uses
the terms, ‘hard stuff’ and ‘flop house’ anymore. And besides, I’m not smoking
PGR 109
Marianne C. Naegele
PGR 108
A Change of Heart
Can it really be my sweet little girl under that harsh façade? Mrs. Simpson asked
herself, and if my dear daughter is buried somewhere in that tangled mess of a lost
soul, who speaks to me with such contempt, is it at all possible that I can reach her
and heal our relationship? I don’t really know where to begin, exactly, but I have to
try something before it’s too late. Mrs. Simpson steeled herself against a possible
backlash from what she was about to do and took a deep breath, before speaking.
“You know I really do love you, sweetie, even if I don’t show it in the right way.
I always have and I always will.” she said, swallowing the lump in her throat.
Without taking her head out of the ice box, Janey softly replied, “Me too,
Mom.”
Peewee Gonzoid
PGR 111
Alissa Goldring
PGR 110
crack anymore and as far as you calling me ‘young lady’, I distinctly remember you
telling me that a real lady would never be caught dead doing the things that I did with
men, in order to get high. So don’t waste your breath and my time with your redundant,
monotonous, puritanical lectures. Save them for your
Sunday school fools, who don’t know anything about the
real world, like I do, and probably never will! Anyway,
I’ve heard it for the past decade and it didn’t change me
then, so what makes you think it will change me now!”
“This conversation is over!” said Janey’s mom, with
and angry resignation. “Your father can deal with you
from now on. I wash my hands.”
“OK by me, Pontius Pilate!” quipped Janey. “Dad has
always understood me better, anyway! See ya later! Oh,
yeah! By the way, thanks for the beer! I don’t want to
forget my manners; you did raise me to be polite!” More
sarcasm!
Mrs. Simpson started to walk slowly out of the
kitchen, then stopped thoughtfully and turned back,
only to see the open refrigerator door, as her lost girl
reached in for another alcoholic refreshment.
Was she to blame for her daughter’s problems?
she wondered. Had she really been an unaffectionate
mother? She had been at times somewhat unavailable,
during her children’s school years, volunteering at
the local hospital, running the church rummage sale
each season, organizing food drives for poor families
during the holidays and even presiding over the PTA as
president for five years in a row. She had been so blessed
financially, that she felt it her duty to give to those less
fortunate and had tried to instill those values in all her
children.
Tears started to fill her eyes as she remembered that
when her kids were young, Janey had always been the
most eager to join in and lend a helping hand. A long
forgotten memory passed through her mind just then,
reminding her who this now surly, discontent of a woman standing before her really
was underneath the hardness in which years of addiction and suffering had manifested.
Every year, from second grade until her personality change after fifth grade, Janey
had insisted on accompanying her mother to the children’s cancer ward of St. Michael
the Archangel Hospital two days before Christmas to sing Yuletide carols and perform
a little puppet show for patients there. She would also distribute to them, dolls and
toys she had, on her own, collected from her wealthy classmates at Holy Name, the
private Catholic school she attended.
Bill Clark
“Were you a skinhead?” she asked, quickly, boldly.
“No.”
“Good. My ex. was. Her tone became playful. “Not gonna beat me are you?” Out
in the bay, the fog was drifting towards us like a procession of ghosts. “Look, I
gotta go for a bit, but if you’re still here later we can keep talking.” She smiled,
flashing two twisted front teeth, one with a large chip taken out of it. “By the way,
I’m Anna.”
Those graves are still fresh. I am afraid of the sounds coming from the bushes.
The Drowning Angels
I bowed my head as the late-August sun was solemnly lowered into dark waters of
the Monterey Bay. I was lingering on the steps that rise above the Capitola village,
watching lonely figures march sadly off the beach below, perhaps for the last time.
A few tourists wandered languidly up the stairs and passed me as though I were
transparent. For some reason, I was unable to move.
Wandering through the mountains. The wind tears through the darkness, assaulting
the forest, whipping the trees with tremendous violence. Glass shatters somewhere out
in the death-skin night. Where do I go?
.
After about an hour, with darkness closing in around me, a figure approached
from the shadows.“Hey! How long you been sitting out here?” I turned and saw a
girl with a blond Mohawk hanging over her left shoulder. She had bright blue eyes
and wore large clunky combat boots.
“I live here.” She studied me for a few moments.
“I guess you do. When did you cut your hair?”
“A while ago.”
Three dogs race across an empty field, bathed in moonlight, steamy explosions of breath
bursting into the cold air. I think I should hide behind that large rock. There is a house in
the distance.
Anna was sitting in the sand, playfully creating a pile of seashells. She smiled and
said that she was making a collection to take home with her. She introduced me to
her sister, who was smoking a cigarette and drinking a 40 0z bottle of King Cobra.
I noticed that she had a frightening scar across her neck.
Anna jogged down to the water to wash her feet. I watched her wiggle awkwardly
as a small wave washed over her ankles. “Fuckin’ cold!” Two young boys played near
her, shoveling wet sand into a bucket. They did not pay attention to her. Anna’s
sister took a drink.
“She likes you.”
“We just met yesterday.”
“I know, but you should have heard her talking last night. I never seen her this
happy. And she’s fucking collecting seashells for Christ sake.”
“So?”
“I’m telling you, I’ve never seen her like this. I heard her laugh this morning. Anna
doesn’t laugh.”
Down at the ocean’s edge, Anna was splashing water on her legs.
“If I tell you something, you promise not to say anything?”
PGR 113
PGR 112
Hyland Stevens
When she returned, Anna sat and stared menacingly into the night. I noticed
that her eyes were red and puffy. She was 17 and had been born in Washington
D.C. When she was 14, she ran away and lived in a squat with a group of Mohawk
punks. After two years, her mom found her and brought her home. Then her mom
remarried and moved Anna and her older sister to Oakland, where she had hoped
Anna could stay out of trouble.
She then asked about what had happened to me. As I talked, the haunted fog
slowly wandered through the night and saturated my sentences.
When I finished talking, Anna was watching me as though she had found
something. Then she asked if I wanted to go down to the beach the next afternoon
with her and her sister.
PGR 114
I’m slipping in the mud. Black roses wiggle in the grasp of night. Where is the child? We
walk up the steps together, and the old boards moan like a pile of bones.
When I arrived, Anna was waiting in a kitchen. The wallpaper was faded and
peeling. There was a table, on which rested an old cassette player. Anna slid in
a tape. “You like The Dead Boys?” she asked, pressing play. “I’m way into them.
These guys were GG Allin’s favorite band. At his funeral, his brother put a Dead
Boys tape in a walkman and put it on GG. He pressed play just before they closed
his coffin and put him in the ground.”
We stood for a moment, listening to The Dead Boys.
“Got those clippers?” She pulled off her sweatshirt, turned her back to me, and
sat down. “I’ll kick your ass if you go too fast and screw this up.”
I glanced into the living room, where someone was watching TV. “Should we go
somewhere else? Another room or something?”
“No. Let’s do it right here.”
This was my first time cutting someone’s hair other than my own, and I was
nervous. Slowly, I slid the clippers back and forth across Anna’s head. At one point
I trembled and came very close to dropping the clippers. Anna laughed and told me
to relax. When we finished, I gently ran my fingers through her Mohawk. “Did you
ever wear it up?”
“We’d only put them up for shows like GBH, or fights with the skinheads. It was a
big deal. If you put it up once, you have to cut it because we did it with resin.”
“Wasn’t your ex was a skinhead?”
“Yes.”
We were quiet for a few moments.
“I’m leaving tomorrow night.”
“I thought you were going to stay here for a while.”
“I was. But I gotta go. It’s time. We can hang out tomorrow, though. All day. Just
us. You’ve helped me a lot.”
Get out! A rusty horseshoe falls into the dust. The slow groan of a forge crawls through
the darkness. Is that a circle in the dirt? Why is that fence leaning so dramatically?
The next morning, we decided to go to Universe Records on the other side of
town. As we passed the ocean, Anna’s hair blew like a flag in the wind. She smiled,
flashing her tormented front teeth.
At the record store, Anna gave me a small Dead Boys pin. She attached it to my
sweatshirt and said that we were married--for the day.
Next, Anna wanted to go to the Boardwalk. When we arrived, she grabbed my
hand and led me through the swirling crowd of bodies. “Come on. Let’s go see the
kids!”
At the end of the Boardwalk, a cluster of small rides banged and rattled in the hot
sun. We saw a little boy, so excited that he was running in place and shaking his
head back and forth, blond hair flapping wildly.
We watched for over an hour, laughing at the kids and their wide-eyed excitement.
“Man, they get so amped up about this shit. I could watch it forever. They have no
idea how fucked up the world really is, she said.”
“Ever wish you could go back?” She thought about it but did not respond.
We finished the day back in Capitola, at the top of the stairs, talking and
watching the fog approach.
Just after dark, Anna announced that she was ready to leave. I asked if she was
going back to Oakland. She said yes, that she had something to take care of at her
mom and step-dad’s house. We stood for a while, saying nothing. “Call me in about
two weeks. I’ll be around there.”
I watched her turn and drift back into the shadows.
Figures are entering the redwood grove. The sky is deep black. There is a storm coming.
It might be able to help.
When I tried to contact her, a strange voice responded. It sounded faint and
distant. “Anna? No, she’s gone.”
“Can I talk to her sister?”
“She’s been gone even longer.”
In mid-December I returned to the stairs. Out over the ocean, heavy rain
clouds towered like dark mountains, and the wind tasted like cold metal. I sat down
at the top of the stairs, slid a Dead Boys tape into an old walkman, and pressed
play.
PGR 115
I didn’t respond.
“She tried to kill herself three months ago.”
Anna smiled and held up a shell, the wind blowing her Mohawk in a thousand
directions.
After she finished with her shells, Anna and I spent the rest of the afternoon
sitting on the sand, watching the wind whip the ocean into wild white caps. “It
looks sad, like thousands of drowning angels,” she said pensively.
Eventually, we were the only ones left on the beach. Anna ran her hand along the
side of her head. “I think you can help me.”
“How?”
You got clippers, for cutting hair?”
“Yea.”
“I need a trim. Getting shaggy on the sides.”
“When?”
“Tonight. If you want.”
“I’d like that.” She rested her head on my shoulder.
Flies
like it
sounds:
wisp,
whisper,
holds
secrets
too quick
to capture.
PGR 116
Wasp,
you are
wicked,
not social
as bees
who follow
their chemical
dance.
Wasp,
you follow
a singular way,
industrious
as the worker
drone
yet regal
poised
beneath
the eaves.
Characters: Artist #1
Artist #2
Artist #3
There, something
more precious,
more sacred,
more nourishing
than honey—
None of these characters are gender specific, although it would be nice to not
have 3 of the same
Costumes: All wear black.
paper.
Setting: Art Gallery. Three chairs.
Props: Three black boxes with black and white patterned shapes of cloth or
paper inside exactly the same.
Long before
a man
in China,
found out
your secret,
hermetic
alchemical
mouth
breathed
forth
this page.
(The artists stand one at a time and speak to the audience discussing their work
at an art opening)
ARTIST #1 (opening the box just slightly and peaking in without letting
the audience see anything) This is my box. Inside, there are shapes of pieces
deliciously counterbalanced. It is reminiscent of life as we know it. The yin and
the yang, so to speak. The yes and the no. The high and the low. The ebb and
the flow.(slowly, deliberately, one could say lovingly, closes the box. Sits down)
Kevin Krugel
ARTIST #2 (sighs, does not open the box and does not stand, obviously irritated
at having to “explain” his or her art. He or she stares at the audience with
hostility. After a good long minute, finally speaks.) My art speaks for itself.
(ARTIST #3, nonplussed at the other two, ceremoniously stands, looks at the
other two, opens the box slightly and grins at the audience)
(While he/she is speaking, ARTIST #1 sneaks a peak of what’s inside of
ARTIST’s #2’s box)
ARTIST #3 (continues) Thank you so much for coming tonight. It means so
much to all of us when the public come to openings, not just for the wine and
cheese….(pause for laughs that may not come)…..but to hear from us directly….
ARTIST #2 Hey, get your grubby paws off my box!
ARTIST #1 I was only……
ARTIST #2 You were only what?
ARTIST #1 I was…..just, well…..just….
PGR 117
Black brilliance,
burnished
basalt,
hourglass
figure
no hand
would touch.
Bright
stinger
beckons
red pain.
Objets D’Art
Helene Simkin Jara
Beth Pettinger
Ode to a Wasp
Justin Quinn “Moby Dick, Chapter 44, or 9,122 times E”
ARTIST #2 Trying to steal my ideas?
ARTIST #1 I don’t need to steal anyone’s ideas.
ARTIST #2 Next time I catch you looking at my art, I’ll destroy you.
ARTIST #1 (rises slowly with a flourish) Thank you for that (nods to ARTIST
#3 while ARTIST #2 seethes). It is true that we almost never get the opportunity
to speak to our public. (opens the box a tad and peers in) In here is “humanity”
neither large, nor small, short nor tall, dark nor fair, round nor square. (looks
at audience and at the other two artists) I do so admire your perspicacity.
Indubitably you are worldly in your understanding of the art world. (sits down
with a pleased flourish)
(ARTIST #2 refuses to stand up. There is a long pause when ARTISTS #’s 1 & 2
look uncomfortably at him/her. ARTIST #3 leans over, whispering loudly)
PGR 118
ARTIST #3 It’s your turn. Come on. Don’t be difficult.
ARTIST #1 (also whispering loudly) Really now, you’re being impossible. These
generous people have come out specifically to hear us, to meet us, to be educated.
ARTIST #2 (muttering) Fuck them.
ARTIST #1 Shhhh.
ARTIST #3 Really now. That attitude is totally unnecessary.
ARTIST #2 (muttering) Fuck you too.
ARTIST #3 (to audience)
You really must forgive our friend here. He(she) is having a very bad day.
ARTIST #2 (normal voice) Speak for yourself.
ARTIST #1 Sometimes one forgets to fully appreciate one’s circumstances
and……
ARTIST #2 Shut up you pompous asshole.
ARTIST #3 Now, now. Let’s not get argumentative. (stands up, holding the
box) I’ll just continue as my friend over here is unable to at the moment.
ARTIST #2 Speak for yourself, you placating imbecile.
ARTIST #3 Now, that’s going a bit too far.
PGR 119
ARTIST #3 Now, now, you two. Let’s try and be professional. These kind
people have come to experience and appreciate our work. We so seldom (smiles
bemusedly at ARTIST #2) get the opportunity to discuss our art forms. Within
this box you will find these pieces can be positioned either next to, on top of,
underneath or above each other. This of course, is also metaphoric (smiles
bemusedly at ARTIST #1). I can see that some of you are nodding, wanting
to hear more. Some artists believe that obscurity is healthy (looks over at
ARTIST #2) however, I believe that once the public is let in on our precious little
secrets, oops, I didn’t mean it that way…..(chuckle…….waits for the audience
to chuckle too….which may not happen)….it is only fair. Having said that, I
will tease you no longer…(chuckle……wait again for audience participation….
until uncomfortable time goes by and takes out one piece of material) The
contents of this box, when held up to the light is like the glass ceiling we may
have all experienced at some time in our lives. (waits for this to “sink in”…which
hopefully won’t) This box represents the bottomless pit one sometimes finds
oneself in. (waits for this to “sink in.” Smiles again sweetly at the audience)
Well, it looks as if I’ve taken enough of your time at the moment. I’ll let my
distinguished colleagues continue.
(sits down gently).
ARTIST #1 Really, you are making a complete fool of yourself.
ARTIST #2 At least I have to make an effort.
(ARTISTS #1 & #2 stand up directly in front of ARTIST #2 and speak to the
audience both holding their boxes)
ARTIST #1 We’re terribly sorry. Please don’t concern yourselves with the
behavior of our friend here.
ARTIST #3 We want you all to enjoy yourselves and understand that we are not
all like this. We do have our bad days, do we not….(nods to #1)…and this seems
like one for him/her…..but, we want to share our work with you and are happy to
do it.
(ARTIST #2 walks in front of the two artists and knocks over their boxes,
spilling the contents onto the floor. They are stunned. The audience might
notice at this point that all their artwork is exactly the same)
ARTIST #1 What have you done?
ARTIST #3 Was that really necessary?
ARTIST #1 My work was in a certain order. It took me months, no, years, to
arrange it. (falls to knees and begins to weep)
(ARTIST #3 also gets on hands and knees trying desperately to rearrange his/
her pieces)
this incident disturb the atmosphere we were enjoying in the beginning.
ARTIST #1 They’ll never come back. I just know it. I feel it in my soul.
ARTIST #2 Do you see what I’m seeing?
ARTIST #1 Don’t even speak to me, you ruffian.
ARTIST #3 We are not concerned at the moment with your artistic
interpretations.
ARTIST #2 But, look…..
ARTIST #1 You brute! You have effectively destroyed everything I’ve spent the
last five years of my life envisioning. (makes a growling noise ,picks up the empty
box, walks over to ARTIST #2 and attempts to hit him/her with it. There is a
struggle, but ARTIST #3 stops this.)
ARTIST #3 Now, now. Let’s not let him/her get the better of us. We must
maintain equilibrium at all costs.
ARTIST #1 Why? Why should we?
ARTIST #3 Because…..because…..our public will come back in soon…..and….
ARTIST #1 And what? See us defending ourselves from vicious destroyers,
disrupters, disenfranchised, discombobulated….dis….dis…….oh hell…(weeping
once again)
ARTIST #1 Please excuse us for a moment. This interruption was unexpected.
I’m sure there are canapés and wine in the foyer somewhere. Please help
yourselves. This will only take a moment.
(ARTIST #2 is looking at the pieces on the floor. He/she dumps out the
contents of her/his box, letting them fall onto and mix with the others)
ARTIST#1 Now look what you’ve done! (weeps copiously)
ARTIST #3 I am ruined.
PGR 121
PGR 120
(ARTIST #2 ignores them and continues to stare at the mixture on the floor)
ARTIST #1 We’ve made such a spectacle of ourselves.
ARTIST #3 You’re right! We must make it up to them somehow. We can’t let
Mariah Hum
ARTIST #2 Say what you will, you should really look at this.
ARTIST #1 No, really. That was totally uncalled for.
ARTIST #1 I’m not looking at you or listening to you. You are unworthy.
ARTIST #2 It’s okay. I said forget about it.
(ARTIST #3 stops and looks at what is on the floor)
ARTIST #1 It is not okay. I must make it up to you.
ARTIST #3 Wait a minute. Oh my God! Look at this! Look at this!
ARTIST #2 Just drop it, okay? I rather enjoyed the honesty of it.
ARTIST #1 But look what you’ve done! You’ve helped us create the masterpiece
of all time. This will be remembered ‘til the end of time. We will be immortal.
We will be studied by art students throughout the world along side of Andy
Goldsworth, Warhol, the Tibetan monks, Rothko, Pollack…..
ARTIST #1 (covering his/her eyes) I will not look at anything. I have been
blinded, thwarted, disabled, shunted…..
(ARTIST #3 takes ARTIST #1 by the arm, peels his/her hands of his/her eyes
and forces him/her to look)
ARTIST #2 Shut up.
ARTIST #3 Look at that negative space.
ARTIST #1 No, seriously. We will be studied by students of Modern Art. Our
work will be shown in MOMA, the Louvre, the Smithsonian, the Tate, the MET…
ARTIST #2 Look at those shadows!
ARTIST #2 I said SHUT UP!
ARTIST #3 It takes the breath away.
ARTIST #1 Oh what will I wear? I can just see it now. Interviews, television…
ARTIST #1 Yes. I must say it does. It’s
exhilarating. Rapturous even.
(all three are on their knees admiring the work.
ARTIST #3 looks over at the other two)
Mariah Hum
ARTIST #1 Well, it certainly is something I’ve never quite seen before.
(ARTIST #2 grabs ARTIST #1 by the neck. They struggle. In doing so, the
artwork gets rearranged on the floor. ARTIST #3 hears the scuffle and runs in
holding a glass of champagne)
ARTIST # 3 Stop! Stop at once! What are you doing?
(They stop, all fall to their knees and look at the mess on the floor)
ARTIST #3 The public must experience this.
ARTIST #1 It’s all gone. (weeps yet again)
ARTIST #1 Yes.
(ARTIST #3 tries to piece it together again unsuccessfully)
ARTIST #2 Yes.
PGR 122
ARTIST #3 Come back dear friends. Come back! You must see our newest
creation!
ARTIST #1 (to ARTIST #2) I’m sorry I almost hit you.
ARTIST #2 It’s okay. Forget about it.
ARTIST #3 Oh, what’s the use.
(All three suddenly realize the audience has once again entered. Classical music
is playing, the tinkling of champagne glasses and people talking. There is a
pregnant pause)
ARTIST #2 (to the audience) What are you staring at?
(lights)
PGR 123
(ARTIST #3 runs into the audience waving his/
her arms)
August 2001
From the balcony of the Bill Graham I watch the arms of the crowd bend and
sway like long grass, watch mosh pits form and fade. The beat rings in every bone,
each note a blow to the chest. Through the hot smog of pot smoke Billy Joe and
Tre Cool squirt water on the crowd. Dozens of hands toss bodies of surfers into
silhouette against the stage lights. Billy Joe shines a spotlight into the balcony.
“Stand up!” he orders. “This isn’t fucking TV, it’s a concert! Stand up, God damn
it!” The band plays a song and every word rings clear.
At the song’s end the crowd surges forward and reaches toward Billy Joe. He
asks, “Who here plays drums?” He points to a raised hand near the stage and tells
the boy to climb up. “Who plays bass?” He picks another boy, farther out, who is
surfed by hundreds of hands to the stage. “Who knows how to play guitar?” Billy
Joe shines his spotlight into the balcony, lights on a kid in a red shirt. “You,” he
decrees. “You get to play. You can come onstage if you dive.” Billy Joe tells those
standing on the floor fifteen feet below to bunch more tightly together. “Get more
people over there,” he commands. There is ebb and flow, people eddy to obey.
When Billy Joe gives the order, the red shirt climbs onto the rail and raises his
arms like a pirate. He teeters for a moment, then drops like a shrouded corpse into
the crowd.
He bobs up, buoyed on hands. Billy Joe says “Surf him to the stage!” and they
do, his windmilling limbs black against the light. When the boy climbs up Billy Joe
gives him a guitar and a big kiss on the mouth. He teaches the boys a little threechord song and lets them play. We spread ourselves like foam on the music, tossed
by the rush and tug of chords, soothed by the melody’s swell. We have sailed rough
seas, we have steered the ship, we are still afloat.
The song ends. Billy Joe has the three boys dive back into the crowd. The band
plays, and the taste of lighter fluid wafts over us. We pulse to the music like water.
They play the national anthem, with a trumpet player dressed as a bee, and we
cheer.
Angelica Sarkisyan
PGR 125
Debra Spencer
PGR 124
In Concert
It Will Happen
Seven years I was the pearl
in the captain’s tobacco pouch. I waited,
sang at the cabaret for torn sailors, a storm
outside blackout blinds, stars
glued to my gown— a thousand
winks from the storm-tossed
lovers I‘d have, and those I would deny.
Broomstick sea-songs stirred
the ships’ cauldron. Men,
like moths bound for heat,
stumbled into footlights.
My hair was a blade
across my forehead, an edge
on the silken face and moon-plush lips
whose pout unfolded like ripe
camellias over the sharp black keys. I needed
Uma Bodie
to hold the sailors back and call
them in at the same time,
those sea-sick nights. How could I hold
all their turbulence? How
could I tell them I’d never
be quenched by their teasing
tides? My sash like a velvet entry rope
with a golden hook lifted
to let in the lucky
few to flounder
behind my drapery. Any stripe
of shoulder muscle a credential.
My darlings! Just boys. My lipstick
smeared on their faces
tender as love-songs
to time’s frozen air-raid
embrace. I only
sang on the rocks
so they might remember.
The next time, go ahead it’s okay.
Fear will be a barracuda nestled
in a sea floor ridge. Surf a ten foot wave.
Adela Najarro
You will wander aimlessly through
dreamscape roads and avenues. Make sure
to ask everyone, “Where’s the party?”
Go to the party.
Sashay in conga lines. Drink purple martinis.
Kiss the stranger, though
you will wake up alone.
Treasure daylight electrified dust. Notice
fire-orange flowers arising from compacted soil.
Place a band-aid on your spleen, liver,
whichever internal organ needs tending.
Go shopping.
Buy pretty shoes, but toss them let sand pedicure your feet.
aside;
Sweep the kitchen clean of crumbs multiplying in corners at the feet of tables.
On day three of one hundred
pumpkins harvested gold.
Hang the new clock on the wall.
remember
You do have the courage.
The world is kind.
You have always been loved.
PGR 127
Lisa Simon
PGR 126
Siren
Ken Weisner
First Poetry Teacher
for Bruce Weigl
I only gradually came to understand
what you might be feeling
after the war.
We knew you were
re-stitching yourself and we loved you for it—
a little wild, prone at times to bravado….
on my innocence—found something
to nurture—how had you gained
that quality of mind—fresh, pried open?
I was seventeen, you knew
I had lost a father.
I think you could see it
everywhere, pain,
innocence… industrious as spring
among the dead and the living.
You yourself, still a student—
our teachers had read 100,000 poems
more than we had.
When a convoy of covered jeeps passed
down Highway 58
you still flinched, you
met Jean—
a famous love in our eyes. Everything you did
was famous—
“All the Angels are terrible” “Atrocity smiled”—
You knew what it meant, not only
that it was beautiful
returned to this little town
in Ohio. And like James Wright
found new ways
for irony to expose
tenderness.
Oh, you could flash a smile.
PGR 129
I who had never been
in a single fistfight. I imagine you
had killed. Yet you refused to look down
Sara Friedlander
PGR 128
In my dream, Jean picks up,
then lets me talk to you—you’ve been ill.
I say thanks for reading my poems,
It was hot out. Underneath our body armor our uniforms were soaked. Even as
we rolled down the road with the wind blowing in over my face sweat poured out
of my helmet and into my eyes. Six of us went out that day: SGT Portilloz, SGT
“Smitty”, Bell, SGT Simpson, Chigga and me. We were short three but it wasn’t
too big of a deal; we hadn’t seen any action in a month and we knew our A.O. was
pretty safe; We had WALKED down that street just a few days before. I was riding
“air guard” in the bed of the lead truck with my M-249 machine gun resting on its
bipod up on the roof. My job was to provide security and that meant sometimes
being in a vulnerable position. Besides, up there in the breeze was the only place to
get a little relief from the heat.
The patrol started like any other, radio in our departure “bravo three-three SP
now. Two trucks, six Packs. Out.” Then off we went on our pre-determined route,
waving at the kids we knew and staring down the ones we knew threw rocks.
Everything was going normal until in the blink of one sweaty eye – something
so far off in my peripheral that I couldn’t exactly make it out – kicked my sixth
sense into overdrive. A gun. I knew it was a gun.
We saw people with guns all the time. More often than not they were the new
Iraqi police, but this time something caught my eye, something was different.
He wasn’t wearing the black slacks and the blue collard shirt the police wear, and
his gun was chromed; the issued rifles were all blued. I don’t know how my mind
registered all this in such a short time, especially when he was so far to my side he
was almost behind me.
Without thinking I had already taken my gun off safe and was turning my body
to get ready, just in case.
I knew he started shooting first and not someone in the truck behind me: There
is a distinct sound to being on the receiving end of an AK-47, the way the bolt slaps
into the receiver and the low pitched crack its rounds make as they fly by, it’s a
sound not easily forgotten.
By the time the first round went off I had already turned and was preparing to
shoot but as his shots rang out the driver of my vehicle reacted how the 7-8, the
manual written for Vietnam combat said to react to a near ambush – Turn towards
the enemy and fight through- only problem is vehicles maneuver differently than
people dismounted in a jungle do. So as he slammed on the breaks to stop and
react, I was standing up in the bed of the truck and Newton’s law of inertia kicked
in full force and I went head over heels up onto the roof. When I came back down
Smitty and Portilloz had already sprinted the short distance through the street to
the wall of the building with the doorway the shooter had been standing in. The
whole street level was a giant glass window that had been covered over so no one
could see in. As my squad maneuvered towards the door the shooter had backed
into I opened fire. As round after round tore through the window and the glass
PGR 131
erupted into shards on the concrete I covered Smitty and Portilloz in a blanket of
fire at 850 rounds a minute as they moved ever closer to the door, then watched
as they slipped through the blackened doorway until they disappeared into the
unknown, into my unknown. I turned to pull security out into the road, watching the ever-growing crowd,
trying to maintain some sort of security. I reached for the radio receiver and called
back to our headquarters to start a status update “Bravo-six, Bravo-three-three,
contact. Out.” Peewee Gonzoid
Tony Purtscher
PGR 130
Peripherals and Instincts
I wish I could have bought you everything
Then held you
And told you
That one day you’d be loved
I once heard you speak in Spanish
Your speech became so smooth
Effortless and detailed
Your voice became a truth
An undeniable exposé
Of the Mexican girl
Living inside your American body
You’ve told me about yourself
Your name, a family tradition that many women share
You live in the “bad” part of town
Your are the older sister who gets stuck playing mommy
After school to her two much younger sisters
While your mom is out fucking around
With her boyfriend, who is the reason why
She takes your tuition money,
To pay for his gambling habits
And your dad
Well, nothing to be said there
And your brothers and cousins
Cholos and gang bangers
And you’re the sweetest girl
Young, innocent
And confused so much
You’re not even sure if you are a lesbian or not
Alissa Goldring
Alissa Goldring
Phillip Ramos
I Once Heard You Speak in Spanish
So easily you could be swept away
Lost and forgotten
This poor little
Latina
Mexican
Girl
In Los Angeles
PGR 133
PGR 132
But there were so many beautiful things I saw in you
I hope you figure it out
I hope you make it work
And create something for yourself
Because I saw that no one had anything
For you in this world
And I couldn’t give it you
Ibiza, August
That slow high-sheen
note of a horn
floating up from a cellar-bar—
hot afternoon
and who I saw so lanky and
friendly in the black skin I liked
and was afraid of, the skin
my father would never
want me to touch.
The way he tilted
that trumpet. I suggested
oranges, he found them,
and chocolate. The ledge was high
where we sat above the harbor.
The gulls came flying.
Did he lift me up?
When we walked along the dock,
the Lady Anna,
old paint black and yellow,
rocked in her moorings—
the sweetness in his hands
as we stepped in,
green leaves of a Spanish name,
strange to me,
the lightness of flying high,
hovering there, above that boat
while being held within.
Sara Friedlander
PGR 134
I.
Tell her that I’m here. waiting.
I’ve got the IV in my arm
and I’ve got nowhere to run
I think earlier we fucked,
but I can’t be too sure.
Her underwear is sitting in my room.
Please understand
The pills were just to protect you.
II.
Sit down. Don’t talk.
I’ve missed this image.
Can you please remove yr top?
I’ve been sick, and I need a friend.
It’s so good to see you/
You only caused al of this,
but I accept your apology.
III.
I felt the world go black
it felt very nice to die
to live completely alone
and in that darkness
I only saw you
Why were the Smiths playing?
IV.
Naïve melody
stop. drop. roll.
Driving in your car.
I can’t stop imagining you naked
To die by your side.
I’ll take my odds.
V.
Please take my temperature. I’m dying. Don’t know what happened. Please slow down. I’m dying back
here. The heat is too high. I asked your name. You asked his. Why can’t I be you?
Atleastinsideofyouwhenthenumbersstoprollingalongtheriveralonelikealeaf.
Come home.
I miss your hands.
I miss your touch.
Like when you really meant it.
PGR 135
Summer, 2008
Shaun Malloy
Rosie King
Jazzed
Donna Becker
Love the Words While They Last
At the dinner table
My father recited Chaucer
As fast as he could to make us laugh
Just one stanza
I learned it too
And forgot
But he remembered
And loved the way
The old, unknown words twisted his tongue.
I curled on his lap to listen
He held the hard, red covered book
In his carpenter hands
“Four score and seven years ago
our fathers brought forth on this continent..” he read
Exaggerating each consonant for the love of the sound.
A golden statue for his best speech
Now the proud smile
Only in gray, silent newsprint.
Now words are few
mismatched.
He searches,
uses signs,
Waits for us to guess
The missing sound,
The missing thought.
Words so few
His share used up
Approaching silence.
Peering down the stairs
I listened and watched
as he told tales and I heard
laughter of friends late into the night.
PGR 137
PGR 136
A grocery boy
listening and greeting
all the old town’s women
Italian, Slavic, Polish, Finn
Years later
The curl of each accent and phrase was still his
Whenever he wished for a story
Peggy Hansen “Santuario”
A salesman
His life in talk
Alone in the smokey car
Long straight roads
Then greetings, talking, joking, selling
English, Spanish, no matter
Pleasure of words in the air
For friendship, commerce
Between men.
with whatever homage might be due to Joe Barton, R of Texas
Phillip Ramos
The Old Testament tells us cold and hot
summer and winter shall not cease.
Or at the least, the rich need not worry.
For the prophet Joseph says, When it is hot,
Extinction
Science can now confirm that the extinction of the dinosaurs
Can be positively identified
To a single cause
An asteroid 9 miles wide struck the earth
Causing tectonic plates to shift
Earthquakes of over 10.0 magnitude
Tsunamis
And finally an eternal winter as dust and debris covered the sky
David Thorn
J. McNeil
Global Warming according to Genesis
some shall have shade. When it is cold,
a few shall find warmth. When it rains,
the select shall be sheltered. And when the oceans rise,
they shall purchase golden tickets
on a departing ark.
Only the foolish,
the deceived, and the impoverished of spirit
and of pocket worry over earth’s weather, its fulminations, its fusillades, its future. There is no
catastrophe of change upon us, the profit says, swinging
his wisdom like a blade against the rainforest
of our ignorance.
Some say the world will end
in fire, some say in frost and ice. Neither will suffice.
No world-ending cataclysms for the richest, the safest, the fattest fat catavoiders, only the rest of us, we the meek,
choking, gagging, drowning, freezing, blazing,
shall expire, not once but twice.
I heard somewhere that
Something that happens once never happens again
While something that happens more than once will inevitably happen again
What are the odds of inevitability, randomness and chaos?
The same odds that it is all God’s masterpiece I suppose
PGR 139
PGR 138
What are the odds of that?
Two black boots hang
from a power-line above the boulevard.
Bits of grass and feathers poke out
of the bullet holes in the soles.
Robert S. Pesich
Robyn Marshall
Open Case
Come evening, the wind
swings them like a pendulum
over the cop who photographs them
while an old lady quickly shuffles past
(after a poem by Judith Ortiz Cofer)
I have been shocked by yellow lemons—
the heavy weight of wonder
thunders down through sky—
waiting still on crucified branches:
el espiritu santo
unquestionable grace spirited upon
lovers, poets and saints
in some versions of some stories
told in some way earnestly hard.
One third mystery
in a Catholic prayer, not a lover,
but the love itself, the never
being alone, complete union body
breath dancing to bee bob or drum
beat. I want
to sit down on a bar stool. Order
a stiff shot of tequila, lick a citrus
slice, taste salt, then the burning
flame of love and light.
PGR 141
when those shoes descend at night
they kick our doors in search of a voice.
Dios Mio, Skin and Tequila
Alissa Goldring
PGR 140
Adela Najarro
pushing a baby carriage, crossing herself
and muttering in Bosnian
J. McNeil
Author and Artist Bios
Family legend has it that 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)
Jeanne Althouse: I live in Palo Alto, California and write mainly flash fiction. My
work has been published in the Madison Review, Opium, Canary, the Stanford English
Department Newsletter, The MacGuffin, Pindeldyboz, Temeros and Flashquake. I have
won the Foothill Writer’s Conference and the Lunch Hour Stories short story contests.
I have a poem published in Literary Mama.
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.
Jody Bare: Do you think growing up in an art studio makes you an artist? I grew
up in my mother’s studio, and I seem compelled to create. As an adult, I started
studying symbols across the world and across time. Now I create story blocks
that reflect birth, marriage, journey, death, creation, bliss or, in other words, basic
archetypes of human experience. My art continues to evolve, but I have not wavered
from my original linocut medium, and I still use that first linoleum block created
under my mother’s gaze.
Donna Becker was born in Minnesota and has lived on the East Coast and in
Santa Cruz. She is a mother, wife and family law attorney. After years of carrying
images and phrases in her head she is grateful to the Cabrillo English Department
for helping her to put pen to paper, particularly Jeff Tagami.
Kierstin Bridger has been on the lam from teenage angst for quite some time. She’s often seen these day careening down the slopes in Telluride, Colorado where
she dips her toes in the poetry pool, prances in prose, and disguises herself as an
interior designer by day, poor dear. She never got the hang of prophylactics and
therefore can be seen with a school age child who looks like her clone. Her husband
shrugs….a lot.
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PGR 142
Marie Boucher enjoys the unabashed purity of poetry, nothing hidden, pure
délire and delight. She pens her poetry in the middle of the night, at dawn when
the jays and crows stir, or whenever inspiration strikes. By day, she teaches English
and French at Monterey Peninsula College, attends her daughter’s sports events,
practices yoga and attempts to achieve balance in a chaotic world.
Dane Cervine’s poems have been chosen for recognition by Adrienne Rich,
Tony Hoagland, and have been finalists for the Caesura and the Atlanta Review
International Poetry competitions. Visit his web-site at www.DaneCervine.
typepad.com for further glimpses into his work.
Bill Clark lives in Santa Cruz, California, and recently retired from his “pesky
day job.” His work has been featured in the Porter Gulch Review, Memoir (and), as
well as shown in juried exhibitions throughout the San Francisco Bay Area. Two
of his pieces are included in Santa Cruz County’s permanent art collection, the
Visual Chronicle. His current interests include incorporating photographic images
into mixed-media pieces created by his partner Carol and keeping current with
his two daughters, Marisol and Giselle, their husbands Luke and Will and three
grandchildren, Pablo, Nina and Cecilia.
Anne Clements: I bought my first digital SLR in January 2006 for a holiday in
Chile and have been hooked on photography ever since. Being a modern languages
graduate in French and Spanish from Trinity College, Dublin, is a great excuse to
visit countries where I speak the language. I love travel and taking photographs on
my trips abroad but enjoy using my camera at home just as much. I get a kick out
of using my imagination to create conceptual images but also like to capture the
unadulterated moment when I’m on a trip.
Pam Davenport is from Chandler, Arizona. She is passionate about many things,
including writing, which she does to figure stuff out. The stories of those she loves
(a very long list of people) flow through her. She loves learning from great teachers,
many of whom are her students.
Sara Friedlander is a mixed media artist combining her love for photography
with her passion for painting. Working in series, across widely varied themes,
she always strives to create time-lapsed photo-surrealistic images. Her single
photographic shots seem to defy predictability and often incorporate movement,
ghosts, or blurred distortions.
Susan Freeman teaches teachers and collaborates with visual and performing
artists to keep writing and the arts alive in public schools. One day, she’ll retire
PGR 145
PGR 144
Lucky enough to happen upon a night class at Cabrillo College called Introduction
to Printmaking with Paul Rhoel in 1994 Stacy Frank became hooked on the
process of pushing ink into paper. Palm trees, pears and other natural history
subjects have been the inspiration of her work over the years - a nod to her training
in Scientific Illustration from UCSC. With techniques ranging from the traditional
intaglio printing process to the playful results of gelatin printing Stacy’s work can
be seen at www.stacyfrank.com
Kim Stirling
In 1957, just weeks after he turned seventeen, Dick Guthrie enlisted in the Army.
He intended to get the draft out of the way before going to college and launching
some lucrative career. But once in uniform, he felt called by Service to Country,
and stayed in the Army for 34 years. His memoir, Gone to Soldiers, Every One, is the
story about the boys of B Company–both in 1967, and today, as continue to deal
with their Vietnam experience.
Vinnie Hansen is one of those nefarious retired teachers bankrupting the state
with her pension! She’s also guilty of writing genre fiction in the form of the Carol
Sabala mystery series. The author of numerous short stories, she lives in Santa
Cruz with her husband, artist Daniel S. Friedman.
Eric Hasse, born in Palo Alto, makes his home on the western side of the
Connecticut River watershed region in Norwich, Vermont. He runs an art gallery
across the river where he has a rotating display of his own digital images, plus
a selected sampling of fellow visual artists’ work. Diagnosed with Parkinson’s
Disease over 15 years ago, these days, he devotes his time to the exploration of the
ten thousand things in the world of the visual arts. He still writes the occasional
poem.
When Helene Simkin Jara tells people she graduated from UCLA, they look at
her in awe. When she tells them her major was Theatre Arts, their eyes drift away.
Helene’s claim to fame is having once been nominated for the Pushcart prize.
Another claim to fame is having been the Easter Bunny in Santa Cruz before she
had children. And yet another is to have made roast beef apples, which you would
never in your right mind want to try. There are different kinds of fames.
Geneffa Popatia Jonker, the daughter of a refugee and a runaway, was born
and raised in England, studied in Canada, and has made California her home since
1998. She is a non-prolific poet who averages one poem every five years while she
teaches English at Cabrillo College.
PGR 146
Joyce M. Johnson: I enjoy playing with words.
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.
Koak was born on a cold November dawn in 1981. Her whimsical, and often
dark, sense of humor finds outlet through her work, which ranges from comics
to sculptures but is always deeply rooted in narrative. She is currently immersed
in creating a graphic novel and obsessively bringing to fruition the haunting and
folkloric world in which this story takes place.
John Louis Koenig: I have been writing poetry since grammar school, where
Catholic nuns inadvertently nudged my writing toward the dark side by reading
Edgar Allen Poe to me and my impressionable classmates. Later classic influences
included William Shakespeare, Fitz-James O’Brien, Robert W. Service and Lord
Byron.
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
George Lober once had a beard that was red, a ‘57 Ford two-door hardtop, and a
baseball autographed by the 1960 Pittsburgh Pirates. Today he has a white goatee, a
Kindle, and a book autographed by Philip Levine. This, he tells himself, is progress.
Manfred Luedge, born and raised in West-Germany, living in California since
1982, started writing poetry and prose in English in 2005. He pays most of his
bills through his work as a contractor. He’s happily married and proud father of a
wonderful daughter.
Joanna Martin uses poetry as a way to reflect the world in the mirror of
imagination.
Marianne C. Naegele I am currently finishing my Theater Arts degree at Cabrillo
and have worked as a teacher for most of my adult life. I have also been a singer,
go-go dancer, cab driver, waitress and bartender. I have eighteen and a half years
clean and sober and attend many twelve step groups and do volunteer work at a
drug rehab and the women’s jail. I have always wanted to be an author and have
written many songs, poems and stories, but only recently am I working on getting
them published.
PGR 147
from that Sisyphusian task and write illustrated children’s books. Her poetry
has most recently appeared in Red Wheelbarrow and Porter Gulch Review, and she
occasionally co-hosts The Poetry Show on Santa Cruz public radio station KUSP.
Lucas Narayan-Burns: I am a Cabrillo student, and I was part of the editorial
staff of the 2010 PGR. (Spoiler alert): I sometimes write poems of my own.
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.
Bob Newick: I am retired from the Design Center of an international corporation.
I have worked in or as an Advertising Manager, Photographer, Graphic Design,
volunteer art teacher in schools doing art demonstrations and talks to art groups,
giving art workshops, and as a political cartoonist.
Maggie Paul teaches English and Social Justice at Cabrillo College and UCSC.
Her new book, Borrowed World, was published by Hummingbird Press in March,
2011. Her next project is a memoir about growing up a Boston Irish Catholic in the
1960’s.
Robert Pesich’s work has recently appeared in The Bitter Oleander, White Pelican
Review and Skidrow Penthouse and is forthcoming in Red Wheelbarrow and Sleet
Magazine. 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.
Dan Phillips, old enough to be glad his poetic “mojo” still works, will go the
distance, to Hawaii, Canada, New Mexico or Bali for inspiration. His poems have
been published in Porter Gulch Review, Montserrat Review, Monterey Poetry Review,
Anthology of Monterey Bay Poets ’04 and Coastlines: Eight Santa Cruz Poets and in
select emails.
Melinda Rice: Back in Colorado, I miss mingling with all those full-time Cabrillo
students, pulling my Volcom hat down low and donning a pair of sunglasses so
I might blend in. The hill up to the Horticulture Building usually gave me away,
though. Hope my poetry isn’t so winded.
A movie buff and film-school student who felt adrift, Jeremiah Ridgeway joined
the Army in 2005. He considered enlisting as a combat videographer, but realized
he’d be “taking pictures of handshakes and generals.” Craving “a real experience,”
he signed on for combat duty as a Reconnaissance Cavalry Scout and headed to
Afghanistan, where he served from February 2006 to July 2007. “I had a lot of life
crammed into 16 months,” says Ridgeway. “Being shot at, living in a hole for a
month at a time. It was extreme.”
Angelica Sarkisyan was born in the former Soviet Union and now lives and works
in Los Angeles. She graduated in Anthropology and Art from UCLA and studied
photography at Santa Monica College. Angelica works with lith, whose unstable
chemical processes give unpredictable and unreproducible results. Infrared film
alters all color values from the known. Toy cameras distort images into their true
selves. She uses these and other instruments of chaos to capture the hyper-reality
of the unconscious dream world as it intrudes into our awareness. The images stop
our brains from building their clichés giving us a moment of true seeing.
Ashlyn Schehrer: I am a young and passionate writer who aspires to publish a
novel one day. I write every day and it’s safe to say that I am addicted to the space
of creation that writing provides me. I consider words my home and often times
yearn to live inside of them forever.
PGR 149
Phillip Ramos is a returning student at Cabrillo College majoring in English
Literature. He has worked as a detective for the Los Angeles Police force, a
consultant for an architectural design firm in Wyoming and a speechwriter for a
powerful politician in Arizona. And none of that last sentence is true.
Peggy Hansen
PGR 148
Tony Purtscher was raised in Felton, CA. He enlisted in the Army after high school
and was an Infantryman in the 82nd Airborne Division. After 8 1/2 long, long
years he decided he’d had enough and moved home to pursue school full time to
obtain a teaching credential in order to be able to torment the youth of tomorrow .
He is an avid outdoorsman, cyclist, prankster and connoisseur of handcrafted beer
. He has recently taken to growing facial hair and has a youtube channel that has
literally been viewed tens of times.
Lisa Simon is a writer, teacher, and singer whose love of language was nurtured in her
birthplace of Birmingham. She performs as often as possible with her garage band, “The
Offenders” and is working on beatboxing. She has an MFA in Poetry from Vermont
College of Fine Arts and a BA in English from Berkeley and has taught for CA Poets in the
Schools, Santa Cruz Cultural Council programs, Barrios Unidos, and Cabrillo College. She
lives in Santa Cruz with her husband and daughter.
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.
Myla Stauber has been writing literary fiction for twelve years but just beginning
her publishing journey. She has been to Vietnam several times while on the journey of
adopting her daughter. She travels to distant lands at mylafox@msn.com.
Guggenheim Award winner Robert Sward taught at Cabrillo College for 11
years. Author of God is in the Cracks and The Collected Poems, now in its second
printing, his latest will be Unleashed: The Dogs in My Life. Also, forthcoming from
Red Hen Press (Los Angeles) is a New & Selected due out 2011.
www.robertsward.com.
David Thorn: Father, brother, liver, lover, giver, taker, writer, surfer, rhymer,
schemer, diviner, dreamer: twenty-third appearance in PGR, three time Poet of the
Year, writing teacher at UCSC & Cabrillo, original surfing poet.
Janet Trenchard paints large abstract paintings and writes fiction and poetry. Much
of her work is channeled through a group of entities known as The Pink Curler-Headed
Ones.
PGR 150
Beth Vieira was once incarnated as a book in her role as a professor. That was before
she discovered poetry and became a fountain pen. Her first love is the sea.
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.)
Muriel Weinstein: When I’m not tightrope walking, I’m dog walking & when I’m not
dog walking, I’m writing poetry & children’s fiction. My newest book, out this week, PLAY
LOUIS, PLAY, from Bloomsbury Press USA, just became a Junior Library Guild Selection.
Am so excited might do cartwheels on my tightrope.
Eden White has large blank spaces in her mind which she prefers to think of as “canvases
of creativity” rather than “dead airtime.”
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’s hobbies include lizards, snakes, conjugating verbs, and tequila. She
aspires to become a vampire in the near future while she is still pretty good looking.
Joan Zimmerman was born in north-west rural Britain, a couple of valleys away from
William Wordsworth’s home. She wrote her first poem at the age of nine in order to
avoid strenuous exercise, and continues in this practice. She has worked as a surveyor at
archeological digs in Britain and Greece, a solid-state physicist, dishwasher, a computerscience teacher, a software quality assessor, a radio host, a falconry apprentice, a web
designer, a software designer, and an English tutor.
The last time Jan Zivic was
in a classroom she was the
teacher who also sponsored
the lit magazine; this time
she’s the oldest person in
the MFA writing program
at USF working from the
other side of the desk and
delighted to be in a lit
magazine.
Halona K. Zuck: As a
psychotherapist practicing
in Santa Clara County,
Halona has been consciously
studying
both
mental
illness and mental wellness
since she was a young child.
She has just begun to write
about her life’s experiences
and findings with the hope
that someone, even one
person, may feel seen,
heard, and helped in some
personal way.
PGR 151
Sandra Schubert is an attorney philosopher who hails from California. Her great loves
are family, friends, words and the beauty of our world and the people in it.
Kiye-Paul Evans
PGR 152
Robyn Marshall
Bodhisattva, Would You Take Me By the Hand? Julia R. McCartney
154
Words That Shatter Mirrors: La’akea Sky Smith158
The Short Man Runs in Circles: A critique of Jeanne Althouse’s The Short Man 162
El Barrio: Success and Respect, by Velvet Reitan166
Dark to Light: A Mother’s Unconditional Love, By Mark Shisler
168
A Man’s longing for Acceptance, By Chris Camp171
Beyond Belief: Inhaling an 8 Ball, By Shane Carle174
Sneak Attack on Fundamentalist Muslim Societies Shannon Marsh
177
Simple Happiness, By Mariah Hum180
Tulips: Critique of Jeanne Johnson’s Tulips, by Rachel Rose
182
Hourglass Reasoning By Cody Gilbert185
Coming to, A Critique of Ashlyn Schehrers As We All Are by Shannon Marsh 188
A House That Melted Into a Blind Man’s Brain Fernando Gonzalez 189
How Can You Weigh Words? A Critique of Eden White’s Thin Air
191
Witches, Midwives & Nurses, Heather Richard193
Created from, A critique of Melinda Rice’s Encounter, by Heather Richard 196
Chris Martin: Eloquent, but Unfocused, By Cody Gilbert
198
The Zebrafish… A critique of Robert S. Pesich’s Quick Stop
202
Sensationation By Roderick Moreland, Hunter S. Thompson’s Hell’s Angels 206
Working Class Heroes A critique of Richard P. Guthrie ‘s Murphy 209
Borne From Fairy Bones A critique of Daddy’s Little Boy212
The Sound of Silence Nightingale Floor, Book review by Zachary Smith
214
The World is How We See it A critique of Debra Spencer’s In Concert 220
God Is Not a Chauvinist, So why are God’s servants? Atar Barkai
224
First-Degree Fratricide A critique of Robert Nielson’s Another Round 228
The Witch that Changed Kyle by Nancy Garcia 232
Like a Sculpture, We are Molded by Conscious Hands By Evan McAndrews235
I Am Not My Brain! A Critique of Autopoesis by Len Anderson
238
Stereotype Identities: How they affect Society Rachel Rose241
Not Belonging to Chick Literature By Mariah Hum244
A Winter’s Journey Worth Taking James O’Hare 247
Mass Media’s Destruction A critique of Phil Wagner’s An Arist’s Obligation250
Holding Onto Hope
by Alexis Sicairos
252
Missing You, Metropolis By Gabby Bedolla255
Listen To the Voices A Critique of Eden White’s poem Thin Air
258
The World is How We See it if We Never Open Our Eyes
A critique of Debra Spencer’s In Concert 261
PGR 153
Table of Contents for Book Reviews
and Critiques of Submissions by the students
Julia R. McCartney
PGR 154
Mind and Life
Pier Luigi Luisi
Columbia University Press
218 pages
$17.95
As a child, I would listen to my mother chant her daimoku in front of her
gohonzon every night. She would sit there, palms together, eyes closed, chanting softly
to herself, “namu myoho renge kyo, namu myoho renge kyo”. My mother practices a
form of Japanese Buddhism called Nichiren Buddhism. There are many different kinds
of Buddhism- what my mother practices is a form of Mahayana Buddhism- but what
connects these different philosophies is their goal to reach enlightenment. The modern
day figure that is most closely associated with Buddhism, besides the Buddha himself,
is the Dalai Lama, the leader of Tibetan Buddhism. The Dalai Lama is believed to be an
enlightened manifestation of The Bodhisattva of Compassion that chooses to reincarnate
himself (The Office). Since 1987, select representatives from Tibetan Buddhism and the
Western sciences have joined together once a year at His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama’s
house in Dharamsala to hold a conference on the nature of reality. The headline on the
“Mind and Life Institute” website opens to say “Building a scientific understanding of
the mind to reduce suffering and promote well-being”. That is exactly what the institute
attempts to do and exactly what the reader will further obtain from reading Mind and
Life: Discussions with the Dalai Lama on the Nature of Reality by Pier Luigi Luisi. Trying
to reinvent yourself to be a better human being is possibly the one universally true
philosophy about the self; we are all working to grow through our lives. Some believe
the growth is to get closer to God, some believe it is a spiritual path to enlightenment,
and others believe it is purely the logic of biological evolution. Buddhists recognize this
ongoing path as the meaning of life; to reach nirvana; to grow and be enlightened. Mind
and Life reflects the deep understandings of two very different philosophies; Western
science and Tibetan Buddhism. The book clearly exhibits how the Dalai Lama’s thrill
for contrasting sets of knowledge is expanding traditional Buddhist thought to a more
enlightened state of understanding.
The book is an extensive read that requires an exhausting attention, but the
discussions themselves would be even more difficult to decipher without the format the
book provides. What the book does is break down the discussion and explain what exactly
it is these intellectual people are approaching. The average non-scientist can read this
book and have a surprisingly solid understanding of certain scientific concepts; concepts
that are helpful to a mind eager to further understand the world around us. Luisi, for
example, coherently explains the foundation of prebiotic chemistry; he explains an
experiment performed in the 1950s by Stanley Miller and continues to describe how “the
building blocks of life, amino acids and sugars, can be formed from very simple molecular
components with a very simple energy source… they form because they are the most
stable of the possible compounds” (Luisi 91). He makes it so that we, the readers, can
understand a scientific concept without having to know all of the technical jargon; we can
obtain a basic awareness of the theory. From there we can proceed to understand that
this knowledge of simple molecular structure is more than just an explanation of chemical
reactions; it is an explanation for the creation of life and therefore proposes conflicting
philosophical ideas. Tibetan Buddhists believe in reincarnation; they believe in a soul.
They believe that life is having a soul, but if life and the creation of life can be scientifically
explained through simple molecular reactions, what then does this information mean to
the Buddhists? The answer is indefinite, and the reason for the Mind and Life institute to
continue annually. These conversations are birthing a new age of Buddhist philosophical
thought, because Buddhists are embracing new discoveries and philosophies rather than
maintaining tradition.
One can read textbooks on atomic structure, biology, physics, or organic matter.
One can also read texts on spiritual journeys, Buddhist thought, or just happiness in
general. Mind and Life demonstrates the Buddhist interest in incorporating modern
theories with their philosophies. The Dalai Lama explains his possible scientific
explanation for consciousness;
“If Buddhism adopts the notion of the big bang as the beginning of this universe, then
the origin of matter in this universe is not a preceding continuum of consciousness,
or divine consciousness. Nothing like that. The substantial cause of the first matter in
this universe was preceding matter. Only mass-energy gives rise to mass-energy, and
consciousness always gives rise only to consciousness… not everything falls into the
category of matter. Perhaps if we were fully enlightened we would see things differently.”
(Luisi 181).
The Dalai Lama here is attempting to incorporate scientific theories with Buddhist
thought. He is determined to build a bridge of knowledge that will help to enlighten both
the Buddhists and the scientists. This is a web of knowledge that has not yet been spun
together, and the main goal of the Mind and Life Institute.
There are videos and audio files available to watch and listen to the conference,
but even as entertaining as they may be, they do not provide the additional analysis
of the scientific concepts. The majority of the dialogue that actually takes place at the
conference is a description of some sort of scientific theory such as elementary particles.
Because many of the observers at the conference are Tibetan monks that have had little
or no education on Western science, nothing at the meeting is assumed to be understood
by all. Everything that is discussed is explained in detail. What makes the book so
comprehensible however, is the author’s organized explanation of these complex topics;
and the author does this continuously with every topic discussed throughout the entire
book. Luisi explains the definition of autopoiesis and gives a brief history of its relevance
to modern science before we read the actual dialogue concerning the topic. By doing this,
he gives us a solid background to a topic we may, as readers, previously know nothing
about; he makes these philosophical conversations more accessible to the average person.
What Luisi fails to do however, is explain the Buddhist philosophies in context. The Dalai
Lama is the largest contributor to the dialogues within the conference, he has many
questions and philosophical proposals about certain scientific realities; but we as readers
have no background to these methods of thinking. The author does not first explain the
history of Tibetan Buddhism or even give an outline of Buddhist thought. He gives a brief
PGR 155
Bodhisattva, Would You Take Me By the Hand?
biography of the 14th Dalai Lama, but doesn’t explain what a Dalai Lama is or what it
means to be one. The only history given of Buddha is revealed at the end of the book. This
is research that had to be done on the side for me, and although I did not have a problem
with that, it would have strengthened the book immensely had more Buddhist history
been included throughout the text.
The greatest knowledge that one can really attain from this book is a genuine,
well-rounded understanding of the recent accomplishments in modern science and the
ethical approach that Buddhists believe should be taken with them. Mind and Life can
aid the individual in their search for personal growth, because the entire dialogue is
such a positive analysis of life and reality. To many practicing Buddhists, Buddhism is a
philosophy rather than a theistic religion; “The Buddha did not claim to be the bearer of a
message from on high. He made it clear that what he taught he had discovered for himself
through his own efforts” (Robinson). Their philosophies are not some godly game for
them; it is a method of obtaining the happiest and most compassionate life.
Mind and Life formulates certain questions that should be asked by any human
being as science progresses. We all have our own philosophies of the mind and of life, but
perhaps the more background knowledge we gain through sources such as this text, the
better we can understand the world around us and in turn ourselves. Just having a basic
intelligence about scientific concepts such as atomic particles or quantum mechanics can
help one travel his life with confidence. If knowledge is power, reading the analysis of the
conversations involving the most influential teachers on this planet is a step closer to
that self-empowerment. This is a step Tibetan Buddhists are taking, and it is a step the
rest of the world will have one day as well.
Kevin Krugel
Works Cited
Luisi, P. L., and Zara Houshmand. Mind and Life: Discussions with the Dalai Lama on the
Nature of Reality. New York: Columbia UP, 2009. Print.
Robinson, B. A. “Is Buddhism a Religion or a Philosophy?” Religious Tolerance. Google,
29 Aug. 2009. Web. 19 Apr. 2011.
PGR 157
PGR 156
The Office of His Holiness the Dalai Lama. “A Brief Biography.” The Office of His
Holiness the Dalai Lama. Web. 1 May 2011.
La’akea Sky Smith
The Goodbye Town
Timothy O’Keefe
Oberlin College Press
73 pages
“Even when poetry has a meaning, as it usually has, it may be inadvisable to draw
it out... Perfect understanding will sometimes almost extinguish pleasure.” A. E. Housman
was a poet himself, and his insight has shed crucial light on my wandering through the
poems in The Goodbye Town by Timothy O’Keefe. A good poem teaches something of how
to read, how to absorb, and how to tread the fine border between feeling and analysis.
O’Keefe, in his first book of poems, challenges the reader to stay with the words and
let the meaning come through like a shy cat creeping out of hiding. His words are often
violent, demanding attention, I found it impossible not to appreciate their texture and
imagery: “Miles up, a thousand metal holds/ drop their bombs, pock/ a cumulus womb./
The sun is its own diorama:/ Char bird. Sky shell.” (O’Keefe 9) One thing that makes good
poetry in my mind is a departure from cliché without getting lost in the obscure. To hold
the reader on the brink of understanding, inspire epiphanies, and open gateways for new
ways of thinking may seem like a tall order, but O’Keefe’s poetry does all of that.
The poems in The Goodbye Town speak for themselves. A deep level of metaphor is
used in which the almost surreal images are not merely symbolic so much as reminiscent
of feelings. The rhythms and words conjure a mental-scape which I enter through the
doorway of my personal experience. Through the images, I feel the essence of the poem
and I explore my own relationship to the subject matter without sifting through allusions
or decoding archetypal symbolism. Robert Frost says that:
PGR 158
...the object in writing poetry is to make all poems sound as different as possible
from each other, and the resources for that of vowels, consonants, punctuation,
syntax, words, sentences, meter are not enough. We need the help of context—
meaning—subject matter...All that can be done with words is soon told.
(Frost 1409)
As Frost alludes, the poetic craft is only a vessel for the contents of the poem. While
an appropriate vessel—made up of the “resources” that Frost mentions—is certainly
important, the craft should be justified by its contents. Each word has this burden to
bear, and occasionally there are shipwrecks. Where the meaning becomes lost, obscured
or fancied away in flourishes, we have literary crime ranging in severity from poetry that
is a harmless waste—an unwitting disrespect for the reader’s time and interest—to the
most severe, treasonous poems which lead entire cultures and nations into the deep abyss
of mindlessness. This is the weight of each word, and poets like Timothy O’Keefe show
they understand this in their tender, thoughtful placement of every syllable. Real poets
treat words with a mother’s care for her children and a soldier’s respect for the bullet.
The subject of death and grief has been explored by nearly every poet who has
ever taken up the pen. Here I will cite two poems—one from The Goodbye Town and one
by Robert Frost—each dealing with death and grief. First, in “Departmental,” Frost draws
the scene of an ant colony where a dead worker has been found. Here is an excerpt:
“Ants are a curious race;
One crossing with hurried tread
The body of one of their dead
Isn’t given a moments arrest—
Seems not even impressed.
But he no doubt reports to any
With whom he crosses antennae,
And they no doubt report.
To the higher-up at court.
…
And presently on the scene
Appears a solemn mortician;
And taking formal position
With feelers calmly atwiddle,
Seizes the dead by the middle,
And heaving him high in the air,
Carries him out of there.
No one stands round to stare.
It is nobody else’s affair.
It couldn’t be called ungentle.
But how thoroughly departmental.
(Frost 1404)
Using formal structure and plain language, Frost gives us a picture to contemplate. The
poem is almost scientific, demonstrating the poet’s capacity for observation, and the
metaphor is tangible and far reaching. The poem itself is a vivid literal depiction of the
ants and their mechanical grieving (or lack thereof). However, one might easily draw
parallels between the personified ants and those of our own race with our human capacity
to compartmentalize trauma and proceed from the scene of death as functional members
of society. The symbolism is entrenched. The image is a singular allegory. The last stanza
is an appended “Idiots Guide to Meditating on this Poem.” By contrast, O’Keefe’s poem
hurls the reader into a personal, almost visceral experience:
Broken Sonnet
Grief
The door scrapes. No one says
PGR 159
Words That Shatter Mirrors:
PGR 160
That door again. It isn’t me. What’s
here? The fruit’s piled up inside the bowl
and bruising.
The clothesline whips its sleeves.
Relents in the rain. That’s that. I’m going
to stay.
...the captain steers.
I think of me. The world. The things
we’re losing. Our made-up word for
please no not again
(O’Keefe 44)
Using irregular rhyme and haunting imagery, O’Keefe achieves cryptic lyricism. He gives
us a poem that could easily be a song or a short screen play. The metaphor is intricate and
abstract. I find myself alone at the harbor, listening to the sound of waves lapping at an
empty dock. I’m mourning a loved one whom I last saw here at this empty dock before
she set sail never to return. I am broken, but determined to steer my own ship out of
this whirlpool of grief. Playing upon the solemn keys of our culture’s internal organs, the
poem tunes us to the sounds of grief in our selves. Each person who reads this poem—
assuming they resonate with the imagery—will have their own chords struck. They’ll
hear their own song. Certainly O’Keefe’s work in this book is not accessible to the every
day reader in the way that Frost’s poetry is with its plain language and concrete imagery,
but in a way that is thoroughly contemporary, Timothy O’Keefe presents his poems like
shattered mirrors in which we see ourselves in slivers and the world around us in broken
light, the way it appears without commentary.
Frost’s poem, “Departmental” is an explicit description of death in an ant colony.
This is naturalism in fine form with its accessible and therefore open ended invitation to
contemplate the scene. On the other hand, O’Keefe’s “Broken Sonnet” (of which the above
“Grief”is one part while others are scattered throughout The Goodbye Town) is entirely
an abstract diorama of the narrator’s emotional process of grief. While born of vastly
different craft, both poems share a quality of unfaltering exhibition. Both are tuned to
the infinitely fine standard of their own music.
At times, while reading The Goodbye Town, I feel like a lost tourist. I keep craving
a prologue, epilogue, some context or an explanatory note. I reach for my map, clutch
my camera, squint at the foreign street signs. Bewildered, I realize that I don’t speak the
language written on these signs, I don’t know where I am on the map, and I’ve forgotten
to remove the lens cap of my camera. The metaphors assault my critical mind relentlessly
like unruly traffic in a city with no crosswalk. I am truly a pedestrian reading these poems.
As my frustration peaks, I consider giving up on this book, and leaving The Goodbye
Town to fade into its own obscurity. But then I remember what A.E. Housman said about
fully “understanding” a poem and how this can actually diminish the enjoyment. So I
sit down on a bench and watch the cars scream by with their chipping paint, I notice
beggars—forsaken veterans, hobbling, fenced off by the steel river and I remember why I
came to this town where I don’t know a soul and every face is a fresh history. I stop trying
to understand and for the first time begin to see what life is about in this place. Becoming
comfortable on the brink of understanding allows me to approach ideas of beauty and
humanity in their most raw form, without intellectualizing. So I leave The Goodbye Town
with a fresh pair of eyes and a handful of insight.
Works Cited
“A.E. Housman Quotes.” Think Exist. 2010. 15 April. 2011
<http://thinkexist.com/quotation/even_when_poetry_has_a_meaning-as_it_
usually_has/221076.html>
Frost, Robert. “Departmental” and “The Form a Poem Makes.” The Norton Anthology:
American Literature Volume D. Ed. Julia Reidhead. 7th Edition. New York: W.W.
Norton and Company Inc. (2007): 1404 and1409-1410.
O’Keefe Timothy. “Birth Certificate: A. F. Little” and “Broken Sonnet: Grief.” The
Goodbye Town. Oberlin, OH: Oberlin College Press. (2011): 9 and 44
PGR 161
a sound. A box of hushed lips
in the bedless master suite.
Or rats inside the walls.
The unknown meat
of night. The waves...she said.
No ticks, just tocks.
Wind grass dirt worms and the dead
like empty docks. I used to be so gutless she’d repeat.
No more. You could say
I’m in the driver’s seat.
The awful calm of a ship inside the locks.
La’akea Sky Smith
PGR 162
A critique of The Short Man by Jeanne Althouse
“If a person has cancer, all are sorry for him and no one is angry or hurt. But not
so with the alcoholic illness for with it there goes annihilation of all the things worth
while in life.”(AA World Services 18) I have several close friends who are sober alcoholics
and members of a twelve step recovery program. Talking with them about the disease
of alcoholism, the hurdles of recovery and the insanity of relapse has given me some
insights about “The Short Man,” a story by Jeanne Althouse featured in the 2011 Porter
Gulch Review. Close reading of the story reveals the tortured monologue of a man who
cannot see his own desperation, let alone express the misery of his condition. Like a
manic spider, once caught in his own web, the alcoholic spins a cocoon of lies until the
weak light of reality is shut out completely and he is left alone with his poison, self pity
and just enough rope to hang himself.
To someone unfamiliar with the disease of alcoholism, this sounds like one hell
of a storm cloud with no silver lining; but the alcoholic is a strange creature, and the
disease seems built on paradox. “You have to hit your bottom before you pull out of the
downward spiral. It’s just like gravity, man. You can’t just bounce back on thin fucking
air! You have to hit the ground hard before you can get back on your feet and reach for
the stars. The quicker you get to that point the better,” my friend explains with a chuckle.
“It’s called the ‘gift of desperation’.” Again, I am forced to conclude that the alcoholic is a
strange creature.
“The Short Man” is a short story—very short. In fact it is only a few pages. The
setting is Morgan’s living room, a portion of his kitchen including the refrigerator door,
and a narrow strip along the floor which he traverses to grab beers from the fridge and
return to the couch. At one point he details an excursion he took the day before when
he answered the front door to let in his friend Dave, accompanied by an alcoholic priest
wishing to speak with Morgan about his problem. “The Father says he understands
me because he’s one himself. A recovering alcoholic. Imagine a man of cloth, drinking.
Shameful, those Episcopalians, they’ll do anything.” (Althouse 1) When Morgan attacks
the character of this well-intentioned man and disregards the priest’s attempt to help, he
demonstrates that he is not ready to face the truth of his problem. This is a prime example
of a personal attack or “ad hominem” which Wikipedia defines as “an attempt to link the
validity of a premise to a characteristic or belief of the opponent advocating the premise.”
(“Ad hominem”) While seemingly rational to the alcoholic, these kinds of logical fallacies
debase the plain truth that like many others suffering from the same disease, Morgan
simply cannot drink safely and may need help staying sober. At this point, he is still too
proud to see this. He certainly hasn’t gotten what my friends call “the gift of desperation.”
Seeing an alcoholic in the midst of a spree is like watching a dog chase its tail.
The animal careens around in circles, knocking over lamps, trampling the family albums,
splattering mud on the curtains, becoming deranged and disoriented. But what would
you say to this dog? You might say something like this: “Fido. Remember the last time you
did this? Did you ever catch your tail? I’d really rather not go through this again. Will you
at least clean up after yourself?” Now, bear in mind that even if he could understand you,
Fido would be unable to hear your argument over the noise of his own heavy breath. Now
imagine a man dressed in a business suit, down on all fours chasing his own coattails.
What would you say to such a man? Someone who has dealt with the situation before
might tell you to wait until he plows his head into the coffee table and when he returns
to consciousness, proposition the man—without belittlement of any kind—if he would
like some help getting on his feet and learning to walk a straight line.
The sick man’s denial of his affliction is one of the most absurd and tragic things
about alcoholism—and one of the hardest to understand for concerned friends and
relatives. Imagine again our friend, the man in the suit. He stops chasing his coattails
for a moment, stands himself upright, puffs out his chest and declares with confidence
and authority: “You, my friend, are indeed mistaken. There is no problem whatsoever in
my choice to behave like a derailed carousel. What would you suggest a man should do
on a Sunday afternoon if not whirl around in oblivion? It’s perfectly normal.” It seems
alcoholics, once caught in their denial, use a sort of doublethink process in which they
cast aside what they know is true, provide evidence to support a replacement truth which
they know is false and then forget whatever unpleasant truth they went through all the
trouble to deny. George Orwell coins the term doublethink and describes it in his novel,
“1984.” Double think is “to forget, whatever it was necessary to forget, then to draw
it back into memory again at the moment when it was needed, and then promptly to
forget it again...consciously to induce unconsciousness, and then, once again, to become
unconscious of the act of hypnosis you had just performed ” (Orwell 47).
In just a few pages, “The Short Man” showcases many textbook examples of logical
fallacies and Orwellian doublethink—both of which are essential to the maintenance of
the alcoholic’s denial. Here are just a few quotes: “I’ve had a couple of Coors. Well, three
bottles to be exact. Nothing wrong in that.” Then he presents hard evidence that he is
not alcoholic “I’ve had more students win the All-State Writing Contest than any other
teacher. Now would that happen to a drunk?” (Althouse 1) On the next page he flaunts
the alcoholic’s dominion over doublethink, taking absolute denial of reality to a new level:
“at six I plan to stop drinking because I never drink on a school night.” (Althouse 2) Of
course he is drinking and it is a school night. On the next page he sums up the disease
with a hard streak of honesty “If I did have a drinking problem, which I do not, and if I did
decide to go to that alcoholics’ meeting again...it would be a shame to have to give up these
lovely beers.” He ponders this while getting another cold one from the fridge. Then, two
minutes later he is pacifying his concerned sister over the phone. “‘I’m not like Pop’...’Pop
drank every day. I never drink during the school week.’” (Althouse 3) She doesn’t buy into
his logic, so he gives up and tells her a bold faced lie: “‘I’m not drinking,’” and hangs up
on her. (Althouse 4) He then examines the ring of moisture made by his cold beer on the
coffee table. Morgan is not entirely blinded by his self-absorption though, as we can tell
by his reaction when Dave offers to pick up the tab if he would just go to rehab. Touched
by his best friend’s compassion, Morgan reflects on the situation, trying to make sense
of his new perspective atop a lofty hill of gratitude. “He likes to think of himself as so
goddamn generous. We all know engineers make more than teachers.”(Althouse 2)
PGR 163
The Short Man Runs in Circles:
and other reasons why drunks can’t see straight.
PGR 164
“‘No, Dave,’ I say. I can feel him frown. I shiver a little, almost losing my nerve.
It might be harder to give up Dave than to give up happy hour. ‘I don’t want your help.
I want to do this on my own. In fact, I don’t think we should see each other for a while.
Maybe permanently.’
‘You can’t be serious. We’ve been friends for thirty years.’” (Althouse 4)
If you’re wondering why the title of the story is “The Short Man” instead of “The Tragic
Drunk Asshole Man,” I do have a theory based on my research. I learned from my alcoholic
friends (who co-morbidly self identify as “egomaniacs with inferiority complexes”) that
alcoholism is a disease of perception. Often the afflicted drink to numb their feelings
of inadequacy and self loathing. So, in the dramatic climax of the story, when Morgan
confides to Dave “‘I’m tired of ending up the short man’” (Althouse 4), he is expressing
what is apparently a widespread alcoholic sentiment that “I’m just not good enough (so
I’ll drink...because I can certainly be drunk enough to not care.)” Morgan demonstrates
both his inferiority complex as well as his egomania brilliantly. For example: “Yes, I have
had several run-ins like this with the police, but it’s nothing more than jealousy on their
part. Everyone knows they are out to get any man with a red sports car.” (Althouse 2)
He also enjoys correcting the grammatical mishaps of his friends, family and students.
“‘You don’t need why in that sentence...you’re using your connectives incorrectly again.’”
(Althouse 3)
All of this bullshit is to make up for the fact that he is jealous of his best friend,
“with his perfect kids, gorgeous wife” (Althouse 2) and he feels like the short man—
metaphorically speaking. So here is the bizarre twist of logic and the hallmark of the
disease: the short man’s solution is to isolate himself, drive his best friend away, insult a
priest, stock the fridge with beers, drink himself silly, crash his car, and pass out on his
couch on a school night. Because that will make him feel better about himself.
“You’re not responsible for your disease; but you are responsible for your
recovery.” That was the mantra my friends repeated to me again and again as I struggled
to comprehend how anyone manages to climb out of the abyss of alcoholic demise. It is
equally ignorant to blame an alcoholic for being a drunk as it is to blame a cancer patient
for their belligerent cells. With proper understanding of the malady, one can find patience,
tolerance and compassion for any alcoholic—even one like Morgan. That being said, if my
friend was diagnosed with cancer, and was being successfully treated, I’d pray he wouldn’t
sneak out of the hospital at night to smoke cigarettes in a nuclear waste facility.
When I asked the author, Jeanne Althouse about the ending of the piece she had
this to say:
“In the end Morgan stands at the refrigerator, trying to imagine life without Dave,
knowing he is “on his own.” Yet Morgan’s scared and wants another beer, and he hesitates
“hoping the feeling will pass.” In that moment I’m crossing my fingers for him. I want him
to turn around, go get cleaned up, call a taxi and go to school to teach.
I don’t know if he was strong enough, but I really hope so.”
Despite all of his flaws, Morgan is a likeable character and I certainly share Jeanne’s
hope that he will make good choices, but as I understand it, the question is not one of
strength. It is a question of humility and willingness to accept the help he needs. The
book Alcoholics Anonymous says: “At a certain point in the drinking of every alcoholic, he
passes into a state where the most powerful desire to stop drinking is of absolutely no
avail.” On the next page, we are given the alcoholic’s final “two alternatives: One was to
go on to the bitter end, blotting out the consciousness of our intolerable situation as best
we could; and the other, to accept spiritual help.” (AA World Services 24-25) The story is
open ended at this point, and Morgan’s future lies in the imagination of the reader. My
hope is that his humiliation from the night before, and the prospect of losing his good
friend will provide him a moment to be honest with himself. His best chance of recovery
is to accept Dave’s offer and go to a rehab on his own volition, with a healthy fear of
drinking and a willingness to accept that he is most likely a full blown alcoholic.
Works Cited
“Ad hominem.”Wikipedia. 15 March 2011. Wikimedia Foundation Inc. 28 March 2011.
<http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ad_hominem >
Alcoholics Anonymous World Services. Alcoholics Anonymous. Fourth Edition. New York
City: Alcoholics Anonymous World Services Inc. 2001
Althouse, Jeanne. “The Short Man.”
Orwell, George. 1984. London: Secker and Warburg. 1949
PGR 165
Althouse’s use of dialogue in the piece is effective in illustrating the social
deterioration caused by the unarrested disease. The interplay of Morgan’s internal
monologue—which serves as narration for the piece—and bits of his regurgitated
conversation shows a rift between what he thinks in the privacy of his mind and what
he chooses to disclose to the world. There is a not so subtle tension between these two
opposing realities, most clearly seen in his final conversation with Dave:
by Velvet Reitan
PGR 166
In Search of Respect
Philippe Bourgois
Cambridge University Press
432 pages
In Search of Respect keeps its focus on the dynamics of the social marginalization and
alienation experienced by the people caught in this economic pocket. Philippe was one of
the first ethnographers to gain the trust and friendship with street-level drug dealers. the
characters were Primo, Caesar, Candy, Luis, and tony. They seemed to enjoyed Bourgois’s
company. “Your our role model here. You cant be Fuckin’ around. We could beat you for
down for shit like that. Word up! I ain’t letting you leave us until i get something in
writing with your name on it, as a life time reference”(Caesar. pg.47, 2cd edition) One major strength of the writing is the insight into the street culture that evolved in
El Barrio as a reaction to the the inequalities in mainstream american culture. Philippe’s
heavy use of actual conversations from the many years he spent with drug dealers in El
Barrio helps the reader relate to the way these men and women view and understand
their way of life and decisions. The book’s combination of the natural conversations of
the crack dealers and Bourgois’s discussions of the broader social and economic structures
influencing the lives of these men and women, provides an perspicacious knowledge on
the interaction between the structural institutions of their socioeconomic circumstances
and the reasoning behind the decisions that make their independent actions. I can relate
it to the strain theory; if there is a gap between your means and the goals society has set
for us to meet you will figure out a way to meet the goal. In this case the goal is success
and respect and the means is selling crack, and displays of violence. Although addiction,
substance abuse, and violence are key in shaping their daily life on these streets, Bourgois’s
emic ethnography work doesn’t seem to be judgmental. In this social context , drugs and
violence are just side effects of deeper changes in the culture of main stream modern
America. “Poor people they cant afford nothing. They short on grocerys. They got to buy
cheap products. But i’m more middle-class. What get what ever i want, i can get it on
time{monthly credit payments}.” (Caesar. pg.191, 2cd edition) The way of life of these
drug dealers are nothing more than an alternative form to gain autonomy, success, and
individualism that otherwise would be impossible by mainstream culture standards.
I believe that Philippe Bourgois’s work was useful and not in anyway exploitive because
now people that may have preconceived judgements of people who live in harlem, or
anyplace like it, dealing and using drugs can now come to know and understand the
deeper social problems. After reading this writing of his, i think about the goals here
in america. i think of the goals or values of achievement/success, external conformity,
mainstream culture, individualism, freedom and morals. Although these people in harlem
are deviating from conventional ways of meeting these goals and values, meeting them
is what they are trying todo. Just for striving for the american dream they are labeled as
deviants.
I would recommend this book to everyone! This is a subject that even the people living
in these conditions may not understand. Everyone could really benefit from this work by
having a better understanding of people and our own culture.
Bibliography:
Bourgois, Philippe. In search of Respect. Cambridge University Press, New York. 1995
PGR 167
El Barrio: Success and Respect
By Mark Shisler
Dark Card
Rebecca Foust
Texas Review Press
36 pgs.
$3.98
We are all different, whether it is simply our name, the music we like, or the clothes we
wear; however, it’s not the simple difference that truly distinguishes us from another.
Dark Card by Rebecca Foust, is a small collection of poetry that deals with her son’s
difference, Asperger syndrome, which is similar to Autism. Foust constructs vivid,
striking, emotional scenes that entice her reader’s curiosity and imagination, and brings
greater understanding of word “difference” to others. Beyond the painted picture, Foust’s
theme of a mother’s unconditional love is prevalent throughout her writing, and that love
is what will touch her readers most. From it we learn the significance of how a mother’s
unconditional love can break through the chaos and hardships of bringing up a child.
While reading a book of poetry can at times seem daunting, it can be a different path
for a writer to tell their a story, describe a feeling, or display a message. While reading
prose, one can get lost in the long series of words, while in poetry, the words are placed
distinctively by their writer. Foust is no exception, and the way her words flow onto the
page, enhance their meaning. An excerpt from “Begin Again”,
you begin
again
to dream
that dream
you thought
was done
of boys
who climb
the spans
PGR 168
and fall
like leaves
or swans.
The words fall down the page, as if they are “the boys” that “…fall / like leaves / or
swans”. The swan symbolizes beauty, grace, and purity. Its elegant dive into the water,
is a sign of letting go, falling into death, falling back from where we came. This is only
one of many poems that discuss parental emotions. This particular emotion could be as
drastic as the loss of a child, or watching your child lose progress, in Foust’s case, her son
managing to do things on his own.
What I enjoyed most, was Foust’s description of her son’s beginning, the passage of
childbirth. Her son struggling to come into existence, and her struggle with knowing that
it was her body that created a different kind of life. The poem “Too Soon” describes only
the beginning of life, where she is lying down, calming her son, pleading him to wait to
enter the world.
mandolin belly…
My labor heaves up in great waves
like the moon-crazed tide;
it raves like the tide-crazed moon,
rising and rising too soon, too soon.
The two poems that describe the birth itself are “That Space”, and “Firstborn”. Both are
vivid, detailed, depictions of a horrific, trial;
silent sea
whitegreenwhite
scrub blur,
everything for one instant
in-between
everything,
hope up
en pointe on
its compass foot,
balancing life against
death,
everything
arabesque,
unity of
held breath.
Are you there? Can you see the doctors and nurses frantically moving around the
room, newborn on the table, sprawled out, holding death in one hand and life in the
other? The boy is fighting for his life with a series of movements, emulating a ballet
dancer; beautiful in nature. Foust’s analogy strikes me; ballet dancers are in a constant
battle with themselves to be perfect; however, even though this child is not physically
perfect, he is perfect in nature, and Foust displays this perfection in other poems in her
book.
After reading these poems, it becomes quite obvious that this event, childbirth, is just
the beginning of the struggle of life; both for the child and his mother. The bulk of the
remaining poems in Dark Card, are reflections of their combined journey, and the hurdles
PGR 169
Dark to Light: A Mother’s Unconditional Love
Works Cited
Foust, Rebecca. Dark Card. Huntsville, TX: Texas Review, 2007. Print.
PGR 170
Random House Webster’s College Dictionary. Deluxe ed. Vol. 5. New York: Random
House, 2000. Print.
A Man’s longing for Acceptance
By Chris Camp
I Curse the River of Time
Per Petterson
Graywolf Press
Pages 233
Price 23.00
“I am Thirty Seven years old, I thought. The Wall has fallen. And here I sit”
(Petterson 233). Per Petterson, author of I Curse the River of Time, writes about
a thirty-seven year old man named Arvid Jansen, and how he manages to cope
with all the troubles and problems going on in his life. Arvid, in just a couple days,
is faced with three dramatic events, and just when things couldn’t get worse they
do. Arvid first encounters divorce papers by his “beloved” wife of fifteen years,
and then is quickly stricken with news that his mother is now dying of cancer.
Then the Berlin collapses, and being a long time member of the communist party
this is horrific news. Per Petterson sets up this novel by switching back and forth
between these different events with each chapter, and how Arvid manages his life.
Arvid never really felt accepted by his parents, especially his mother; and Arvid
longs for this acceptance and tries every possible way of proving his worth to his
mother; leads me to claim that if a child is not accepted when they are young, they
will then go on through their life seeking acceptance from their parents and others.
Arvids parents, especially his mom, took an authoritarian approach to raising
him. Authoritarian parenting are parents who are rigid in their rules; they
expect absolute obedience from the child without any questioning (parentchildrelationships). They also expect the child to accept the family’s beliefs and
principles without questions (parent-childrelationships); this was especially hard
for Arvid when he joined the communist party and his mother strongly disapproved.
Arvid’s mother also looked down upon him, and making little jokes because he was
a communist. Children raised with this parenting style are often moody, unhappy,
fearful, and irritable (parent-childrelationships). All these are characteristics that
were shown by Arvid one time or another throughout the novel. For example, on
a train ride back into town Arvid recognized a guy from a while back, and the man
noticed him too. They started making small talk and being friendly; then out of
no-where Arvid gets irritated at the guy, and as the guy is getting off at his stop
Arvid starts yelling and cursing at the guy. This little yelling episode almost caused
a fight and would have if the train hadn’t been taking off. Children raised this way
are often also tending to be shy, withdrawn, and lack self-confidence. This is clearly
demonstrated by Arvid many times in the novel; he is not confident the way he is,
and he needs to always prove himself especially to his mom.
Looking for any way to get approval and acceptance from his mom, Arvid was
PGR 171
and obstacles both of them have faced. Their combined dissension leads to Foust’s
overall message of a mother’s unconditional love, overpowers difference.
Love. Many might describe love as complex; however, I find that love is quite
simple, and even though at times it may seem effortless, there are also moments
where love is tested. The unconditional love a mother has for her child is almost
indescribable. Love, defined by Webster, is “a profoundly tender, passionate
affection for another person” (Webster’s College Dictionary). In Foust’s case,
another person is her son. Her poetry describes his social difference, “standing
on his desk again, / crowing like a rooster”, “the hours and hours spent pacing /
the playground alone”. Even though his difference seems negative, Foust brings
forth to the reader the positive difference in her son. The difference of seeing
patterns, being able to do complex math in his head, not tell a lie, etc… Throughout
her poetry, Foust is standing up for her son, telling the world that even though
different, he is truly special in other ways. Her unconditional love for her son is
the tie between the pain of watching him struggle, and teaching him to adapt to
society.
I’m not a mother, nor a father. Because of this, I can’t see unconditional love from a
parent’s perspective; however, as a young man who came from a troubled childhood,
I can look back and see where love triumphed anger, pain, disappointment. Even
though I might not have taken the path my parents intended me to take, nor made
the goals they set for me, I am still their son, and even though at times being loved
feels scarce, I know deep down, my parent’s will always love me.
Foust, a mother who has, and will continue to endure the hardships of life, has
a true gift of using words to encompass an emotion, and describe a world where
love succeeds. Dark Card is only a glimpse into her and her son’s reality, and as the
reader turns page after page, they not only read about the unconditional love of
a mother and son, but reconnect to the unconditional love of their parents. Foust
has inspired, and encouraged me to be better father, loving my child whether they
are simply testing my patience, or sick with a life-changing disease.
nothing he can do, he drives his two young daughters to go field watching. While
driving he feels “Time run around beneath my skin like tiny electric shocks” and
thinks “a different person than I had been before, and sometimes it made me
despair”. Arvid is now remembering past times and good memories, and he feels
pain and sadness every time a good memory passes through his head; Arvid feeling
depressed by his old memories and the person is used to be. Growing up and not
ever feeling good enough to his mom; has had a dramatic impact on his life later
on as an adult.
Works Cited
“Parent-Child Relationships: Information from Answers.com.” Answers.com:
Wiki Q&A
Combined with Free Online Dictionary, Thesaurus, and Encyclopedias. Web. 20 Apr.
2011. <http://www.answers.com/topic/parent-child-relationships>.
Petterson, Per. I Curse the River of Time. Minneapolis, MN: Graywolf, 2010. Print.
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going to attempt a task that his father never been able to accomplish. In doing so,
Arvid thought his mom would now accept him as an equal part of the family, and
he would feel worth. This task was removing and old pine tree that was near their
summer house, and the pine was blocking their light and view. At one point, while
trying to take down the enormous pine Arvid thought “Maybe this will not work, I
thought, maybe not, and when she wakes up and pulls back the curtains and looks
out, then nothing will have changed, nothing will have happened, and everything
will be as it always was”(Petterson 153). Arvid believes that by removing this pine
that it will change his and his mother’s relationship. So Arvid continued whacking
the tree with his rusted and beaten up axe he came down with full force, and the
axe hit the tree with a loud bang then quickly recoiled hitting Arvid’s forearm.
Immediately a pain shot right up through his arm and he shouted “Goddamnit,
I can’t take any more”, then he thought to himself “but I did not know what it
was that I could not take”(Petterson 153). Even though in tremendous pain Arvid
knew he had to push through, because he knew what his mom would have thought
seeing the failed attempt on removing the pine, and Arvid couldn’t take one more
disappointment. Then finally, when he managed to take the monstrous pine down,
he laid on his back in the snow and thought to himself “Life Lay ahead of me.
Nothing was settled”(Petterson 154). Arvid even after completing this mascilan
task still feels his mother will not approve of him, and nothing will change.
I too, like Arvid have dealt with disapproving parents in every aspect of my life
that I have been through. Similar to Arvid I endured through the agony of never
being quite good enough in the eyes of one parent; unlike Arvid it was my dad
that never was satisfied with any accomplishment that I achieved no matter how
spectacular it may be. With every achievement that I accomplished there was
hardly ever great job, wonderful job, way to go, always the first things that came
out was you could of done this, why didn’t you do that, always what I did wrong and
what I could of done better. Even when I got first there was always an explanation
for my success an exscues; just like Arvid’s mom when Arvid finally thought he
impressed his mom by pulling down the pine tree, that his father was never able
to accomplish she told him “But to be honest, you owe your father that much, he’s
not strong enough any more; he has done so much for you….. your father is an
old man. Do you understand that?”(Petterson 160). These same situations I can
relate to with Arvid, I recall a scenario where I had scored a goal last minute in a
soccer game winning us the game, and instead of complimenting and cheering for
me like everyone else, my dad pointed out everything I could of done better in the
game, and in doing so wouldn’t of had to rely on my last minute goal. These little
comments can damage one’s perception on how they view things in life.
Throughout the novel Arvid is faced with life changing problems all in the course
of a couple months, Arvid manages to cope with these situations by remembering
the good times he had growing up as a kid with no worries, and going back home to
try and prove himself one last time to his mother. Now with everything inevitable
By: Shane Carle
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Beyond Belief: Finding The Strength To Comeback
Author: Josh Hamilton and Tim Keown
Publisher: FaithWords
Published: October 13, 2008
The year was 1999, and Josh Hamilton was the number one draft pick of
the Major League of Baseball. He was an exciting, promising “blue chip” prospect
that would make a difference the moment he stepped on a major league baseball
field. Two years later, with injuries dealing with his legs and back, and an addiction
to cocaine, he was removed from the big leagues. Until 2007 when Josh cleaned
himself up and played his first major league baseball game, he was in a fight with
the devil. “When I look at myself now, I see what I couldn’t see then. This was
spiritual warfare, taking place subconsciously on my body. It’s a picture of Jesus’s
face superimposed over a cross. He’s on the same leg with the demon with no eyes.
The soulless demon. The face of Jesus. The battle had begun” (Hamilton, 85).
Thrilling real life experiences that are shared in “Beyond Belief” make Josh’s battle
with addiction come to life, and truly makes an epic story.
When Josh bottomed out, with an amplified addiction to Crack Cocaine,
everyone had turned their back on Baseballs next Ty Cobb. He was alone and lying
to everyone including himself about getting clean. One story that I will remember
forever that I feel really shows how severe Josh’s addiction was, and how even the
most perfect clean people with everything can get tempted and follow a destructive
road. “One day I was sitting alone in our house in Fuquay-Varina, just sitting in
front room watching television, when I heard something out front. When I looked
out through the living-room window I saw a SWAT team assembling in the street.
They were all suited up in their riot gear, and they were preparing for an assault on
my house. I panicked. I had an eight ball (an eighth of an ounce) of cocaine in the
house, and I was sure they were preparing to bust my door down to come and get it.
I ran to where I had it stashed and proceeded to sit down and inhale it. All of it. In a
matter of seconds. This was enough coke to kill some people. It was insanity, a death
wish, like pulling out my heart and smacking it with a two-by-four. Most people,
even hard-core users, would have flushed the stuff down the toilet and been done
with it. Not me. I couldn’t waste it, so I used it. My heart started pounding in my
chest, faster and faster, till I could see it bouncing through my shirt. The doorbell
rang. It was somebody selling something” (Hamilton,134-5). In everything Josh
did throughout his life, he excelled in everything. He took everything to the
extreme, and was good at most everything. His story is amazing, that in fact after
his immediate impact in the start of the 2008 Major League season, Hamilton was
named to the American League All Star team, and made the All-Star team the next
two seasons as well. He also participated in the Home Run Derby, where he hit a
record 28 home runs in the opening round and finished with 35 home runs, which
was second-most all-time in derby history. He won the AL batting title in 2010
and during the playoffs that year he was selected as MVP of the 2010 American
League Championship Series. Following the playoffs, on November 23, 2010 Josh
was named the 2010 American League MVP. Finally Josh is back where he belongs,
playing major league baseball. It is beyond belief that his story has a successful
ending; a lot of other professional athletes, including baseball players were not
successful in beating addictions.
Josh is now finally got clean after being confronted by his grandmother,
Mary Holt, who was described as a devout Christian in the book. Hamilton said, “He
has not used drugs or alcohol since October 6, 2005,” and that, “It’s a God thing.” He
does not shy away from telling his story; he willingly speaks to community groups
and fans about how he was able to beat his addiction by adopting Christianity.
Josh is very thankful for his Grandmother as well as his wife, Katie who helps him
keep clean.
Baseball has had its share of problems with substance abuse, more recently
mostly performance enhancing drugs, but earlier times were a different story.
Before the 1970s, there were countless individual problems with alcohol abuse,
but as alcohol was a legal substance, except during the Prohibition era, the
public awareness of illegal drugs accelerated during the 1970s, and by the 1980s
a number of players had become caught up in addictions. A case known as the
Pittsburgh Scandal made national news in 1985 consisted of several Pittsburgh
Pirates players; Dave Parker, Dale Berra, Rod Scurry, Lee Mazzilli, Lee Lacy, John
Milner, Keith Hernandez, Tim Raines, and Lonnie Smith that were summoned to
appear before a grand jury and convicted of eleven counts of distributing cocaine.
During the trials, under immunity, the truth about substance abuse in baseball
came out. John Milner talked about, “getting amphetamines from Hall of Famers
Willie Mays and Willie Stargell… Milner added that he bought two grams of cocaine
for $200 in the bathroom stalls at Three Rivers Stadium during a Pirates-Houston
Astros game in 1980… Keith Hernandez revealed he’d used cocaine for three years.
Hernandez added that about 40 percent of all Major League Baseball players were
using cocaine at the time… Tim Raines told how he’d keep a gram of coke in his
uniform pocket (as well as revealing that he snorted during games), and that he
only slid into bases headfirst as not to break the vial.” (Pittsburg Drug Trials) It
seems substance abuse was a part of the game.
Again on February 28, 1986 some players were suspended and assigned
community service and urine tests by the Commissioner of Baseball at the time,
Peter Ueberroth. Rod Scurry one of the Pittsburgh players involved in the scandal
died at the age of 36 due to a heart attack cause from an incident with cocaine.
Cocaine also ruined the promising “blue chip” prospect in the career of Dale Berra,
Yogi Berra’s son. “Even the Pirate Parrot, Kevin Koch, was implicated for
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Beyond Belief: Inhaling an 8 Ball
Works Cited
Cook, Ron. “The Eighties: A Terrible Time of Trial and Error.”
Post-Gazette.com. Web. 17 Apr. 2011. <http://www.post-gazette.com/
pirates/200009291980bucs3.asp>.
Hamilton, Josh, and Tim Keown. Beyond Belief: Finding the Strength to
Come Back. New York: Faith Words, 2008. Print.
“Major League Baseball Scandals.” Wikipedia, the Free Encyclopedia. Web.
17 Apr. 2011. <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Major_League_Baseball_scandals>.
PGR 176
Bill Clark
Sneak Attack on Fundamentalist Muslim
Societies Definition of a Woman
Shannon Marsh
Velvet Jihad
Faegheh Shirazi
University Press of Florida
277 pgs
$57.98
One of the biggest and most overlooked struggles in human history is the
fight for woman’s rights and our struggle to get respect equal to that of any man.
In Velvet Jihad by Faegheh Shirazi this war is narrowed down to Muslim woman’s
“resistance to Islamic Fundamentalism” and the effort to gain rights that we in the
west have already received but only fairly recently. The book touches on several
issues that shape the everyday life of Muslim woman such as honor and virginity,
childbirth, Hijab (face veil), arts and athletics, and gender preference. The women
live in constant fear of their reputations being soiled because the whole family’s
success is determined by their honor. Woman need to be liberated in these counties
and this must come from a combination of internal and external pressures.
Women are considered property in some Muslim countries and like all other
material objects their value is determined by its number of owners and it’s been
used. Meaning if a woman is a virgin she is of great value to the family; however, if
she is not a virin she is a disgrace and may not find a husband who will take her or
be murdered by her own family. This puts young woman under extreme pressure to
conceal their sexuality and adhere to the typical Muslim girl mold. This belief is so
strong that it often has deadly side effects even if a woman is raped. Honor killings
are a common practice in some Muslim countries. A woman may be raped while
walking home and then when she seeks comfort from her family she is murdered
because they believe she invited the man near her by being seductive. It is believed
that will not be restored to the family until the woman in question is killed and
erased. The murders are sometimes never reported and the family just goes on
with life as if the woman never even existed.
With this type of pressure weighting down on woman they will go to great
lengths to save their lives or ensure a successful marriage. This has increased a
trend in certain plastic surgeries such as the reconstruction of the hymen called
Hymenoplasty. The hymen is a piece of tissue in a woman’s vagina that is usual
broken by her first intimate encounter with a male. Thousands of woman in the
Muslim world have undergone this surgery however they often do it in secret, using
fake names and paying in cash. Doctors have become accustomed to this behavior
and the woman wearing elaborate disguises or have their surgeries performed at
night for fear of not only their life but the doctors also. This kind of stress can be
crushing.
In an article posted on a website a 24 yr old rape victim in Jordan was
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buying cocaine and introducing players to a drug dealer…It was a sad chapter for
the game of baseball, a sad chapter for the city of Pittsburgh and the Pittsburgh
organization,” former Pirates President Carl Barger said (Post-Gazette.com).
Josh Hamilton’s story fits in to all these other cases with substance abuse.
It is an interesting part of the history of baseball. Fortunately, the major league has
adapted to the evidence and formed drug abuse policies, especially with the most
common abused substance of today’s era, steroids. Cocaine still pops up from time
to time in the Major League. For instance just last year, Don Washington, a manager
for the Texas Rangers was caught with Cocaine in his system. To understand the
history of the Cocaine era, Beyond Belief is a magnificent experience about the life
of a successful ex-addict thriving in the world of Baseball.
haram because it is believed to provoke immoral thoughts between sexes that
result in shameful activities. Woman musicians or dancers are thought to be as
little more than prostitutes. They are still forced to obey Islam and wear full dress
including Hijab though it limits their artistic expression.
So imagine being a newlywed woman in Muslim society, pregnant with your
first baby, wondering if it is a girl who will be subjected to the same life you had,
full of fear, and service to me. Or would you want a son who could escape all the
horrible limitations? I’m not saying all Muslim men suppress woman, some applaud
the liberation of woman; however, many still listen to exaggerated versions of the
Qur’an that attempt to control. So why do political or religious leaders manipulate
the text of the Qur’an to bind Muslim woman? They can’t handle woman thinking
for themselves and prefer them to be their personal slaves. However, with modern
technology it is easier for Muslim woman to connect with each other and speak
freely of their views and receive support. Western ideas are reaching the Middle
East and so the velvet jihad is gaining momentum one blog at a time.
Works Cited
Stop honour killings! International campaign against honour killings.
International Campaig Against Honour Killings, 07 July 2006. Web. 18 Apr. 2011.
<http://stophonourkillings.com?/q=node>
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believed to be a disgrace to her family so her own brother drove her out to a
field and executed her. First by pounding her head and body with rocks and then
by ripping into her body with a knife around her neck and stomach. The boy was
arrested but his family happily paid his bail and showered him with presents upon
his return (stop honor killings!). Here in the U.S. murder and rape is taken very
seriously and these crimes are punished by years and years in prison or in some
cases death. Even if a woman maintains her “honor” and makes it to marriage and
childbirth her worries are still not over.
Since a woman is just considered property in Muslim culture when she is
married off to a man it was seen as a burden to him and he must be paid by the
woman’s family in land, cash, or any other means, this is called a dowry. Once a
woman has entered into this marriage she is expected to produce sons to carry on
the family name and take care of the family when his parents become old. Their
form of social security in fundamental Muslim households is the support of their
eldest son. The daughters must be given off with the dowry to the best suitor.
Sometimes a woman is very unforunate and has only produced female offspring
she is shamed and looked down upon by other wives who have produced male
offspring. This devalues woman even more because they aren’t even given the
same love or happiness that boys are given from birth. Also, sometimes nature has
a way of affecting a woman negatively just by chance. Infertility is the biggest blow
a woman can face besides losing her honor. Often a husband will seek the help of
a second wife. The first wife feels useless and is expected to bow down and accept
her fate as if it were her own fault she could not reproduce. Not only is the first
wife hurt but the second wife is looked down upon as just a mistress and is often
forced to live in the shadows of the family, not attending family functions and
becoming the first wife’s servant of some sorts. An interesting thing to note also
is that male infertility goes unmentioned and the wife can’t divorce the man. This
is just another one of the many ways some Muslim men suppress Muslim woman
and make them feel subhuman.
These woman’s lives are so controlled when it comes to the family life
and social life they have no room to breathe. It has become law that all Muslim
women have to wear a HIjab. A Hijab is a face veil that covers everything but a
woman’s eyes and is expected to be worn in front of men at all times unless he is
your husband. The reason for the covering of a woman’s whole body even her face
is due to the belief that woman are seductive creatures that are made to draw men
in with their body, hair, and voice. That is why it is believed that when a woman is
raped it was her fault and she must have exposed herself somehow and was asking
for it.
Here in the west many take for granted the opportunities Muslim woman
have to fight for often risking their own lives, music is thought to be haram
(forbidden under Islam) meaning singing and any type of musical instrument
played is condemned by their religious leaders. Dancing is considered even more
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By: Mariah Hum
Poem: Encounter
Author: Melinda Rice
The poem “Encounter,” by Melinda Rice, beautifully represents the simple
act of making another person happy. It paints a clear image of a man on his
bicycle, gleefully taking flowers to a woman, which made the poet feel as though he
brought her happiness. While this act of kindness is not rare, it is often over looked,
and not thought of as a pleasant moment to embrace. Seeing this act of kindness
made the poet happy. If more people are able to find simple happy moments in
their lives, today’s society might not be as depressed. The poem is simple in look
and language, yet deeply steeped in current societal issues.
Melinda Rice’s poem “Encounter,” uses simple and understandable
language. There are no challenging words that one would have to look up. This is
because the poem is explaining a simple happy moment in life that the poet stumbled
upon and does not need to be expressed by using massive words that would make
the poem heavy and not light hearted. The poem states “I saw a bicyclist coming
toward me/ a bouquet of flowers in his hand,” which is the platform for the rest of
the story to unfold throughout the poem. Those lines are understated, yet are two
of the most important because they set up the scene that the author wants the
reader to visualize. The author also uses punctuation to represent and highlight the
most critical part of the poem. For example, at the very end of the first stanza “The
image was fleeting:/ a man with flowers/ and a smile,” the author uses these three
lines to set up for the last stanza of the poem which explains why a man on a bike
with flowers is so important. The poet was trying to convey that while something
may be simple and understated it is not necessarily unimportant. In an interview
with the author she states “I remember that I broke into a grin when I saw the
young man. It surprised me that his actions delighted me so. I wanted to capture
that.”(Rice). The poem does an impeccable job representing what Rice witnessed
by using imagery so the reader feels as though they themselves witnessed the same
event. The poem is important because it represents what many people today
overlook, simple happiness that one can see in everyday life if they just look.
With “Depressive disorders affect[ing] approximately 18.8 million American
adults”(Murray) it is crucial that individuals find ways in everyday life to see
simple happiness and be happy because of it. It is the simple pleasures in life that
make people the most happy. If people were able to not over look simple pleasures
such as a man riding a bike carrying flowers and smiling, individuals might be
happier. Although “Some lucky souls really are born with brighter outlooks than
others; they simply see beauty and opportunity where others hone in on flaws
and dangers”(Flora). Happiness will often randomly come to people with brighter
outlooks on life, rather then those with pessimistic thoughts. The poem represents
the beauty in looking at the world through optimistic eyes. The poet is trying to let
the readers know they should look onward with optimism and embrace happiness
when it is presented. The Author states “Much of my joy came from what I
imagined the bicyclist was feeling, what I imagined the recipient would feel when
the bicyclist presented the flowers.”(Rice). It has been said and proven by many
that the feeling of joy is often brought upon by witnessing others doing kind acts.
Blissful people create a happier world because “Compared with less happy
people, happy people have better social relationships and more pleasant everyday
lives.”(Otake). If one surrounds themselves with joyous people, they are more
likely to be happy themselves. In today’s society, people are constantly looking for
happiness in their daily lives, yet perhaps all they have to do is have an optimistic
outlook, find simple pleasures and surround themselves with happy friends. The
poem represents something that most people are missing, simple pleasures in
daily life. Rice starts the last stanza of the poem with “but it made me happy/ as
if he were bringing them to me.” This is a great example of a simple pleasure. The
poem brings to light how easy it is to find brief moments of joyfulness. The poem
also presents the reader with a romantic image of a man in the classic romantic
painting. “He wasn’t pedaling/ like someone in a 19th century painting/ dawdling
through the park,”(Rice). Those lines are key to the understanding of what the
author witnessed. It was not like the average romantic movie where men do sweet
things for women, no it was real. Those are the images that people in society should
be looking for to achieve happiness, not fictional scenes from romantic movies or
19th century paintings. In an interview Rice states “It was a modern reenactment
of a sentimental theme and that made it fresh.”(Rice). Indeed Rice does take a fresh
approach to a classic theme, yet it does not come off as sappy, like most poems
with a love theme do.
“Encounter” by Melinda Rice, represents that simple pleasures are
everywhere in everyday life; one just needs to be in the correct mind set to see them.
She uses understated and effortless words to describe a blissful story of a man
carrying flowers and the joy it brought the observer. Although this poem appears
to be understated and rather happy it brings to surface some of the problems with
todays depressed society. If more people were able to find happiness in the simple
pleasures, then the world would be a more joyful place. Works Cited Flora, Carlin. “The Pursuit of Happiness” Psychology Today. 1 Jan. 2009. Web. 21
March, 2011.
Murray, Bob. “Depression Fact Sheet: Depression Statistics and Depression
Causes.” Depression Solutions with the Uplift Program. 15 January. 2005.
Web. 21 Mar. 2011.
Otake, Keiko, Satoshi Shimai, Junko Tanaka-Matsumi, Kanako Otsui,
and Barbara L. Fredrickson. “Happy People Become
Happier Through Kindness: A Counting Kindness
Intervention.” National Institutes Of Health: Public Access. 7 Sept. 2006. Web. 21 Mar. 2011.
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Simple Happiness
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A submission critique of Jeanne Johnson’s Tulips, by Rachel Rose
Imagine a budding tulip, a subtle glow. Why should one imagine this flora? A
tulip, as a human, has similar stages of life Tulips – buds like the birth of a baby,
has a prime, and saves the best show for last. In the Joyce Johnson’s poem Tulips,
this flora’s growing process and therefore parallels the human aging process, which
represents the significant beauty of the circle of life. This cycle not only correlates
to the human life span, but as an allegory, implies symbolism and a series of
beginnings. This cycle not only correlates to the human life spa, but as an allegory,
implies symbolism and a series of beginnings pertaining to the Christian religiousbased faith.
Tulips, is a concise poem, which also functions as an allegory by utilizing symbols,
that parallel between flora and humans life stages. The author sets the scenery
with the first stage of life, “straight stems held high your tight red buds presented
as promises of blooms” (Johnson 29). Buds are analogous to the beginning of a
life: a flower blooms a child is born. The Tulip symbolizes not only the beginning
of life, but the first stage of the floras cycle of life because it has, “promises of
colors” (29) it will bloom. Symbolism reveals the beauty of life’s stages by depicting
the aging process as synonymous with the aging process of a tulip. Although, at
this stage its qualities are, “more hidden than shown.” In other words, the flower
is in the blooming stage of growth. Similarly, during transitional phases, of life,
a human grows as well. Therefore, these phases represent the beginning of both
the tulip and the human phase of life because they both are not fully developed:
mentally, physically, or spiritually. During my adolescence I was reserved, but now
I have become social after I visited Paris the summer after high school, I needed
to communicate with others and make friends quickly because I was only visiting.
The communication to the reader through the language of this poem flows well,
for instance, alliteration contains two words in a row with, which begin with the
same consonant “s” and then another two words, which start with “h.” The “s”
sound is a softly spoken letter. The language style depicts the soft sweet mood of
the poem. The next line is, “more promises than flower.” This is personification,
defined as, “the attribution of a personal nature or character to inanimate objects
or abstract notions, especially as a rhetorical figure” (Dicionary.com). This is
an “abstract notion” because a flower cannot make a promise because this is
something humans do. Through the utilization of human characteristics the plant
is compared to a human. The author does this, in order, to portray an allegory. An
allegory means “: the expression by means of symbolic fictional figures and actions
of truths or generalizations about human existence; also: an instance (as in a story
or painting) of such expression” (Merriam-Webster). This Tulips poem represents
an allegory because its “fictional figure” is the tulip, which serves a “generalization”
about human existence.
Another allegory that Tulips pertains to, a wider context is the religious-based
faiths. An allegory means, a “representation of an abstract or spiritual meaning
through concrete or material figurative treatment of one subject under the guise
of another” (Dictionary.com). The birth of Christ is an allegory for this poem.
Jesus has forgiven a Christians sins, and therefore every time a Christian asks for
forgiveness they experience spiritual renewal, and this is a form of spiritual rebirth. The “promises of blooms,” (29) depicts the word renewal, of the reformation
in the 16th century, which coincides with the word choices “promises of blooms”
(29) because this is a promise of a “renewal” (29) of the church dogmas birth of
Christianity. This fundamental shift The Christian faith is based on the belief of
the birth of Christ, which is analogous to the Tulip’s birth of a “bud.” Christianity
is, the “largest religion” (Robinson 1) practiced today. It not only provides salvation
to its believers, but it is a major enterprise.
Not only is this poem is a reference to the birth of Jesus, but also the fertility of
in agricultural produce. “Fallow like a fallow field… Fertility lies deep within. Till
reap me” (29). The definition of till is “raising crops” (Merriam-Webster). In other
words, the field is fertile because it creates life, such as, raises crops. The next line
continues “Watch that first tendril of LIFE” (29). This is a wider claim about life in
general, in particular, fertility of a woman. This depicts agricultural plants, as well
as, flowers both have seeds like females have eggs, so this appeals towards women
because flowers are a sign of fertility. Yet flowers also appeal to males because they
wish to impregnate a female who wears flowers. Fertility begins life, so this is an
example of the beginning of life’s cycle.
Not only do the words depict life, but the symmetrical spatial arrangement of
the poem mimics life’s beauty, balance, and a blossoming flower. This balance
symbolizes the – circle of life because it represents that they are both the aging
of a flower and a human are natural processes and because the flower process is
beautiful, than the aging process of humans should be as well. The next stanza
focuses on the prime, which symbolizes the adulthood stage of life. This stage is
clear because the poem states in your “prime” you “stand tall” which symbolizes
that the Tulip like a human is fully developed. The “full life” symbolizes the flora,
like the human, has fully developed both spiritually and mentally.
The last stage of both the flora and human conveyed in the last stanza is the
aging process. This stage is evident because the poem signifies the Tulip, like a
human, bends over “with the weight of your life” (29). This means that a person
has lived a long-term life. “Open your petal fully to the world all you have become”
(29). These sensory details signify this person has lived a life full of substance. The
poem states you give “your best show and then disappear.” This means a person
describes his or her “best show” once a person has live a long lifespan, because they
are mortal so people “hold back nothing” in order to live life to the fullest and fully
expresses itself. The poems mood is subtle because it focuses on unstated selfacceptance of the aging process. It is directed towards the female audience
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Tulips: Tell a Tale of Life’s Cycle
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Bill Clark
Works Cited
“Allegory - Definition and More from the Free Merriam-Webster
Dictionary.” Dictionaryand Thesaurus - Merriam-Webster Online. Web. 20 Mar.
2011. <http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/allegory>.
Kirsch, Johann Peter. “CATHOLIC ENCYCLOPEDIA: The Reformation.” NEW
ADVENT: Home. 2009. Web. 20 Mar. 2011. http://www.newadvent.org/
cathen/12700b.htm
Robinson, Bruce A. “The Christian Religion.” ReligiousTolerance.org by the Ontario
Consultants on Religious Tolerance. Web. 20 Mar. 2011.
<http://www.
religioustolerance.org/christ.htm>.wse/show>.
“Show Synonyms, Show Antonyms | Thesaurus.com.” Thesaurus.com | Free
Online
Thesaurus of Synonyms and Antonyms. Web. 19 Mar. 2011.
<http://
thesaurus.com/browse/show>.
Hourglass Reasoning
By: Cody Gilbert
A review of “Extinction” by Phillip Ramos
People have been striving to answer questions such as the formation of the earth,
the purpose of life, and reasons to believe in one religion over another for centuries.
It is has been a poet’s job for just as many years to try and take these questions and
either explain them in new ways or pose the question of why we ask them. I chose
the poem “Extinction”, by Phillip Ramos, because it did just that. The basic focus
of the poem is about whether or not to believe in god, but Ramos does an excellent
job of provoking the reader to consider that the odds of creation and evolution may
be just the same.
“The poem begins with a retelling of a headline I read not long before
writing the piece, stating the positive identification of the cause of the dinosaur
extinction” said Ramos in an email discussion I had with him about his piece
Extinction, which was published in the 2011 issue of the Porter Gulch Review. His
factual opening sets the stage for his poem that contemplates the odds of both
creation and evolution. A discretional tone in taken in talking about the very widely
debated argument on how humans came to be. Ramos leads the way weighing the
veracity of his opening statements and supposed scientific fact. Taking a very
neutral stance Ramos leaves the floor open for discussion with a single line that
poses as the second stanza. “What are the odds of that?” (Ramos). As the reader
we are being invited by Ramos to think about how things in our world are created
or destroyed and eventually leaving space for us to debate our existence.
I heard somewhere that
Something that happens once never happens again
While something that happens more than once will inevitably happen again
What are the odds of inevitability, randomness, and chaos?
The same odds that it is all God’s masterpiece I suppose
(Ramos)
This part of the poem is where Ramos flexes his thought provoking muscle.
Ramos referred to his third stanza as a “Philosophical limerick”. I think it is much
more than a witty and nonsensical grouping of lines. It is a tautology, which means
he uses different wordings to address a common point. The most important part
though is that it does not provide added clarity. It only leads you in circles and at the
end of this stanza not only are you questioning his words but you are questioning
yourself and if you read it correctly. His circular reasoning is Ramos’s greatest tool
in this piece. It gives you a sense that maybe some of these questions will never be
answered for sure. Ramos points to the fact that the only way you can believe
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as a message to reverse the media’s negative view towards aging women and help
women accept aging. There should not be a double standard projected by the media
and society that it is acceptable for men to age, while it is not acceptable for women
to age. This poem solves this gender-related issue. After all, the aging process for
humans is natural like the process for Tulips.
The philosophical view of this poem is optimistic mood, it celebrates the beauty
of life amplified by in-depth sensory details. This poem maintains a high level of
ambiguity because it only mentions Tulips in the title, but the word is unrepeated
throughout the rest of the poem. After all, flower’s life cycle is a universal
symbolism, and universal aspect.
in arguments for creation or evolution is if you base your argument on something
that you assume to be true. Especially, giving his point additional strength, because
he stated facts in the first stanza and then questioned them instead of assuming
their correctness. His juxtaposition of individual thought process vs. supposed
facts sets the stage for the reader to come to their own conclusions.
Ramos ends the poem with what seems to be an answer the questions he has
left you with. In reality though by ending with “The same odds that it is all God’s
masterpiece I suppose” just poses more questions. After reading this poem for the
fifteenth and sixteenth time I have new questions that surface or my previous
questions are just fine tuned by an additional reading. The logic of Ramos’s work is
shaped like an hourglass. It slowly funnels down and get close to a comprehensive
point but then opens up even wider than before posing an even larger question.
Even people who strongly believe in the idea of creation or evolution will leave this
poem with some questions. Ramos pokes holes in arguments for both creation and
evolution that have at times proved to hold water for some. As a poet Ramos has
a job to provoke new thought or to move a reader in a different way than before.
Ramos has fulfilled his duties with easy. His placement of words is not without
order and circles in like a shark on our excepted beliefs of how humans came to be.
Leaving our minds to flounder in the chaos of possibility and chance.
Works Cited
Phillip, Ramos “Extinction” 2011 Porter Gulch Review. Print.
Phillip, Ramos Email interview.
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A Critique of Ashlyn Schehrers As We All Are by Shannon Marsh
The feeling of insignificance as a person in a world with billions of others is juxtaposed
with the twinkling of the billions of silent stars in Ashlyn Schehrers As We All Are. The
purpose of the stars is something she contemplated as a young girl with her father, and
on the many occasions when she laid out in the grass under the dark night sky. She shows
the evolution of her thoughts about how we all one day will be forgotten, showing us we
have a choice to accept this or not.
It’s easy to see this piece as sad, and it may bring unhappy thoughts; however, the
message is to not spend life trying for something that is out of your control but focus on
you because that’s all you can do. After dissecting the closing lines I find a lighter side to
the piece which changes the tone and my original feelings towards it. Her discussion with
her dad out under the stars as a young girl brings back many memories of my childhood.
She and I both look to our fathers in search of answers to life’s hardest questions. Though
we soak up what they say like a sponge as we grow we learn that what daddy says isn’t
always what we choose to believe. We are free to think and draw our own conclusions
about questions.
She connects stars and humans because each has their own story of creation and
life, but no matter how spectacular and bright you are your story will never be known or
will one day die out. She brings to life stars and gives a personal example so it is easier for
the reader to connect to her story.
I love the style of her writing, her word choice, and envy her way of transitioning
beautifully through the whole piece. Every sentence has a purpose and expertly selected
message and connection to the story as a whole. She uses intelligent language but in a
way that is still easy to interpret and enhances her stories appeal. The variety of sentence
structures makes reading it interesting and kept me engaged. Short precise sentences
after very long sentences were a good choice and the dialogue was inserted in a way that
just flowed with the story. It was an interesting occurrence that almost ever paragraph
started with “I” or “I remember” but the last paragraph started with “We”. This suggests
by the end of her writing she realized that this problem wasn’t just hers it is everyone’s.
Each paragraph helped to develop her story more and helped you connect with
her thought process. I thought of how the night sky has always been something people
wonder about and have desired to understand. As far back in history as 15,000 B.C.
humans have tried to track these lights in the sky in an attempt to gain some knowledge
of life. Saying that maybe the stars are looking down on us as we look up at them and
wonder about your stories is a cute idea to think of. What would they see or think of our
lives.
This story was fun to read and very thought provoking. However after interviewing
the author I found she uses her writing as an outlet for emotion but the story of her dad is
fiction. I was surprised because that is the part I connected with most. Though the story
was fiction I believe the emotions she was feeling were real and that is why this piece is so
great.
This story is very relevant to everyone’s life and adds a lighter twist to something
that is east to accept. There seems to be no solutions to this problem of never feeling your
life will be remembered so you can accept that or let it consume you. You do have control
over what you choose to do.
A House That Melted Into a Blind Man’s Brain
By: Fernando Gonzalez
A book review of Russell Edson’s The Tunnel: Selected Poems of Russell Edson
Ohio: Oberlin College Press
“A toy-maker made a toy wife and a toy child. He made a toy ouse and some toy
years. He made a getting-old toy, and he made a dying toy./The toy-maker made a toy
heaven and a toy god. But, best of all, he liked making toy shit.” What the fuck, right? My
thoughts exactly. On the surface, it may be obfuscated and blurry Delving into Russell
Edson’s compilation of poems, entitled The Tunnel, is like opening a Pandora’s box of the
subconscious mind, where everything seemingly spills out all at once, in no particular order,
with no particular purpose, with every thought coalescing into a glob of equally brilliant
and absurd ooze. Few artists (Kafka, David Lynch, and Garcia Marquez to name a few) can
masterfully command the subliminal tide as skillfully as Edson does in his anthology, and
one could argue there may be some influence from them, however, his particular narrative
style differentiates him from any further pigeonholing. Composed of equal parts poem
and prose, Edson takes the reader down his own rabbit hole, where ceilings eat dogs, old
men eat themselves, boys are born from cows, and an old woman becomes her breakfast.
It’s a whimsical world, filled with every kind of literal and metaphoric meaning, though the
meaning itself is hidden beneath several layers of anthropomorphic objects interacting
with each other. Edson, in crafting thick, turbid parables suspended in existential
alluvium, allows the reader to wade waist deep in their own interpretation of the work.
There is a scene in David Lynch’s Eraserhead,which came to mind after reading
Edson’s compilation, where the protagonist, Henry, is sucked into a pool emerging from
the middle of his bed where he and the woman from across the hall are engaging in what
would appear to be sex. In the following dream sequence, he emerges sharing a stage with a
singing woman. His head then pops off and is replaced with the head of his deformed child.
Henry’s head then sinks into a pool of blood, falls from the sky, lands in the middle of the
street where a boy picks it up, who takes it to a pencil factory, and sells his brain to them
so they can us it to make erasers. Harnessing the same kind of veiled, absurd metaphors,
they can also be analyzed similarly. In the above scene, the pool of water represents the
sexual act, which is often described as being moist or milky. When he reappears on the
stage, his deformed child’s head replaces his own after popping off. The child, being the
natural result of procreation, begins to wail, as Henry’s head sits atop a puddle of collecting
blood. As a result of having a child, Henry condemns himself to a life of servitude to
machinery and becoming a tool, as his brain is being converted into an eraser, which in
turn is ground into dust that is blown into a black backdrop, his newfound insignificance.
The prose piece entitled “Fire Is Not a Nice Guest”, where a lunatic describes the
actions of a fire as it devours an insane asylum and his attempts to rationalize with the
element to contain itself, but fails to due to the ravenous nature of the fire, resembles the
chaos found in the aforementioned scene, and itself is littered with veiled metaphors. “I
had charge of an asylum, as I was insane.” The piece begins with the narrator, a lunatic,
custodian of the damned, characterizing his position. The narrator himself could be a
metaphor for any individual in a place where none have any authority other than a self-
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Coming to Terms Together
be give it any less merit than what someone else believes it to be? If something makes
you feel something does that make it any less real than what someone else’s more
“in-depth” analysis reveals? No, it doesn’t. Santa Claus can be real because children
believe he exists, it’s kind of creepy, but hey, if there’s going to be a jolly fat guy in a
red jumpsuit breaking into your house once a year, he might as well give out presents.
Works Cited
Eraserhead. Dir. David Lynch. Perf. Jack Nance. Libra Films, 1977. DVD.
Edson, Russell. The Tunnel: Selected Poems. Oberlin, OH: Oberlin College, 1994.
Print
How Can You Weigh Words On a Scale?
An Analysis of “Thin Air”, by Eden White
“Thin Air” is a poem that can be interpreted in more than one way, in
my opinion. Its language and visual imagery said to me that the speaker in this
poem felt upset, unappreciated, and lost. Eden’s use of metaphors and indirect
connections like ‘dead radio stations’, ‘slapping flesh and raspy breath’, and the
‘shape of music’ make for a more interesting portrayal of the speaker’s point and
how they personally want to make it. This poem is more about communication
than the feeling of not being listened to, according to Eden. My interpretation is
still the latter of the two.
Because of the visual descriptions used in “Thin Air”, I was able to see
rather than just hear what was going on. The line “I see them (words) fly from
my lips and bang against deaf ears” comes off to me as the experience hearing
yourself speaking to others that aren’t listening. We all experience this at one time
or another, and when I read that line the first thought that came to mind was
sitting or standing there with a group of people around you who don’t respond
to a thing you say, almost as if they don’t hear you. The description of “wordcarriers who carry my words but don’t understand their meaning” adds more to
what I see as a lonely, misunderstood, and confused speaker. When I explained my
interpretation to Eden, she told me that she didn’t “view the poem as being about
not being listened to”, but more about “the value of words, communication, and
understanding.”
Eden also told me that writing had never been her interest, but rather
stems from her “obsession (with) communication.” The ways she views the poem is
similar to mine in that her point is about how she feels unsure and in a way overly
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imposed sense of entitlement, perhaps in modern society. “ A fire came, which
got hungry;” Fire needs two things to continue burning, matter and oxygen. It is
a destructive force that takes life sustaining things and turns them into ash and
poison. By that description alone, one could argue that the fire is capitalism, which,
by design, can only continue to grow, and if it stops taking in resources/energy, will
die. As the fire progressively consumes more of the house (possibly a reference to
the earth), “ a maniac with a hatchet, began to attack the sky.” One cannot fight fire
by “wounding the sky to rain”, as they cannot fight consumptive forces by attacking
their faith in consumption. The narrator then attempts to bargain with the fire,
but the fire hears none of it, as “they do not like to starve.” In a last ditch effort,
the narrator assembles the lunatics in an attempt to “eat the fire, which, if not, will
eat them.” to which the lunatics reply “we are not fire-eaters, we are sword
swallowers...” Their entire lives, they may have been taught to eat swords
composed of iron and steel, the products, components, and materials of
industry. Swords, whether they be broad, narrow, or curved, are weapons
of subjugation, a trait often associated with communism. Perhaps the
poem is a parable on how, in fighting communism, we have forgotten how
to fight other forms of self destruction, but that’s just my interpretation.
Both stories are linked by the protagonists’ impotence in the face of
crisis, and even when taking action against their deteriorating condition (Henry
later kills the child), are helpless and at the mercy of the forces they struggle
against. They are reflections of who we are, and through the metaphor, we can
see ourselves reflected from them, though the mirror may be smeared with
vaseline and littered with specs of ash. Their worlds are crumbling around them,
but there isn’t a singular or obvious cause, only the impressions the reader/
viewer places upon them. We aren’t given a proper antagonist in either case as
well, (the fire can be seen as one, but it is, in nature, merely an instrument of
consumption, a substitute without a real face.) because in these places, everything
is dangerous, like the very real world they take inspiration from. Ultimately,
we are presented with a vessel to visit the author’s perspective, but there is
more than enough room for our own ideas to accompany us in the endeavor. I liken the stories to modern folk tales, albeit a bit grizzlier and more
connected to the psyche as opposed to cultural influences, though they do bear
traces of modern cultural elements, (i.e. mental health hospitals, decrepit buildings). Folk tales have always captured my imagination because they live in a world where
literally anything can happen, but are populated with human archetypes and
behaviors. Either through our own egotism or acceptance of our inescapable nature,
humanity is still present. It is through these tales that we see what the culture of the
story value, and how they interpret their own existence, what they consider to be
most important in their daily lives, or what they consider taboo and unspeakable.
Taking a scalpel to this form of fiction is akin to performing an operation on
a stuffed animal, all you end up pulling out are pieces of fluff you can shape into any
kind of organ you need it to be. Similarly, the interpretation can be clouded in any kind
of personal turmoil or feeling, but who cares? Does what you think something may
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KOAK
Witches, Midwives & Nurses
Heather Richard
Barbara Ehrenreich and Deirdre English
Feminem Press
1-103
$8.95
Broomsticks to Stethoscopes
One of the biggest themes to hit the movie screens in the last ten years in
Hollywood was films about witches and witchcraft. The Harry Potter films were
quickly adored and obsessed over by millions of people. The movie brought forth a
lot of controversy over the subject of witchcraft and whether it was appropriate to
be viewed by children. I have always felt these films were appropriate because they
are based on fictional portrayals of witches. Prior to reading the book “Witches,
Midwives & Nurses” by Barbara Ehrenreich and Deirdre English, I knew that
witches in our history weren’t really the stereotypical characters with broomsticks
and wands, however I did not know much about there history or there influence
on medicine. I furthermore did not know about there conflicts with how males
and females are treated differently in the medical field. MWN was a well written
and very credible source as to what these women went through to gain a title
in medicine. I really liked this book a lot because it opened my eyes to how the
medical field, past and present, is a very male dominated world with little room
for women’s play. In our history, males have always been the dominate figure in
the medical world and the way that they are treated differently from women is still
relevant today.
My favorite feature of this book is the way in which it was divided. Every
section served its own purpose independently and collectively. It was split up into
five different sections. Because this copy is a second edition, the first section of
the book is an introduction to the changes made and why they were made. I really
appreciated this section because it offered a lot of background information on when
the book was originally written and the differences in the writer’s perspectives
then and now. It was originally written and published as a set of pamphlets by the
Feminist Press in the seventies. The next section provided a look into what the
main part of the book was about. The following sections were titled “Witchcraft
and Medicine in the Middle Ages” and “Women and the Rise of the American
Medical Profession”. They provided most of the meat of the book and went over
the historical value of witches and how although there are more women in the
medical filed today, there is still a male dominance and control issue taking place
and they are treated differently. The book ends with a conclusion to tie up loose
ends. Overall the book was specially crafted to prove its point and was done in a
very effective way.
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concerned with how others view her and her work. However, her explanation
of the reference to ‘thin air’ was that it was about air that was too fragile to carry
words, and thus she didn’t know what the weight of her words needed to be in order
to travel through it. I wasn’t able to make that connection in my own analysis, for
whatever reason, and with Eden’s help I got it. I got how the images I saw in my
own mind were different than hers, and even if I hadn’t got her take on the writing,
I still would have felt justified in my own take. It was when Eden mentioned to me
that “I rarely share my work since I worry about being misinterpreted, or, worse,
being misunderstood”, I made the connection to the language of the poem. There
is a line which states that ‘now the silence in my head echoes graveyards and junk
yards and abandoned school yards’, which sounds to me like someone who has a lot
on their mind, so much that its hard to know what makes sense and what doesn’t.
It was good for me to hear direct from Eden what thoughts, feelings, and
motivations went into “Thin Air.” Having something to compare my own views
of the poem to made way for re-considering them. I still believe that my views
are logical and a fine way of breaking down Eden’s writing. And even though she
doesn’t view her writing the same way I do, my realizations about my own situation
and how I connect it to “Thin Air” were helpful and a nice way of looking at myself
in a different light. Whether one’s words are light or heavy in weight, they have
value and eventually the air will carry them.
being properly recognized as doctors in the medical field, they did not and still
do not receive the same treatment as men do. One outcome of this issue is the
difference in salary between a male doctor and a female doctor. Males make much
more money even when receiving the exact same medical title as women. Although
they both receive the same schooling, passed the same tests to become certified,
and perform the same procedures, men make much more money. According to
a 2011 February issue of “Health Affairs”, in 2008 a male doctor in his first year
earned $35,300 more then a female doctor in her first year. That is a fairly big
difference for two people whose only difference is gender. The idea behind this
salary gap is that female doctors need a more family friendly and flexible work
schedule and might potentially not be able to be on-call after certain hours. I
don’t see this as fair at all because they are basing this idea on the “potential” that
females aren’t as available, not on realistic individual availability. Again, I see how
the male dominance issue is still relevant today and women continue to be treated
differently even after this many years.
Although there will always be a stereotype of witches as casting spells or
riding broom sticks, it’s important to know the history behind them and there
influence on working men and women in medicine today. After reading “Witches,
Midwives & Nurses” it truly opened my eyes to how women are treated differently
in the medical field and were it all originated. Unfortunately, in our society gender
issues will always be relevant. Men and women might not always be treated fairly
but at least baby steps are being taken. My hopes for women working in the medical
field in the future is that one day women will be treated the same as males and will
be viewed as equals.
Works Cited
Ehrenreich, Barbara. Witches,
Midwives & Nurses. New York:
The Feminist Press, 2010. Print.
E how. “The Average Salary of
Male Doctors vs Female Doctors”
2011. Web.
http://www.ehow.com/
info_8012732_average-doctorsvs-female-doctors.html
Aurora
Behavior
Health
Care.”History of Las Encinas
Hospital” 2011. Web.
http://www.
lasencinashospital.com/
about%20our%20facility/
history.php
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The section that stuck out the most to me was “Witchcraft and Medicine in
the Middle Ages”. This section covered detailed experiences of how witches were
treated form the 1600’s to more recent days and what they were really about. The
most shocking thing I learned from MWN was most of these women’s intentions
were just to be healers who focused on using and applying natural remedies and
herbs to heal the sick. At this time doctors, all being male of course, were focusing
on astrological approaches to healing and these methods were not any more or
less effective then the women healers. However, they saw them selves as superior
to these women even though they both set out to do the same thing: heal people.
The communities took it as far as executing these women for simply trying to do
there job and were given the infamous titles of “Witches”. Because they did not
go with the mainstream routine of going to male doctors, they were not seen as
appropriate healers and were therefore not accepted. In this section it states “In
the late fifteen and early sixteen centuries there were thousands upon thousands
of executions-usually live burnings at the stake-in Germany, Italy, and other
countries” (Ehrenreich 33). I could not believe that they took it to that extent just
because these women healers did not represent the “normal” and male dominated
approach to healing. During this time only men were seen fit to practice medicine
and would never have even dreamt of letting a women do their job. When I put this
idea into a present day perspective, nine times out of ten when I go to the doctor’s
office it’s always a woman as the nurse and a man as the doctor. I never really
thought twice about it until now. This is a clear example of how men still represent
the dominate role in the medical field today and this issue is still very relevant. Being
able to aid to the sick should be based on knowledge and experience, not gender.
Ehrenreich wrote “Witch healers were often the only general medical practioners
for a people who had no doctors and no hospitals and who briefly afflicted with
poverty and disease” (45). Based on that quote alone I am still at shock of how
these women were treated just because of a male control issue. They seemed to
be the only realistic option for most of these people yet they were executed and
exiled from the public and not even treated like they were human. This quote later
followed “The real issue was control: male upper-class healing under the auspices
of the church was acceptable, female healing as a part of a peasant subculture was
not” (46). When the churches got involved it just got messier. Soon these women
were being associated with the devil and things just got worse from there despite
the fact that they were performing effective acts of healing. One example of how
the church interfered was when these women healers had a remedies that helped
reduce pain during labor. The church did not see this as fit because they felt labor
pains were a result of God’s punishment to women for Eve’s sins. I feel as though
the efforts of both the church and of the men were blown way out of proportion.
It led to the still present control issues in the medical field today and how men and
women are both treated differently even when holding the same position.
The first female doctor in California was not hired until 1923. She was
hired at Las Encinas Hospital in Southern California. Although women were finally
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by Heather Richard
A critique of the poem by Melinda Rice Encounter
There is nothing more rewarding in life then to find true happiness. Happiness can
be found in all shapes and sizes and can occur at any point in your life. Sometimes
it is found through meeting a new person, getting a promotion at work, or finally
buying that 1965 red mustang you have always wanted. In Melinda Rice’s poem
“Encounter”, she writes about her run in with happiness and how it was achieved
through someone else’s. I really enjoyed reading this poem because it took me
several times to understand its meaning, forcing me to read it over and over until
I felt satisfied. Rice wanted to capture a moment of happiness in her life through
her poetry and she did an amazing job. Through effective imagery, this poem
expresses how happiness can occur successfully even when it is not intentionally
directed toward you.
I really enjoyed this version of a happiness poem because she used a lot of
imagery to help set your mind in the perspective of the writer. I also appreciated
the fact that although the poem is only fifteen lines long, it is far from simplistic.
My favorite image she planted in my mind as a read through the lines was “He
wasn’t pedaling/ like someone in a 19th century painting/ dawdling through the
park”. As soon as I read these lines my mind immediately focused on past images
of pictures I have seen in museums or history books with those older style bikes
and the image of a man holding flowers in a sepia tone photo. Rice’s goal with this
image was to contrast the older idea of a man with flowers to a more recent one
and how both images bring the same happiness. Another line I enjoyed was “The
image was fleeting:/ a man with flowers/ and a smile.” This image brought even
a smile to my own face because it reminded me of the importance of achieving
your own personal happiness through someone else’s joy. It brings you back to
that moment when you’re cruising down the street on a normal Friday or Saturday,
day dreaming about love or a happy moment, when you see someone else on there
way to happiness. Rather then feeling a sense of jealousy or sadness because this
man was not heading towards her, she could appreciate his happiness. Her own
happiness is revealed when she ends the poem with “but it made me happy/ as if he
were bringing them to me”. This poem demonstrates a lot about Rice’s character as
a person. She is willing to see the bigger picture of life and can enjoy someone else’s
good feeling and has the ability of creating her own sense of good feeling though
this experience.
I did some research on the psychology of happiness and found that there is
new field of research called Positive Psychology. In the past, this field of psychology
explored mental illnesses but they are now taking a new approach. They are
focusing on well being, the good life, happiness, and how to achieve the pursuit
of happiness. I found this article very interesting and learned that the internet
is chalk full of resources on how to become a happier person. One of the ideas
this field of research explores is how to create your own personal happiness. We
all know someone who is always happy-go-lucky and would love to be that way
too. Positive Psychology revealed a study that showed that forty percent of our
happiness is derived from ourselves, leaving us with a pretty good portion to be in
control of. There are many exercises you can try that our intended for increasing
your personal happiness. One exercise mentioned is the “Good Things” activity.
In order to do this activity, every night before bed you must tell your self three
good things that happened that day. It doesn’t matter how big or little these good
things are because any of them should evoke happiness. I think this could be a
really effective way to go to bed with a smile every night and can help lead to your
ultimate goal of happiness.
I was fortunate enough to interview Melinda Rice about her poem though
email. She mentioned a lot of things that really stuck out to me. One of the
questions I asked her was if she had any specific reaction from the reader in mind
when she wrote it. I was very pleased with her response. She told me that she does
not write for a reaction, she writes them to capture a feeling and to express it in a
word picture. This showed me that she truly writes her poetry for herself, and does
not expect any sort of outcome. Poetry is a way of expressing yourself regardless
of who reads it. One thing I found rather shocking was when I asked her if she was
satisfied with the final outcome of her poem she had told me that surprisingly,
this was not one of her favorite poems and was very shocked it made it in the
PGR. She also said that she hadn’t given as much thought to this poem as some of
her others and was surprised it created such a buzz. This statement proved how
powerful poetry really is and how many different effects it can have on readers as
well as the writer. It furthermore goes to show how effective a poem is, even when
the writer may have some doubts. Before even answering any of my questions she
told me that many years ago while taking a college poetry course she asked her
instructor “But how do we know what the poet meant to say?” I can completely
relate to this question because I know it has lingered in my mind all semester and
those of my classmates as well too. The instructor responded by saying “We don’t
know if he meant to say it, but he said it, it’s there”. I think these words were just
as meaningful to me as they were for Melinda. She went on to say “As with art, the
observer brings there own life experience, there own perspective to the poem”.
This made me feel much more confident about reading poetry in the future and
inspired me to want to continue to do it even after this class.
Finding happiness helps to build character and helps mold someone into
who they are. It can affect your whole outlook on life and how you deal with day to
day events. Melinda Rice’s poem “Encounter” is very inspiring. Though her imagery,
she speaks of finding your own happiness through the happiness of others. This
is such an important trait to have in life and can help lead you towards the road to
true happiness. Rice wrote a very effective poem and proves the idea that poetry
is an expression of emotion. It also proves that a poem can teach you a lesson and
give you a different outlook on your own life. This poem taught the life lesson that
happiness can occur anywhere and can even be derived though another person’s
happiness.
PGR 197
Created from Another
Chris Martin: Eloquent, but Unfocused
Downtown subway car
Chris Martin’s American Music
To a man in perfect physical health
Because he had tears in his eyes? Neither
Have I, not yet, but at least
I am tired of pretentious critics and poets trying to prove themselves to the
world in an overly serious fashion. Poetry is life; life is poetry. When you read a
poem the author should bridge the gap between a jumble of fancy words and a
genuine human connection that everyone can share. Poets should avoid writing for
pretentious literary critics who have been reading so much they forgot what it feels
like to live. Today life is beginning to move faster and faster. We have constant
action and access to all sorts of information with Internet and cell phones/smart
phones. This fast past reality can create a stressful environment at times and give
people a sense unbalance and instability. Contemporary poetry should capture
this life to be truly representative of our times. Chris Martin does an excellent job
of this in his collection of poetry titled “American Music”. In “American Music”
Martin takes the reader on a journey through a bustling urban environment were
glimpses of culture and life are a backdrop to realistic themes of the instability of
our fast past life styles and thoughts. Martin does an excellent job of creating a
very real sense of instability in his poetry; my only complaint is that playful hodgepodge of images can detract from the over all focus of his poetry.
The ultimate reason people will sit down and read is for entertainment. We all
share the want to slow things down and escape from our own reality. In “American
Music” Martin take us to the familiarity of our culture in a refreshing way. When
reading his poetry I pictured a collection of obscure snap shots of a day in the life of
a middle class New York resident. Sprinkled in between this imagery are Martin’s
deep ponderings. He invites us to take life and even himself a little less seriously.
This is obvious in even his first poem of the collection, which is appropriately titled
“Jokes for Strangers”.
I may have lost
My attention for Logic
But I see beautiful
Children circumventing cruelty
PGR 198
Nearly every day and it raises
The question—what have you done
Lately for the safety
Of our Feelings? Have you
Offered your seat on a crowded
I considered it in writing
(Martin)
Martin’s playfully candid tone invites us to take in his message of compassion
without feeling inconsiderate. Martin’s tone in this poem is very successful
because often when writing gets to be more humorous and informal it detracts
from the meaning. Here, he uses a candid tone to address important issues, and
we’re invited along for the ride.
This is Martin’s first book and I find him tackling the biggest of questions. He
writes like the ideas are passing through his head as he is on this journey through
an urban landscape. Setting the stage for a fast-paced train of thought, which is
very representative of life today. I found an excellent example of this when Martin
is talking about his coming into this world at the end of the poem “Being-in-theBeing”.
To erupt in directionless code, I
Was born into The West and the joy
Of unintelligibility or I was
Born into fluorescence and the bloody hands
Of a stranger, the vanishing
Point of my mouth
Exploding into song, proffering
The air with tiny quarrels
Of self, I either writhe
In the baptism of ether or
Soberly find myself
Happening ceaselessly, I tell you
These are just one or two
Of the uncertain occupations
Of an object in the act
Of appearing and I scream
PGR 199
By Cody Gilbert
This is one of the most powerful sections in “American Music”. Martin’s talent
as a writer is showcased with eloquent language and also a vividly real image of
birth that helps add to the focus of his poem, rather than detract from it. Making
reference to the numerous paths and choices we have in life, Martin points out
that those possibilities stem from our existence. In going along with the title of the
book “American Music” Martin references freedom. The reference is not done in a
way to say that if you are an American you are free, but rather in a hopeful message
that you are born free.
I do think that at times Martins poems can feel somewhat scattered and
lose a direct sense of focus. I found this very distracting from the over all message
of the poems. For example from the poem “Horse Stories”:
Nor divide into thirds as the ice
Cream has now melted down
The stick onto her fingers, pasting
The Book’s pages, my knees
Thoughtlessly knocking, a pigeon
Narrowly missing the ear
PGR 200
Of a small girl as her mother
Screams in terror, everybody turning
(Martin)
These lines are scattered in themselves with a bunch of mixed imagery. Its like
trying to build a house of Popsicle sticks with out glue—nothing sticks together.
The only way these lines tie into the rest of the poem “Horse Stories” is because
Martin mentions a girl eating an ice cream sandwich previously and everyone
knows ice cream sandwiches’ don’t have sticks…
Martin’s style seems to be very influenced by the works of Frank O’Hara.
Everything in life is ready to be put into their work, from social scenes of New York,
random encounters, birth, music, to urban landscapes. Martin and O’Hara both
try to capture life as it is, before overly sophisticated wording contaminates it. I
mentioned earlier “Life is poetry”. That is something that both Martin and O’Hara
believed in and is demonstrated in their contemporary poetry. Life can be both
perfect and disgraceful; in that sense their poems have a balance, which preserves
reality. Singing a song of life that is slightly off tempo and beautifully imperfect.
Take a look at the poem “Song” by O’Hara. This is the essence of contemporary
poetry, which Martin strives for and arrives, slightly scattered.
SONG
I am stuck in traffic in a taxicab
which is typical
and not just of modern life
mud clambers up the trellis of my nerves
must lovers of Eros end up with Venus
muss es sein? es muss nicht sein, I tell you
how I hate disease, it’s like worrying
that comes true
and it simply must not be able to happen
in a world where you are possible
my love
nothing can go wrong for us, tell me
This collection of poetry captures life in an urban society in a raw and elemental
way. Martin takes life as it comes and using imagery and some humor he is able to
articulate questions that are posed by our existence in life that most of us are too
exhausted to venture. Martin’s lively energy and bustling imagery are refreshing
but at times detract from the meaning of his poems. The entirety of the book is
like a series of societal snap shots that delve into themes of culture and humanity.
They mimic our thoughts and fast-paced culture and do not stick to one specific
idea for very long. Life is scattered and Martin wants to capture that essence of
life. In Martin’s attempt to do so he takes too many liberties in wandering from
one thought to the next. In the middle of the book I felt trapped in Martin’s mind
and just wanted to get out because I was being overloaded by ideas; this constant
shifting had a stressing effect. In the end I found that I agree with Martin in that
it is exhausting to be free and feel his style can get a bit tiresome.
Works Cited
Personal Devlopment. “Postive Pyschology & Happiness” 2011. Web.
http://www.suite101.com/content/positive-psychology---happiness-a10870
“Random Encounter” Cabrillo College English 1b Spring 2011. David Sullivan.
PGR 201
It is exhausting to be free.
(Martin)
PGR 202
A critique of Robert S. Pesich “A Quick Stop at the Natural Life Aquarium”
by james O’Hare
“A Quick Stop at the Natural Life Aquarium” by Robert S. Pesich, is a poem
in PGR 2011 and is multilayered, touching on many topics including matters of the
heart and Zebra Fish biology. Robert S. Pesich is a staff scientist at the Department
of Biochemistry at Stanford; this gives him a special angle on poetry. This poem
summarizes an experience he had while visiting a pet shop with his three year old
son. This experience while at the pet shop points to how easily we harm ourselves,
each other and the world as a whole regardless of our frailty and emotionality, by
treating life as well as each other as expendable, as manifested by the high divorce
rates, treatment of lab animals and the low-price impulse buy atmosphere at pet
shops. Hopefully these negative trends can be mitigated or reversed through
acknowledgement of their simptoms and recognition of their root causes.
After the first line of this well written poem: “They also sell snakes, lizards
and parakeets” (Pesich 1), which seems to start in mid conversation, delivering the
impression that the reader may be somewhat familiar with the store, which makes
for an interesting effect as most townships tend to have at least one pet shop,
making the scene very imaginable. The narrator goes on to describe how his three
year old son enthusiastically goes to watch the fish in their tanks. At which point
he overhears a woman chatting with
her friends in another part of the store, starting in on a conversation already
in progress not unlike the first line of this well crafted poem: “When we finally
separated, I changed my mind/ and got my son a pet, zebrafish,/ simple, a big bowl with
rocks/ and a decrepit castle” (Pesich 6-9). Zebra Fish are named for the set of four
horizontal blue stripes running down their length. They are a popular choice for
beginning aquarists because of the facts that they are easy to care for and they
generally do well in schools and among other fish in an aquarium4. The way lines
six through nine are written, strongly suggests to me that the overheard woman
didn’t want to get a pet for her son that she would have to deal with, really just a
few steps up from a plant in terms of complexity of care. Also the fact that she got
her son the fish only after the divorce, suggests to me that the fish might be kind of
a stand in for an absent parent. This leads me to believe that this may be a critique
of how non committal human beings can be, as demonstrated by the statistic of
fifty percent of marriages ending in divorce in the United States7. Or this could
alternatively be a reference to how monetized everything is, a snap decision made
under what are likely not ideal circumstances and two dollars, and you own a Zebra
Fish, your very own living creature to lovingly care for, neglect, or even abuse.
This theme of how easily we harm what is around us continues on line
fifteen, shortly after overhearing the woman:
“And I want to correct her.
Yes, they are simple.
One for $1.99, three for $4
and you can also cut them slightly
at home in the kitchen.
squeeze out the two-chambered heart.
Chop off a chunk at its apex,
staunch the bleeding and push it back in” (Pesich 15-22).
The price assigned the animals at a pet store belies the amount of what is still
not understood about biology and life itself. Indeed the Zebra Fish is a vital
resource for scientists and researchers as they are easy to breed, make a good
model organism for the study of vertebrates and some strains have been bred to
have transparent bodies, simplifying observation. Also they are used in research of
many human diseases from retinal damage to cancer because of their surprising
regenerative ability. While the controversial lab use of animals for research has
benefited mankind in many fields of science, it certainly doesn’t do the animals
being experimented on any favors.
Compared to Zebra Fish, people are fragile. People can even be dramatically
debilitated by the loss of others near to them, which is not a common trait in Zebra
Fish. Indeed, it could be argued that the emotion of grief is a defining aspect of
humanity. I believe that the strongest part of this poem is about grief, which is a
sort of a prerequisite to emotional healing occurring in response to harm befalling
others. This is indicated to me as the narrator reflects on the regenerative abilities
of Zebra Fish even after having a large chunk of their heart cut out:
“I keep telling myself even now
eight out of ten make it and go on
to regenerate what was amputated
through a series of clots.
Scarring vs. regeneration not understood.
The first full moon will see a new heart wall.
The next full moon will see the heart grown back
to its previous form
if only that were true
for us here” (Pesich 23-32).
I believe that the Zebra Fish surgery recovery is an allegory to human grief,
the clotting, scaring and eight to ten odds of eventual possibility of regrowth,
representing the Kübler-Ross grief stages of depression, bargaining, testing and
acceptance6. Line twenty-three: “I keep telling myself even now” (Pesich 23), leads
me to believe that the narrator is doubtful of the possibility of recovery from grief
stemming from the loss of a loved one, as is suggested by the amputation of part
of the Zebra Fish’s heart in lines fifteen through twenty-two.
In conclusion, this is a great poem that makes good use of some non
traditional writing styles to convey the harm we are capable of. The harm we cause
by our devaluation of life and each other. Perhaps at times it may be intended
PGR 203
The Zebrafish Know What Harm…
Appendix:
Robert S. Presich was very helpful in the writing of this essay on his poem “A
Quick Stop at the Natural Life Aquarium”. I emailed him shortly after starting on
the rough draft and he gave me a ton of background and contextual information
on this poem which was very helpful. Otherwise I would have not known that he
was a staff scientist in the Department of Biochemistry at Stanford and a lot of the
context would not have been as clear to me.
He confirmed that this poem was about grief, and described the experience
that inspired this poem: “My son and I as well as several patrons, a vet and a cashier
were in the store. Eavesdropping on a conversation, I began to think about how we
harm ourselves, one another and the world around us. The great wheel of samsara.
At the time, I was pretty much holding onto the edge, whacked at every turn while
trying to let go”. This is extremely well conveyed in the poem, but Robert Presich’s
email really clarified the overall impression made by the poem.
He also explained the ways in which the use of Zebrafish in the lab
have progressed medical science through their use in the study of vertebrate
development and genetics, as well as their fascinating regenerative abilities
which are so central to this poem. He then pointed me to a few good resources
for information including the article “Research Offers Clue Into How Hearts Can
Regenerate in Some Species” in the New York Times; a full citation can be found at
the end of the Works Cited list. This was extremely helpful in bulking out my essay
and filling in a few question marks.
Robert S. Presich also made a few noteworthy comments on his writing
style: “…it is not uncommon that the technical language I use in the lab also pops
up in some poems. I often cut most of it out for the sake of the poem and the
reader and often to the detriment of both”, this after mentioning his position
at Stanford. He also commented on some of the more non traditional bits in
his writing: “I was taking some risks in this poem: including dialogue with very
little contextalization, applying a scientific procedure in a kitchen setting, use
of incomplete sentences, repetition, how to make the poem sound loose while
writing it with economy, and also the line breaks were challenging such as
”and in streams and stagnant bodies/ of water in ditches.(13-14)””. This helps to
highlight some of the really artistic parts of this poem.
Robert S. Presich was extremely helpful in the writing of this essay, even
to the point of suggesting a few photos to go with it in the online version of the
PGR. “A Quick Stop at the Natural Life Aquarium” was fun to read and easy to write
about as the poem gave lots of food for thought. I hope everyone gets a chance to
read it in the 2011 edition of the PGR.
Works Cited:
1) Zebra fish may point way to cure for blindness The China Post Friday, August
3, 2007.
2) White RM, Sessa A, Burke C, et al. (February 2008). “Transparent adult
zebrafish as a tool for in vivo transplantation analysis”. Cell Stem Cell 2 (2): 183–9.
doi:10.1016/j.stem.2007.11.002. PMC 2292119. PMID 18371439. http://www.
pubmedcentral.nih.gov/articlerender.fcgi?tool=pmcentrez&artid=2292119.
3) “Zebrafish Play Pivotal Role In Helping Treat Disease”. Medical News Today.
30 Oct 2009 - 3:00 PDT. Accessed 5/2/11. <http://www.medicalnewstoday.com/
articles/169273.php>
4) Aquatic Community. © 2004-6 Aquaticcommunity.com.
Accessed 5/2/11. http://www.aquaticcommunity.com/barbs/zebrafish.php
5) Robert S. Pesich. “A Quick Stop at the Natural Life Aquarium.” PGR 2011. Year
2011. Page 23.
6) Changing Minds. Accessed 5/3/11.
<http://changingminds.org/disciplines/change_management/kubler_ross/
kubler_ross.htm>
7) FastFacts. The Center For Disease Control and Prevention. Accessed 5/1/11.
<http://www.cdc.gov/nchs/fastats/divorce.htm>
8) Wade, Nicholas. “Research Offers Clue Into How Hearts Can Regenerate in
Some Species”, New York Times. March 24, 2010.
PGR 205
PGR 204
for a positive outcome, experiments on Zebrafish leading to some major medical
advances for example. But better we recognize the harm we do, that by recognizing
our capacity for doing harm we may be able to avoid and mitigate it.
PGR 206
By Roderick Moreland
Hunter S. Thompson’s Hell’s Angels
The media doesn’t report the news, they report interesting stories that sell.
They speak ambiguously and use industry lingo to protect themselves from any legal
ramifications for spreading panic and fear. They pray for natural disasters, mass murders
and panda births just to have something to exploit— or in their language— report. As
free speech advocates push the envelope further, where can we the people draw the line?
Without the original Gonzo journalist, Hunter S. Thompson, the glimmering reputations
of the leading news outlets may have never been tarnished— what we know as free speech
is commoditized and sold to the highest bidder with the lowest morals. Media outlets
shouldn’t be legally allowed to claim to report current events under the title “news” unless
they are at least fact based.
In the generation of hippies and LSD, there were a handful of men that refused
to submit to the leviathan that we all count on to keep us safe at night. These men are
known as “one percenters” and the most famous are the Hells Angels. In 1965 The Nation
gave Hunter S. Thompson an opportunity to ride with the angels for a year and write
about his experiences. This puts him in a series of precarious situations that filled the
pages of Hell’s Angels. Here he gives both sides of the story and follows the progression
of sensationalized police reports from the west coast all the way back east. What started
as an inquiry about Hell’s Angels morphed into a heavily biased investigation done by
California Attorney General Thomas C. Lynch:
Three Hell’s Angels had seized a 19 year old woman in a small bar in the northern
part of Sacramento and while two of them held her down on the barroom floor…The
victim was menstruating at the time, her sanitary napkin was removed and the third
individual committed cunnilingus upon her…
The manner in which Mr. Lynch conducted said investigation was sending out
“questionnaires to more than a hundred sheriffs, district attorneys and police chiefs,
asking for information on the Hell’s Angels and other ‘disreputables’(Thompson 22).”
This is a free steak dinner to starving reporters. A New York Times correspondent caught
wind of this, embellished the story more than necessary, and sent it back east.
A great example of the media sensationalizing a story was during a motorcycle
rally on the 4th of July back in 1964 to Willits. Using a letter written by Mrs. Terry
Whitright as a primary source compared to the police report, “the two versions are not
contradictory, but the point of view suggests that the Hell’s Angels reality often depends
on who describes it” (Thompson 29). Mrs. Whitright describes an encounter with a
member of the outlaw motorcycle club in one of the most populated bars during the
afternoon. “… [we] were walking down the street and one man wearing a black leather
jacket, boots, dirty black tee shirt… grabbed Lori by the hand and talked to her for a
while asking her name and all the time being very gentle and nice (Thompson 30).” She
mentioned the only fight of the night because it was one of her acquaintances
known to be a raging drunk. “He was a Wilackey Indian that never went out
looking for trouble, but never backed down either.(Thompson 30)” The law had a
very different account.
According to the attorney general, the angels were compared to a nomadic
group of Mongols ripping through small town America wreaking havoc:
An advance group of 30 entered the city the previous day… 120 motorcyclists and their female companions by the afternoon…congregating
at a local bar… Periodic fighting between the motorcyclist and citizenry
broke out with beer bottles, belts made from motorcycle drive chains and
metal beer can openers used as weapons. It was noted that some members
apparently designated as sergeants at arms did not drink… when police
were called…[they]… would poor beer on any blood on the floor and move
groups in and out of the bar to make police interrogation more difficult
(31).
The public loved to hate the headlines so newspapers flew off the shelf.
They were adding fuel to the fire and separating the Hell’s Angels from other
motorcycle gangs by inadvertently romanticizing the image of beards, tattoos,
Harley-Davidsons and a band of outlaws roaming off into the California sunset.
This gave the Hell’s Angels a sort of celebrity status and men all across the nation
were quitting their office jobs to come out west and do whatever it took to join.
After the San Francisco Chronicle gave the outlaws their celebrity status, something
interesting happened. During the sixties, two-thirds of the Hell’s Angels were
employed. After they became public figures, no one would hire them. “Terry was
summarily fired from his assembly line job at General Motors a few days after
the … article appeared (Thompson 50).” This took away the option to work so
they turned to the streets or hustled reporters out of thousands of dollars. This
is the double edged sword of publishing stories that would have otherwise been
dismissed as just another tall tale.
The media now had a situation. They were being exploited by a group of
greasy motorcycles jockeys and they didn’t appreciate it. Time, Newsweek, The
New York Times now campaigned against the Angles. They portrayed them as sell
outs and misunderstood patriots. They were getting publicity in a positive sense-and for the group of outlaws, nothing could have been worse. Time magazine
even provided them with a public relations guy. “By the summer of 1965 he was
marketing Hell’s Angels Fan Club T-Shirts, which sold fairly well… (Thompson
40).” As public figures, they were harassed by the local cops more and couldn’t ride
across the bay bridge without being pulled over and cited for something. “The heat
was so obvious that even respectable motorcyclists were complaining of undue
police harassment (Thompson 37).” Its interesting, the media can glorify and then
PGR 207
Sensationation
Works Cited
Fein, Steven, Saul Kassin, and Hazel R. Markus. Social Psychology. 8th ed. Belmont:
Wadsworth, 2011.Ebook.
PGR 208
Thompson, Hunter S. Hell’s Angels: a Strange and Terrible Saga. New York: Modern
Library, 1999. Print.
Working Class Heroes
By Roderick Moreland
A critique of the Short Story “Murphy” by Richard P. Guthrie
Murphy, a short story about a close knit platoon on patrol in an unfriendly
province dubbed “Indian country” in Vietnam and shows the frustration and
resolve of our troops when in precarious situations. Richard P. Guthrie did an
excellent job of illustrating an overlooked military truth: morale is key for carrying
out successful operations. Also, Murphy is composed of many characters which
all fall into the Marxist categories of proletariat and bourgeois. It is by analyzing
from this perspective that one can gain a greater understanding of not only the
story, but the society which the characters are from.
Mr. Guthrie provided an excellent representation of the uncertainty of modern
warfare. In Vietnam, there were no lines drawn in the sand and he couldn’t have
said it any better. “I strained to detect the merciless killer I knew lay lurking behind
every bush, rock, tree truck or shadow (cite)”. This is accurate representation of
the stress that these men were under while they were in country crosses all racial
and socioeconomic lines and he led us down into his world of paranoia and fear
that so many of our veterans have experienced. Being under such intense, life
threatening stress, it hard to imagine who would step up and volunteer for such a
life changing experience.
Arguably, one of the most basic principles that are beat into a young soldiers
mind when in basic military training-- never do anything alone. We lived together,
worked together, ate together and even had to shower together. Everyone knew
each other’s strengths, weaknesses, and imperfections. This allows peace of mind
in an otherwise chaotic environment. But, when an outside member is suddenly
forced into an established brotherhood, no one trusts that man; and its assumed
that he doesn’t know anything.
“now Jonsey, whenever you get up from a halt… you actually feel around with
your hand, make sure you didn’t leave nothing behind… get into the habit of
checking like this, even in daylight – so you’ll do it automatically in the dark, now
you do it… everything we carry is important… and we all depend on each other to
have the right things.”
Every unit has their own way of doing things, any other way is just stupid.
When a soldier gets transplanted, especially during war, he has to relearn everything
and it doesn’t matter what or where he came from. The feng shui of the group will
be off until the new guy (in this case, murphy) proves himself time and time again.
On the other hand, officers are completely different. They have to be
transferred every so often so they don’t have the oppourtunity to build as strong
of bonds as the enlisted. They are required to have a college degree and most of the
time, they’re from a very different socioeconomic background than their
PGR 209
crush whoever they want.
It’s sad. Does the public realize that when a reputable news agency reports a
“fair and balanced” story, they are only getting scuttlebutt at best? How did the news
become such a hot commodity? They can make or break anyone and they need to
be held accountable for circulating filth. The media can influence public perception
on presidential candidates, talk up run-away brides, and divided our nation. Sure
people are entitled to their opinions but high budget news conglomerates produce
false statistics and use ambiguous language to lead the public down into canyons
of deceit with all the fat cats on top firing down a constant barrage of advertising
and government funded propaganda.
According to leading social psychologists, “we are bombarded with
information in our everyday lives, such as countless advertisements designed to
persuade us to buy particular products or adopt particular opinions and attitudes”
(Fein). The amount of advertising that we are exposed to has change the way that
most Americans think. There are two routes to persuasion, central and peripheral.
Using the central route, we hear the message, think about the information and are
influenced by the strength of its argument. The peripheral route, we use superficial
cues and heuristics to accept whatever is being said (Fein). Now, the way that the
media is changing the way that Americans think is since we are bombarded with so
many “expert” opinions, we just don’t think about what is said under the guise of
convenience, someone else has done the homework for you. So, that good looking
professor talking about whatever on CNN probably isn’t really a professor. And
the information being shared could be false, but because people think peripherally,
they bob their heads in agreement and go on about their business spreading
misinformation and filth.
The only way to correct this situation is to require journalists to take an oath that
would make them ethically and legally accountable for misleading the public. When
a reporter flagrantly violates the oath, a standardized suffix shall be permanently
added after his name, for example, John Smith L.J. (lying journalist). A government
agency similar to the F.C.C should be created to enforce the new laws that would
require news agencies to pay hefty fines for their violations. Greedy media moguls
would be forced to hire fact checkers and Fox News wouldn’t be like last week’s
episode of Days of our Lives.
happened in 1789 when the peasents of France couldn’t afford bread because of
famine and greed. Greed is already a deep rooted American value— all we need
now is a good old fashioned biblical drought, to make people realize how lucky
they used to be and what an empty belly really feels like. Then, under pressure, the
individualist society with become collectivist and hopefully realize that we have a
need for affiliation. If we can learn one lesson from the past, let it be this one…
and the world just may run a little smoother. Pay people descent wages and treat
each other with respect. Just like officers and enlisted men, although different,
they required to work with each other in a professional and respectful manner.
More importantly, one can’t survive without the other.
Works Cited
Fein, Steven, Saul Kassin, and Hazel R. Markus. Social Psychology. 8th ed. Belmont:
Wadsworth, 2011.Ebook.
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subordinates. They can be pretentious at times and speaking from experience,
it’s better to just let them keep their head in the clouds instead of in one’s private
life. Also, there are specific rules that forbid officers from fraternizing with
enlisted. This allows officers to legally separate themselves from enlisted because
there maybe a situation where emotions might hinder the officers judgment. For
instance, I was a 20 year old airman that got busted for underage drinking. The
week prior, we had a squadron picnic where everyone, over age and under, was
drinking together. Randomly, the military police were shining their lights into
people’s vehicles for a training excersize and saw a couple of beers in my car. They
had to turn me in and my commander had to punish me for breaking the rules.
It was very hard for him to do because a week prior, we had good conversations
while knocking back a few. It was hard for him because, in our eyes, if you’re old
enough to die for your country, you should be able to drink. So its easy to see how
an officer, who just made a connection with a young troop that reminded him of
himself, would have apprehensions about sending him on a death mission, which
is a very real scenario.
Every now-and-again, officers figure out how to walk this thin line and however
rare it may be, he was a good captian. He was aware that grunts are the wheels
that keep the military machine moving and grunts aren’t from high society. “Lloyd
Snow wasn’t a squad leader, or even a team leader. I doubted he was a high school
graduate. B company was lucky to have him and all the others like him.” Maybe
the blue collar work ethic has something to do with these men taking pride in
whatever needs to be done—Whatever it is, the we need the working class.
Military wages aren’t the best in the world but its enough to make a living
on and in many cases, it’s a good pay increase from whatever civilian job a soldier
had before. This compels countless young men from poor economic backgrounds
to sign up and take the risk. Our country requires that these working class heroes
to stand up and take the call to serve their nation. Without “short, wiry, twofisted Irishmen from [towns like] Scranton, Pennsylvania” volunteering to serve,
America would have to resort to the draft which would affect the wealthy anyway.
In this case, the “two—fisted Irishman” is the reason for the story. We
can’t expect all our nation’s troops to have a bourgeois outlook on life. These men
and women are the glue that holds everyone, especially in this story, together.
“I wasn’t surprised that on this steep and scary hillside, he [murphy] was the
one volunteering first for a mission that nobody … wanted to take” This same
mentality is shared with the people who do the jobs that the wealthy would turn
their noses up to. This is the spirit of the working class. Do what needs to be done
to survive.
We are social animals that have had too much leisure time throughout
history so we found ways to separate ourselves into various in-groups and outgroups. Today we see the corporate aristocracy ruling their penthouse kingdoms
with no true sympathy or concern for the starving masses below. Something similar
Fernando Gonzalez
A critique of Daddy’s Little Boy
By Halona Zuck
Children know nothing other than honesty when they are at their youngest.
They know only what they experience through their imagination. While something
can be explained to them in a whole-hearted attempt to make them understand,
they will only know what they see from their own skewed, whimsical perspective.
To them, a bug can be a friend, a box can take them to the stars, a shadow is a
bridge across an abyssal chasm, a tree branch really is a sword, a sword that they
can protect with, that can allow them to feel safe, for that is all a child wants... to
be safe and loved. While they may be vulnerable and naive, children also have the
uncanny knack of unadulterated insight into retaining a lack of self-consciousness
and immaturity, a characteristic that makes children mythically divine creatures
and adults, by comparison, old, stale, crusty, barnacled cliff trolls, craving the
essence of a youthfulness that has long since abandoned them for reason and
common-sense, devising desperate schemes in order to attempt to regain what age
has cruelly taken. That is why, and not without irony, I believe youth isn’t wasted
on the young, but on the contrary, wisdom is wasted on the old, and we all have
something we can learn from the perspective of the perceptive child, as is the case
with Daddy’s Little Boy.
“When I was two Halona came to live at our house with daddy, me, and
mommy. When I smiled at her she would giggle and wiggle and gurgle at me.”
Inconspicuous and understated, that is what drew me to this particular story in
the first place. The rest of the story follows in the same vein as the passage above,
with the majority of the narrative placed in descriptions and recollections of the
titular Little Boy, which could easily be passed as lazy writing, or perhaps the
context the narrative is placed in could be considered too simplistic, but in writing
in this style the author stays true to the voice of a child. Unpretentious, naive,
simple, and at times poignant. By adhering to the focal point of the story, ( The
translation of a child’s sundered heart into text while retaining their voice) the
author conveys the interpretation of the events in a child’s life when they are too
young to fully comprehend them exceptionally well. “When I was five and Halona
was still three daddy got so angry with mommy I thought he hurt her. I curled
up on the orange chair, I put my fists to my ears to shut out daddy’s yells and
mommy’s crying. If only mommy would make daddy happy, but she never did.”
Here the boy’s solution to the problem is simple, “If only mommy would make
daddy happy, but she never did,” because he cannot take into consideration that
perhaps his mother’s happiness would come at the cost of doing what made his
father happy, or perhaps his father was never happy with anything. We can’t know,
because the boy only describes his mother with an affliction, as being “sick” and
her having to go “live at a hospital”. At the tender age of seven, I wouldn’t expect
anyone to completely grasp the fact that one of their parents may suffer from a
psychological or behavioral disorder. I myself didn’t come to the realization that
my mother could hardly speak English until I was well into my adolescence. It had
never occurred to me my dependence on my parents perhaps blinded me to their
shortcomings, so it comes as no surprise a seven year old couldn’t surmise that
there may have been an irreparable rift between his parents.
The boy’s relationship with his sister deteriorates towards the end of the
story, almost paralleling the difficulties between the parents, but the boy seems to
attribute his parents’ problems and eventual divorce to Halona, evidenced by his
last statement, “ Halona does not know how to make daddy happy. I hate Halona
and wish she’d never come to live with us.” Again, as he understands it, the problem
is simple. Halona. If she had never come to live with them, everything would be
fine. The hate he claims to have for her is an obvious reaction a child would have to
situation that is completely out of their grasp. Interesting as well is the grammatical
tier the author places the parents in, as mommy and daddy are never capitalized,
with the exception of when those words begin a sentence, perhaps because the
child feels a sort of detachment from them, as their problems became a major
source of duress for the boy in his formative years. There is a portion of the story
where, after their father informs them that their mother believes they should not
visit her anymore, Halona packs up her things in a makeup case and runs away, but
returns, seemingly downtrodden and beaten. Later in the afternoon, while the boy
is in the living room, she is heard from the father’s bedroom, “ yelling and crying
for daddy to stop doing something.” It is unclear here whether there was some
abuse or the father may have been trying to console her, but, nevertheless, that
event bears some significance, because after that Halona becomes abusive of the
boy and is only talked to when she has done something wrong.
Through the voice of someone so young, the author relates to us what a
child must see when they experience difficulties so young in their development,
and allows the reader insight into what it may be like for those tiny souls that exist
in a whole other world than the one we inhabit.
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Borne From Fairy Bones
Across the Nightingale Floor, Episode 2: Journey to Inuyama (Tales of the Otori)
Zachary Smith
Lian Hearn
Penguin
225
$6.50
After reading the title of this story one may ask: what is a nightingale floor? A
nightingale floor, or uguisubari, is a floor made of dry boards designed so that the
flooring nails rub against a jacket or clamp that will chirp or sing like a nightingale
when walked upon. “It’s a floor that sings. Nothing can cross it, not even a cat,
without the floor chirping like a bird” (Hearn). Used in the hallways surrounding
the living and sleeping quarters of temples and palaces nightingale floors insured
that no human could sneak through the corridors undetected (zen-garden.org).
Within the story powerful lords and nobles feared assassination because of the
torment they had brought on the people of Japan. These lords sought to outsmart
their attackers by replacing traditional wood floors with nightingale floors to
alert guards of possible intruders or assassins. The floors insured the safety of the
nobles and lords who incorporated the detection device within their estates.
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A nightingale floor as it exists today at Nijo Castle.
http://www.zen-garden.org/html/page_nightingalefloor.htm
Lord Iida has built one such floor within the palace walls at Inuyama; he has
survived various assassination attempts and does not plan to die in another,
but if our young protagonist Takeo can cross the floor in silence he will kill Lord
Iida and take his revenge. Across the Nightingale Floor is a captivating tale of love,
ambition, honor, trust, and defiance that will keep readers of any age intrigued by
the troubles of a young man searching for harmony and inner peace.
Instantly drawn to the imaginative setting and period, I read Lian Hearn’s Across
the Nightingale Floor in a trance like a child in front of a television. Hearn creates
a world full of wonder and mystery. I wanted to understand it, so different from
my own experience, as the story unraveled before me like currents in a stream. “A
strong desire seized me to stay in this place for ten years like the great Sesshu, and
draw and paint every day until my paintings came to life and flew away” (Hearn).
The creative writing drew me in and gently held on while my imagination was
set free; I only wish I could stay submerged in Hearn’s fantasy. The story takes
place in a fictional world that resembles feudal Japan in an era very different from
my own. Hearn points out in her author’s note, “…the landscape and seasons are
those of Japan,” and she lured me into Takeo’s world with vivid descriptions of
screen environments and plush landscapes that resonate in the imagination. The
weather plays a large role in the story, always explicitly explained, allowing readers
to immerse themselves deeper in the story and witness the changing world around
them. No description was wasted or unnecessarily prolonged, and I never thought
these images were distracting from the story but only allowed me to enjoy the
world Hearn had created. “The rain held off, though lightning flickered round
the ranges all night, turning the clouds indigo, and the full summer foliage of the
forests surrounded us in a sea of green” (Hearn). This feeling of immersion kept
me turning pages long past the time I should have been sleeping.
The entire story is written in the first person perspective of the protagonist
Takeo, allowing readers to engross themselves within his thoughts and emotions.
“My high spirits at the beauty of the day gave way to another, deeper feeling; a
sense of awe and expectancy, as if some great and wonderful secret were about
to be revealed to me” (Hearn). As I read, Hearn stimulates my imagination, and
I believe a secret only I may understand will become revealed through Takeo’s
thoughts and actions. This gives greater understanding to the troubles and actions
of the young man. When Tomasu, a member of the Hidden (a religious coalition
persecuted for their beliefs) by birth, returns from the mountains, he finds his
family and the other villagers slaughtered by Iida Sadamu, leader of the Tohan. The
hamlet was attacked by Lord Iida because the citizens of the village were members
of the Hidden. Lord Otori Shigeru saves Tomasu from certain death and adopts
him into the Otori clan, renaming him Takeo because his previous name may
reveal him as a member of the Hidden. Similar events have occurred in Japan’s
history; in 1610, Christianity was perceived as a growing threat to the stability
of the Shogunate, and laws were implemented to ban the practice of Christianity.
During this time Christianity was almost completely eradicated and foreign trade
was limited. Europeans who landed on Japanese shores without consent were put
to death without trial. As the second episode starts, Muto Kenji, master of the
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The Sound of Silence: an appreciation for life
and death
consequential problems.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ninja Katsushika Hokusai, Woodblock printing,
Page from volume 6 of the 15-volume Hokusai Manga (sketches collection)
Hearn does an excellent job of describing the behavioral traits of an
assassin. Takeo expresses in one instance, “…a man saw me…he saw my second
self, and when it faded he thought it was an angel” (Hearn) when he is spotted
by a villager during a nightly outing; this only provides greater understanding
to the arts of an assassin and pulls at the heart strings of those who would love
to join Takeo’s adventure. As Takeo journeys to Inuyama for a marriage that will
unite the five clans, he must hide his true intentions and the traits of an assassin
behind a false personality. One of the most drawing features of Hearn’s novel is
the internal struggle between will and action within each of his characters. The
behavioral traits of the characters shed light on the relevance to modern society.
When encountering social situations many people choose to mask or hide their
true opinions and beliefs behind an outer mask of serenity until they become
aware of others’ true intentions and decide to reveal their own conviction when
they deem the time appropriate. This behavior reflects how Takeo must act when
escorted to Inuyama by Tohan guards. Throughout the story Takeo allows an outer
shadow to reflect peace while all the while internal intentions plot death.
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Muto family, has just revealed to Takeo that Takeo’s father was the most skilled
assassin of the Kikuta, the greatest family of the Tribe, a secret organization of
assassins that lend its skills to the highest bidder.
Across the Nightingale Floor is full of social customs and honor codes that leave
readers fascinated with the behavior and social rank of the characters. The name
of one of the four predominant clans precedes the name of each character. Each
character’s title establishes what social rank they hold and what clan they were
born into. The novel does not follow any external dating system but is related to
the Feudal Period of Japan’s history, 1185-1603 A.D., when society was split into
two classes: nobility and peasants. Military leaders, known as shoguns, were the
highest ranking nobles, and the Emperor was little more than a puppet figure.
Subordinate only to the shogun, powerful warlords called daimyo had complete
military and economic power within a province. Daimyo controlled large amounts of
inherited land with armies to protect their land and its workers. The most powerful
daimyo acquired the status of shogun. Daimyo armies consisted of loyal warriors,
called samurai, who were allowed more privileges than common people and had a
strict code of honor called bushido. Peasants were divided into several sub-classes
consisting of farmers, craftsman, artisans, and merchants (Ratti). Unfortunately, I
did not discover this information through the book, but through my own research.
I hope more readers will discover the social and economic relevance of Hearn’s
writing to Japan’s history. Although this information is not crucial to the story
it would help educate readers of the struggles faced throughout Japan’s history.
Hearn makes it clear that Shigeru is a powerful leader but avoids using formal
statuses within Across the Nightingale Floor only calling him Lord Otori Shigeru.
However, after some research it becomes clear that Shigeru is indeed a powerful
daimyo and leader of the Otori clan, and his rival Lord Iida leader of the Tohan is
also a powerful daimyo. Because Takeo has become Shigeru’s adopted son, he bears
the title of Lord Otori Takeo and will inherit all that is Shigeru’s should he fall in
battle.
During this time in Japan’s history, we see yet another group of mysterious
warriors rise to power. Although the samurai were the predominant warriors of
the time, another group, called ninja or shinobi, appears to simultaneously exist
in history. The Tribe’s actions and Takeo’s training closely coincide with those of
the shinobi, although there is no direct relation between the Tribe and the ninja,
their demeanor is similar to that of historical and fictional ninja clans. In contrast
to the samurai, shinobi have no strict rules about honor and combat; they are
well known for specializing in unorthodox arts of war most notably: espionage,
sabotage, infiltration, and assassination. The traditions of the assassin clan, the
Tribe, resemble those of the shinobi, and the Tribe will not train outsiders and
will come to “claim” or take those born into their clan where traditions are kept
secret and passed down through the family (Turnbull). Some shinobi were known
to possess legendary abilities, and Takeo is no exception, but this is no tale of the
supernatural. Hearn makes it clear his characters are authentic personas with
Standing Juni Shinsho, Sheep General, Kamakura period, 13th century
http://www.facts-about-japan.com/photogallery.html#momoyama
Works Cited
Hearn, Lian. Across the Nightingale Floor, Episode 2: Journey to Inuyama (Tales of
the Otori).
New York: Penguin, 2002. Print.
Ratti, Oscar and Adele Westbrook. Secrets of the samurai: a survey of the martial
arts of feudal Japan. Boston: Tuttle, 1973. Print.
“The Tsubo-en Zen Garden; Nightingale Floor, Uguisubari (鴬張り).” The Tsubo-en
Zen Garden. A Free Online Guidebook, a Living-guide, on How to Make a Japanese
Garden.
Web. 16 May 2011. <http://www.zen-garden.org/html/page_nightingalefloor.
htm>.Turnbull, Stephen. Ninja: AD 1460-1650. Osprey Publishing, 2003. Print.
Works Consulted
Clement, Ernest W. A Short History of Japan. Chicago: Cambridge Press, 1915.
Print.
Hara, Katsurō. An Introduction to the History of Japan. New York: Knickerbocker,
1920. Print.
“Feudal Japan, History.” Facts about Japan. Web. 10 May 2011. <http://www.
facts-aboutjapan.com/feudal-japan.html>.
Green, Thomas A. Martial Arts of the World: an Encyclopedia, Volume 2: Ninjutsu.
2001. Print.
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The novel holds true meaning and relevance to the situations we face in the
present day. I hope every reader can learn from the honorable actions of Takeo and
the characters within Hearn’s fantastic novel. Across the Nightingale Floor teaches
its readers a fundamental understanding of honor our western culture ignores.
Our culture uses polite manners to address one another and vulgar language to
insult those disrespectful enough to disgrace us; within this story, however, people
are greeted with the utmost respect, but those who show insolence often forfeit
their lives. Death is a constant lurking shadow; fearful of the watchful eye of Lord
Iida, Takeo learns to appreciate every waking moment, while the inhabitants of
our western world go about their daily business as if invincible. As Takeo journeys
to Inuyama he finds a deeper understanding in the movements of nature, while
our society rarely takes the time to appreciate the wonderful environment that
surrounds us and absorb the beauty of nature. Takeo begins to comprehend
the duties and obligations of his rank and realizes the love and admiration the
people have for his adopted father, Shigeru. Takeo learns to compose his emotions
and accepts the pain and resentment he feels for the man who killed his family.
Our society perceives emotion as weakness, and we ignore our feelings, rarely
revealing our true emotions. Takeo learns to treasure the life he has been given
while he begins to understand the value of the lasting cycle of life and death. We
are separated from death which is hidden from view, and each day we live longer
finding new ways to prolong our existence, but when a friend dies we rarely touch,
carry, or even see the body, and expect closure from the viewing of photos set on
altars. Takeo gains an appreciation of life and death from his experiences: what will
you gain from your life experience?
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A critique of Debra Spencer’s “In Concert” Zachary Smith
In the Bill Graham, a grand concert hall in San Francisco, a large concert takes
place. In Debra Spencer’s prose poem In Concert she describes the concert events
as they unravel before her in a haze of pot smoke. “Dozens of hands toss bodies
of crowd-surfers into silhouette against the stage lights” (137). Billy Joe yells at
the crowd to participate. The event reminds me of my first metal concert: the wild
movements of the crowd, stage divers, and mosh pits. The concert embodies our
goals as a global community. On the surface the short story describes the scene at
a rock concert, depicting the events as they unravel, but beneath this hazy exterior
lies true meaning: we must participate in the moments that shape our lives.
My eyes glued to the page this fragile ecosystem holds my attention. Billy Joe
the lead vocalist and guitarist with Drummer Tré Cool of the popular punk rock
band Green Day amuse the wild crowd perpetuating the rowdy uncontrolled vibe
that continues throughout the short story. Although there is very little dialogue
from anyone in this narrative the author keeps her readers entertained with the
dramatic events that transpire at the rock concert, describing in detail the sights
and sounds of the crowd. In the second paragraph Billy Joe calls for members of
the gathering to join him on stage “He picks another boy, farther out, who is surfed
by hundreds of hands to the stage.”(137) The crowd obeys the commands of Billy
Joe but the reaction is more complex than a slave obeying its master, Billy Joe and
the participants in the crowd behave as one working together to benefit each other
and achieve the same goal: to entertain one another.
The prose poem is broken into three simple paragraphs, with a smaller fourth
paragraph to sum up the end of this dramatic short story, which give the prose
piece a simple attractive physical appeal. The author begins the story mentioning
the Bill Graham in San Francisco a multi-purpose arena capable of entertaining
7,000 occupants and once home to the Golden State Warriors basketball team. The
piece of literature fills my mind with images of a very large and spacious concert
hall decorated with red curtained walls. Flashing lights from the stage ignite the
concert hall before it fades to darkness and becomes bright again. The large masses
of people occupy every space available. Spencer describes the movements of the
crowd as if they are a single entity moving to the rhythm of nature “I watch the
arms of the crowd bend and sway like long grass, watch mosh pits like dust devils
form and fade” (137). Spencer presents the idea to her readers that our behavior is
natural, a desire to ……. ___________
I can picture the large interior of the Bill Graham, I watch the crowd from the
balcony, as I stand at Debra Spencer’s side she describes their movements. Billy
Joe orders the crowd to participate exclaiming “this isn’t fucking TV it’s a concert!”
(137). His exclamation provides an example of how I can participate in the events
that shape my life. My goal is not to sit idly by and watch the world shape itself: I
must participate.
Billy Joe stands on stage and calls out for a drummer. Pointing to a raised hand
he asks “who plays bass?” a second boy farther out is surfed to the stage. Next
he calls for a member of the audience who can play guitar. He moves a spotlight
illuminating a kid in a red shirt on the balcony Billy Joe offers him a place on stage
if the boy jumps to the crowd fifteen feet below. Billy Joe orders those standing
below to bunch tightly together. I was reminded of a circus act with a trap ease artist
balancing on a tight rope, a group of crazed clowns holding a gigantic trampoline
to catch them if they fall running around wildly beneath the trap ease artist. Only
in this scenario the kid is sure to take a leap of faith, my heart stops as I witness
him fall like a stone, only to be buoyed on the crowd and surfed to the stage a
moment later. This deliberant act of faith in others only gives a more resounding
trust in the goodness of people. Caught up in the moment the boy probably gave
very little attention to what might have happened if the crowd had not caught him.
The boys make it safely to the stage and Billy Joe teaches the boys a threechord song. Once the music starts tension eases, I am transported to an event that
reminds me of my first metal concert, I join the crowd as an equal, and forming a
hive mind we move as a single entity as we drift to the sound of music. My reactions
to the concert events are not my own but the reactions of the single body I become
part of. Spencer shares my perspective “We have sailed rough seas, we have steered
the ship, we are still afloat” (137). The gathering works together to make the most
of the event as it takes shape.
The boys return to the crowd like a river returns to the ocean, safely back where
the journey began. Spencer’s story ends with a humorous description of a trumpet
player dressed as a bee playing the national anthem, I can imagine the buzzing
sound the trumpet must have produced. Yet beneath this rambunctious exterior
lies a separate meaning I hope all can relate to.
The idea behind this piece emphasizes the view point that we are all one: we share
this world and are responsible for the safety of others. The prose poem In Concert
makes profoundly clear the concept that I cannot sit idly by and watch events take
shape around me and complain when events do not end the way I expected because
I did not take action. I must participate in my own life to provide an example to
others so they may learn from my behavior. It’s amazing how much a small gesture
like a concert can affect hundreds, thousands, millions, or the world at large. A
single idea can spread to limitless potential. My participation is invaluable. I have
control over the moments that shape my life, the world my indeed be how I see
it if I never choose to expand my awareness. If I choose to look deeper I may find
something I was ignoring or may have never seen at all.
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The World is How We See it if We Never Open Our
Eyes
Works Cited
Spencer, Debra. Prose Piece #137. David Sullivan English 1B Reader. Spring 2011.
“Bill Graham Civic Auditorium.” Wikipedia, the Free Encyclopedia. Web. 29 Mar.
2011.
“ Bill Graham Civic Auditorium San Francisco.” Onlyinsanfrancisco.com.
Only In San Francisco. Web. 29 Mar. 2011. <http://www.sfcvb.org/media/
downloads/convention/bill_graham.pdf>.
“Billie Joe Armstrong.” Wikipedia, the Free Encyclopedia. Web. 29 Mar. 2011.
“Tré Cool.” Wikipedia, the Free Encyclopedia. Web. 29 Mar. 2011.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Infinite_monkey_theorem
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Sofia Fernandez
Atar Barkai
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Walking the Precipice
Barbara Bick
The Feminist Press
159 pages
$14.95 U.S.
The book “Walking the Precipice” by Barbara Bick, is a fascinating memoir of her journeys
to Afghanistan during three very different time periods. Barbara’s main focus is on the
disgraceful and oppressive way which women are being treated there, and the worsening
of the situation under the fundamental regime of the Taliban. Not afraid to mix with the
conflicted society and the unfamiliar culture, the author manages to depict the horrifying
reality in Afghanistan, where women are degraded as if they were the most inferior
creature on earth; however, the author also follows up on women’s brave path (under
terrifying conditions) of trying to achieve progress, modernity and rights. As the author
reveals more and more stories of cruelty and humiliation, originated and supported by
the fundamentalist Islamic regime, it becomes clear that the more religiously extreme
environment a country harbors, the more oppressed the women are.
As one of her memories from her first trip to Afghanistan in 1990, when the soviets
were still trying to gain control over Afghanistan, the author recalls a conversation with
one of the Afghan women activists where she tells her about her relationship with her
husband, “I must pour the milk into his glass. I cannot just put bread and butter on the
table. I must butter his bread. He never tells me that something tastes good, but if he
doesn’t like it. Oh my God! Kill me! I want to die. (12).” Although the Taliban’s extremists
have yet to be in control at that time, the radical religious and cultural customs have
already been embedded in the Afghan society for hundreds of years. The Mullahs, who
were the religious leaders and were the directing force of a poor and wars-exhausted
society, believed a woman’s place is at home, enslaved and serving her husband. They did
everything they could to maintain that status, including keeping the society ignorant,
as the author describes, “The Mullahs are waging campaign of terror not only against
women but also against Western relief agencies, whose educational and social programs
threaten their concepts of Islam. (21)” By taking the Islam religion to the extreme, and
interpreting old cultural behaviors where men used to go hunt while the women only
knew how to cook and clean, the religious leaders forced the Afghan women to live like
people lived thousands of years ago. Using quotes and notions from the Qur’an, which
was written in those ancient times, the religious extremists ignored any human moral
values regarding women written in the book, but attended only to the old chauvinistic
costumes as if they were commandments of God.
Unfortunately, the Mullahs’ strict interpretation of the Qur’an was only the
beginning of the women’s suffering. In 1994, the Taliban has taken control, as Bick
describes the rise and the frightening implications of it:
Pashtun mujahidin, grouped around uneducated village mullah, Muhammed
Omar, have joined forces with fundamentalist students and have taken control
of Kandahar. And from there they orchestrate a fundamentalist movement to
cleanse Afghanistan of western influence and make it the purest Islamic state in
the world in accordance with their own views of Islam and sharia law. (35)
Fundamentalist movements are called by that name because they want to get back to
their fundamentals, but they are often twisting their religion basis and becoming more
radical. In this case, the Taliban and its leaders took the sharia laws, “the code of conduct
or religious law of Islam” (wikipidia.com), and chose to interpret the laws to the extreme,
especially in manners of women. Bick describes the worsening of the situation and the set
of new shocking rules as follows:
The Taliban’s first decrees in Kandahar are aimed at the status of women: they may
not work outside the home; they must wear the burqa--a heavy garment covering
the head and body with only a small gauze inset to see through--in public; schools
for girls and women must shut down, along with nearly all public places where
women gather. The edicts of repression multiply. Women who display a single
finger outside the burqa can have it chopped off. A women meeting with a man
who is not relative can be stoned to death. (35)
Nowhere in the Qur’an does the book say that women should not be educated or that
their fingers should be chopped off if they uncovered in public. True, a lot of the Qur’an’s
verses have very chauvinistic ideas, such as “husbands are a degree above their wives.
(Qur’an, Sura 2:228),” but so do other religions. In fact, the Prophet Muhammad, which
most Muslims consider him “the restorer of the uncorrupted Islam faith (Wikipedia.
com)”, was actually improving the treatment of women at his time. Regarding modesty,
the Qur’an says, “… and say to the believing women that they should lower their gaze
and guard their modesty; (Qur’an, 24:30-31).” This verse does not continue and say, “And
if not, chop their fingers and stone them to death.” However, the tight belief in their
religion makes the radicals over-exaggerate with their interpretations of simple laws and
conducts like this written in the book. In their eyes, all “necessary” measures to enforce
the rules are justified, including killing. The radical perception and the deterioration with
each and every simple value, makes them ignore any basic women’s right and helps them
justify cruelty. The author finally defines perfectly the contradiction between women’s
rights and the tight belief of the extremists, when she states, “… the Taliban’s vision
of an international Islamic caliphate requires the total subjection of women, because
emancipated women typify modernity, equality, and frequently, secularism. (38)”
In contrast to the terrible oppression women are under in Taliban regime areas,
Bick, in her second journey to Afghanistan in 2001, manages to spot a big difference in
women’s rights issues under still religious, but less extreme, environment. In this passage,
she describes her insights from her time spent with the Northern Alliances, the Afghan
opposition forces which fighting the Taliban in Afghanistan, “From my one snapshot view
of this farming village, life under the Northern Alliance seems to be essentially as it has
been for generations. Boys and girls receive an elementary education, and women work
as teachers, farmers, professionals, wives, and mothers. (99)” While the environment in
Northern Alliances-held territory is also very religiously strict as far as wearing the burka
and covering the whole body from head to toe, the religious leaders
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God Is Not a Chauvinist
So why are God’s servants?
this world; they should be thankful, not hateful.
Work Cited
Sharia laws, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sharia
Fundamental Islam, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Islamic_fundamentalism
“20/20”, ABC News, http://abcnews.go.com/2020/teen-rape-victim-forcedconfess-church/story?id=13299135
Verses from the Qur’an, http://www.cyberistan.org/islamic/quranv1.html
Bick, Barbara. “Walking the Precipice.”
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Muhammad.
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there do not interpret the sharia laws as a permission to totally subjugate women.
They believe that women should be modestly dressed, but they know there are less
extreme ways than “stoning to death” to enforce that. They believe women are
capable enough to be both educated and Islamic at the same time. Bick’s insight
emphasizes and proves that the harm caused to women under stricter religious
environment compared to the freedom they should be able to live in, depends on
how religiously radical the environment in the country is.
In a wider context, when we look at the other two main religions in the world,
Christianity and Judaism, and also other smaller ones like Hinduism, it seems
that the equation of “The more religiously extreme- the more women suffer” is
still valid. After reading this book, I happened to watch the investigative TV show
“20/20,” about a female teen that belonged to the Independent Fundamental
Baptist (IBF) church in New Hampshire, was raped and got pregnant by one of the
church members, but was forced to confess “her sin” of becoming pregnant. This
is another example-- this time in Christianity-- where religious figures have gone
to the extreme to stick with the fundamentals, or as one of the former members
of this church said to the show’s researchers, “some churches in the movement are
twisting the idea of ‘biblical discipline’ into ‘child abuse’.” Coming from the only
Jewish state in the world, Israel, I can definitely testify on a lot of incidents and
laws in the fundamental-orthodox religious population, where women are being
degraded. For instance, in one of the most religiously extreme factions, women
are allowed to sit only on the back of the bus, a thing which reminds me of darker
eras of civil rights in the U.S., just in this case it is supported by the “modesty”
argument. Also, until recent years, extreme factions of the Hinduism used to burn
to death women whose husbands died. It definitely seems like women’s degradation
does not pass over any religion. Wherever you find more fundamental, extremely
religious environment, you will find more oppression, abuse and degradation of
women.
To sum up, Barbara Bick did a great job in bringing into light the horrifying
stories of women who live under dark religiously fundamental regime, such as in
Afghanistan. In telling their stories, she has educated us on parts of the world we
would have never been able to learn about, unless a brave woman like her would
have gone there. Now, after she had done her job and showed us how dangerous
extreme religious groups can be to human rights, and especially to women’s rights,
it is our obligation to realize when something like that emerges, and to do anything
in our ability to prevent it and to protect, the usually main offended, women.
Supporting education to liberalism and tolerance should be the first step of making
the current situation to change. Finally, in times like today, when the world is a
small global village and oppressed people spur revolutions through Facebook, it is
my hope that it will be harder for the extreme religious leaders to force their dark
rules on women around the world. After all, it is a woman who brought them into
Atar Barkai
PGR 228
“Another Round”
Robert Nielson
According to wikipedia.com, “friendly fire,” a term adopted by the U.S.
military, is inadvertent firing towards one’s own or otherwise friendly forces
while attempting to engage enemy forces. Similarly, inadvertent harm to noncombatant or structures is usually referred to as “collateral damage.” In times of
war and conflict, unfortunate issues like friendly fire (also known as fratricide) and
collateral damage are common and of course upsetting, but still understandable
due to the circumstances of total chaos which usually characterize war. However,
in the poem “Another Round” by Robert Nielson, the poet points out through
surrealistic descriptions and analogic language that the thin line between the
government taking these matters of accidental killing seriously and trying to solve
those, to them taking it for granted, has been crossed. By using simple words and
facts that simplify unfortunate situations and presenting them in surreal light, he
suggests that we, and especially our governments, become so apathetic to these
tragic situations that they are now not only understandable but also acceptable.
When we send our people to fight for us, we want to know that our leaders are
doing everything they can to protect them. The fact that incidents of loss of men
due to a mistake are now acceptable just because “it happens,” is horrifying.
The poem describes an unfortunate incident in Afghanistan where a
photographer and with him a few other innocent people, were mistakenly identified
as threatening enemies by American troops, leading the soldiers to launch a rocket
and kill them. In order to describe the situation as simple and surreal as it can
sound, the poet puts in the first two stanzas details that might sound not relevant
to the subject and story, but in fact they have whole lot of meaning behind them.
For example, the first stanza says, “He was a pretty good photographer/ Saw
things well/ Shot them with a Nikon/ Polished the pictures in Photoshop.” On
the surface, there is no importance to what kind of equipment the photographer
used. However, by using simple terms from our everyday life like the brand name
“Nikon” and the computer software “Photoshop,” the poet reminds the reader that
he is talking here about real, regular people like us. It is not some Hollywood action
movie. Innocent people end their lives for nothing; it is something that really
happens in this world today. The use of simple, and not necessarily poetic words,
is the poet’s tool to do a “reality check” to the reader, and to make sure he connects
and realizes that these incidents of fratricides are unexpected and happen when
normal people are just trying to do their jobs.
On the fourth and fifth stanzas, the poet creates an analogy which emphasizes the
confusion that leads to incidents of friendly fire, or any mistaken shooting, and by
smart word choice again, he is criticizing the fact that it can happen so easily. The
stanzas say, “He had raised his camera, ready to shoot/ and a kid back at Alpha
Base/ watching on a monitor the image/ from a drone high overhead/ Thought
the lens was a weapon/ ordered in a rocket.” First, the poet is making the analogy
between “ready to shoot” with a camera and “ready to shoot” with a weapon to
emphasize the unforced mistake. Then he chooses the word “kid” rather than a
“soldier,” possibly to critique the lack of chain of command, where young soldiers
and not experienced commanders, can decide the fate of people with a remote
switch. The poet also uses the words “watching on a monitor,” “high overhead”
and “ordered in,” to imply that the rules of engagement are too permissive, when
without even being there, without even trying to contact the suspicious figures, the
slightest concern of a soldier in today’s battlefield can determine people’s destinies.
In most cases, this advanced technology which helps our soldiers remain far from
the enemy and still neutralize the threat will save lives. But this “safe distance” can
also be our biggest problem when it comes to “friendly fire” incidents.
In the last few sentences of the poem, the poet uses a quote from the secretary
of defense to demonstrate the apathy of the government and the contempt for
human lives. The stanza says, “Shit happens/ said the Secretary of Defense/ back
when we captured the capital/ and locals looted the gold in the museum.” Although
the Secretary of Defense said those words regarding a different subject and it
seems cruel to take them out of context, the poet uses it against him to imply that
this is how they (the government) treat any unfortunate incident that happens
back there, far from the public eyes, in the war. He makes the comparison between
these things when he states, “Collateral damage, friendly fire/ more happening
more shit.” The poet’s final critique on the government’s conducting comes on
the last two sentences, where he cynically refers to the collateral damage and
friendly fire as “More return on investment/ of our national debt.” According to a
research published in March 29, 2011 by the Congressional Research Services, the
U.S. government spent $1.283 trillion on wars and operations related since 9/11/
2001. The author’s statement refers to this insanely huge amount of dollars that
the government spends on wars, and as return for this investment he claims, we
are getting our soldiers back in body bags and the government just stays numb. When I try to recall my memories from the war I participated in back in
2006, there are always two words that immediately jump to my mind: Fear and
confusion. These are probably the best two words to describe any soldier’s thoughts
and feelings during a war. No wonder then that these are probably the main two
causes for incidents of “friendly fire.” According to globalsecurity.org, during the
first gulf-war, 35 out of the 148 U.S. deaths in combat were caused by “friendly
fire.” It is estimated that during current wars (there are no final figures), 15%
of American casualties are caused by fratricide. On one of my days in the war, a
“friendly fire” incident occurred, which demonstrates the fear and confusion of
soldiers. While we were on Lebanon’s territory, we took cover on the second floor
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First-Degree Fratricide
building. Our fellow soldiers from the armory, not knowing our exact position,
felt threatened by our armed and suspicious figures and launched a shell towards
us. Luckily, it hit the first floor, while we rushed to inform them of their mistake. As
simple soldiers on the battlefield, possessed with the (true) assumption that every
second can be their last, they often feel like their lives depend on the question of
“who draws first.” There is not much time for clarifications and explanations. If
they see something suspicious, they want to kill it before it kills them. Therefore, it
is the job of the people who send them into the battlefield to make sure they have
all the equipment, data and confidence to reduce the occurrences of these kinds of
incidents. When our superiors start taking these situations for granted, and accept
the fact that it is just “part of war,” that is when we should start being worried. As
they do whatever they can to develop the most advanced technology to make sure
we have all the means to neutralize our enemies, they should also do whatever
they can to make sure we have the necessary technology and coordination to
protect ourselves from our own advancement. True, Unmanned Aerial Vehicles,
for example, enable troops to hit their targets accurately and with almost no risks;
however, it also reduces our ability to distinguish friends from enemy.
To sum up, after every successful military operation, our leaders smile to each
other and join hands with contentment. The problem is when after an operation
goes wrong and “friendly fire” or “collateral damage” incidents occur, they still join
hands and say “shit happens.” Every citizen in this country should be disturbed
when he hears that his leaders start to accept the unnecessary loss of lives, and
they are not trying to change something before the next incident happens. We
should not feel helpless about it. There are ways to voice your concern. You can
file a complaint on any government department through howtocomplain.com, or,
if that seems like a hopeless try, at least try to make your voice sound at the ballot
box on the next elections. It is our leaders’ job to take responsibility; if they know
something is not working right and they do not want to do anything about it, they
should be charged with fratricide from the first-degree.
Gloria Alford
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Works cited
“Friendly Fire”, “Collateral Damage” http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Friendly_fire
Global Security, http://www.globalsecurity.org/military/library/report/index.
html
http://www.fas.org/sgp/crs/natsec/RL33110.pdf
Nielson, Robert. “Another Round.”
PGR 232
by Nancy Garcia
Beastly
Alex Finn Harper Teen
Pgs304 $8.99 The book Beastly, written by Alex Finn, will catch your attention the
minute you begin to read it. It will show you the importance of true love, what
a family really is, who your true friends are, and-most important it- will teach
you that money, power, and beauty are not all there is in life. What I really liked
about this book was that it made me understand why teenagers that are rich and
beautiful and popular in school treat others differently. It also made me visualize
what people go through when they are poor and live in bad conditions, but are rich
in heart, and how much these people are better in similar ways than rich people. In
this book there is one main character, Kyle, who shows us two different sides: one
that is selfish, rude, and one that is noble, caring and loving.
“I could feel everyone looking at me, but I was I used to it. One thing my dad
taught me early and often was to act like nothing moved me. When you’re special,
like we were, people were bound to notice.”
When Kyle was attending high school he was popular and he always got
attention from is peers and teachers he was taught from his father that
being looked at was a good thing, he was also told by his father not to show
emotions towards others because he was different and better in everyway,
since his father was well know and Kyle was well know from his father they
believe they were special and that they should be treated different from others.
I believe that this was a mistake from the father but people that are like Kyle
and his father don’t have true friends because they are hiding their true self.
Kyle is a freshmen in high school. He was very popular in school, dated the
hottest girls, and went to the most important school in town, where rich parents
send their children. He had everything he wanted because his father worked for
a news television and they were wealthy. Kyle, at this point in the story is taking
everything he has for granted. He brags about his famous father, yet he hardly ever sees him or spends time with him. Kyle feels that he is happy and because he has
money there is nothing else he needs. In the first part of the book I can picture a
young boy that picks on others simply because he wants to. Kyle feels he could put
people down because he is popular and that he could get away with things in life. I
believe this can be true but to a certain degree, because there will be a time when
his father will not be there to get him out of trouble or simply get him into places.
Yet physical appearances will not last forever, and those are things that he
has not yet realized maybe because he is still young or simply because everyone
has allow him to continue to believe that its true that, beauty, money is
important. The author uses words such as interesting, witch ,ugly people and my real date. To describe feelings that Kyle is afraid to admit, all these words
have different meaning to different people. For example, Kyle says when he
said interesting but he really meant something that is weird and could be
nasty, in this case he was taking about the girl that was in his class and said
something about him that he didn‘t agree to. So Kyle said “that was interesting.”
When he said witch he was also directing to the girl in his class because she that said
that beauty is not all and that beauty is inside not out. Kyle of course didn’t believe
that, because his father had always told him that beauty was all that mattered, when
he said ugly people he was taking about the people that didn’t meet his expectation
and didn’t have money like his dad. When Kyle states my real date he refers to a
popular girl that he took to a dance. The meaning was that she was fake she didn’t
love him or even care for him the only reason she is with him is because he is the
cutest guy in school and because he has money and power they were both very
similar, because all they wanted was money, beauty, popularity and nothing else.
One day a girl that was in his class taught Kyle a lesson of his life that will change
him forever. She cast a spell on him that turn him into a beast, he was now ugly
and hairy and lonely with no one to talk to. He will no longer have what he thought
was always his. Friends, money, girls, family, beauty, he will see life very different
and will be thankful for everything he has to work to get and he will fall in love
with the girl he once thought was ugly and mean and below him in many ways.
This book has is very sad and shocking to see a daughter that was given
away to a stranger simply for the father not to go to jail. There was hate, from
a daughter to a father because he would give her to any man that would get
him out of trouble. There was also a lot of loneliness from the beast because
he didn’t have anyone to talk to or understand him. Kyle was sad because he
was abandoned from his father because he was now ugly. Kyle will meet his
real family and friends on the maid that he critized the most and from a blind
man that will be responsible for the change in the beast such as respect and
beauty, these two new characters are important to Kyle’s‘ transformation.
I believe that Alex Finn, did an amazing job on writing this book because from
the beginning it was an attention grabber I personally read this book in three days I
didn’t want to put it down even though I took brakes in between I took it everywhere
so I could continue to read it. As the author states that she has read the fairy tale,
Beauty and the Beast and that that where this story came from, she did a good job
on taking a fairytale and applying it to our real lives and to what really happens in
our society. She has also written other books that begin from fairytale stories and
she has also applied then to real life events such as “A Kiss in Time” and “Cloaked”
This book was very similar to the Fairy Tale Beauty and the Beast. Where a young
girl was prisoner to safe her father, but as time past she began to interact with the
beast and as time pasted she was no longer a prisoner because she wanted to be
with him and the girl fell in love with the beast, and that broke
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The Witch that Changed Kyle
the old lady’s spell. This story is similar because one day an old lady offered a
rose to the prince and he was mean and rude so he himself caused the spell to
be placed on him just like Kyle. Theses two stories are alike but different. They
are alike because it’s the same points but its different because the author did a
great job on applying it to event that are real and that do happen in our daily lives.
In conclusion I will like to say that this book made me realize that there is a lot of
god people out in this world, but they are simply scared to be themselves, like the
beast he had always been this dairyperson until he was placed in a position where
things were seen different and that made him change for a better person and he
was willing to help others with the money that his “famous father” had. We should
not judge people by the appearance because we might be getting false information.
Think twice before you want to be little others because you never know a curse can
placed on YOU!!
Peggy Hansen
Like a Sculpture, We are Molded by Conscious
Hands
By Evan McAndrews
Title: Shakespeare
Author: Michael Wood
Publisher: BBC Worldwide Ltd.
Number of Pages: 344
Price: $17.95
The story of a person’s life begins before he or she is born. It is our family
that shapes our values and our ways of seeing, that gives us our deepest fund of
tales and images: stories on our mother’s knee, our observations of how our family
works, the relationship between our parents, the way they resolve conflicts, their
attitude towards work and play…and their attitude to the law.
William Shakespeare was truly a product of his environment. His
childhood was laden with rules and regulations, both at home and in school,
which shows through his work ethic of writing two plays per year on average
during his professional career. Being raised Catholic in an England that was under
the rule of the Protestant Queen Elizabeth I, Shakespeare had the opportunity
to experience first hand a life with secrets and fears that would not be expelled
from him easily. Wood makes good use of both ‘showing’ and ‘telling’ in the earlier
chapters of “Shakespeare” in order to lay out the aspects Shakespeare’s childhood
and upbringing that would shape things to come. Living in a home where his father
was an illegal glove maker and in a family whose religious beliefs went against the
crown’s, there was a level of uncertainty and instability in his life as well. Much
as Shakespeare’s time in grammar school did indeed prepare him for a life of hard
work and deep study, his day-to-day life in Stratford outside the classroom would
come to shape his character much more.
Interestingly enough, both of Shakespeare’s parents were illiterate. This
was most likely because neither of his parents had been given a formal education,
especially his mother. If it had not been for John, Shakespeare’s father, becoming
a local politician in about 1570 and receiving free education for his children,
Shakespeare never would have had the opportunity to become literate himself. And
luckily for Shakespeare, who was born in 1564, the education system in England
had just begun its transition from being almost strictly religious to incorporating
studies of language structure in both Latin and English.
One thing that Wood did well in this book was making use of pictures,
paintings and other visual imagery to add to his explanations of what Shakespeare’s
earlier days were like. When he tells us about the grammar school that Shakespeare
attended, “King Edward IV”, Wood’s use of photos taken in the building where
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-Michael Wood in “Shakespeare”, Chapter 1
likely, shaped his perceptions and experiences into tools that would eventually
shape him into a skilled play-write and poet whose works reflected his life and not
necessarily other peoples. The early part of his life was structured, strictly laid out,
and formed around the Catholic religion that his parents used to shape their son’s
levels of respect, confidence, and gratitude towards what he had.
Michael Wood was once described to me as a “Shakespearian encyclopedia.”
His wealth of knowledge, clarity in explanations, and mixture of both verbal and
visual information made for a book that is useful and enjoyable for a wider range
of people than I first thought. This book is especially a great resource for anyone
who likes Shakespeare’s plays and wants a better understanding of his material. It
is great for the student who really wants to dig deep into the less obvious aspects of
Shakespeare’s plays, and it is great as a bedtime read. And even if you don’t get the
language of Shakespeare after reading Wood’s work, you’ll still know what went
into and influenced his plays.
Works Cited:
1. www.william-shakespeare.info
2. www.william-shakespeare.org.uk
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of buildings that were common at the time. Wood then notes that grammar
school was strictly for boys whose parents could afford it, and if they did attend
their education, it began at the age of seven. Studies focused on the translation of
English to Latin and vice-versa under strict rules and vigorous, regularly occurring,
testing. Students were expected to speak only in Latin, and if they broke that rule
or any other, they would receive a paddle to the buttocks. This environment did
not allow for misbehaving or questioning of authority, and very well influenced
Shakespeare’s methods of studying and the depth he went to. It was at home where
Shakespeare was taught to strictly follow and believe in the Catholic religion,
which meant that he was to show thankfulness for the things he had and treat his
parents with the utmost respect and grace. It was both in school and at home that
his behavior was molded in this way.
The seven years Shakespeare spent in grammar school were clearly an
influence on his writing and speaking skills, along with how hard and long he was
able to study. If it were not for these skills, his work would probably have been less
in depth and thorough, if ever being written at all. What seems more important,
however, is how he was able to develop his characters and stories. Because
Shakespeare got to experience both the middle and upper class sides of life, he
had a much better idea of how people lived within them. He made good use of this
knowledge in his plays, and was therefore able to construct characters and stories
that reflected upon what most refer to as “real life.” One play in particular that
made good use of this was “Henry IV, Part 1”, in which Henry’s son, Prince Harry,
is caught between living the life of a commoner and that of a royal figure. Harry
be-friends a man named Falstaff, who has very little wealth to his name, just as
Shakespeare’s father, and is portrayed in a way that is not demeaning but just how
he is. On the other side of the coin, Shakespeare was able to construct King Henry
in a way that most associate with royalty: He was self-absorbed, wealthy, strict,
stressed out, and seemed to have no real connection with the people he ruled. If
Shakespeare hadn’t seen both the rich and poor sides of society, how would he
have been able to give truth to his characters in each area?
Wood makes good use not only of Shakespeare’s social and educational
experiences, but also the physical and geographical aspects of the town Shakespeare
lived, Stratford. Stratford, as described by Wood, was a small town of about fifteen
hundred people that sat along the Avon River, which made for plenty of agricultural
opportunities. This is why some of the people living in Stratford were farmers who
grew food and also provided wool and certain meats for themselves and others in
the town. Other people like John Shakespeare were making clothing and leather
items that were sometimes used to trade with the farmers so each party got what
they wanted and, more importantly, what they needed. Given these aspects of life
in Stratford, there were most likely more lower and middle class people living there
than those of the upper class, who owned a good amount of property and made
most of the political decisions in the town. Shakespeare saw these things and, most
Julia McCartney
PGR 238
A Critique of Autopoesis by Len Anderson
In the 2011 Porter Gulch Review there are poems and prose about death, war,
romance, gender, nature, family, sex, and even dogs. Within these pieces there may
be some underlying philosophical concepts, but rarely do we see a piece written for
the purpose of illustrating some philosophical theory. Len Anderson, co-founder
of Poetry Santa Cruz and winner of the Dragonfly Press Poetry Competition and
the Mary Lonnberg Smith Poetry Award, uses his scholarly background in the
sciences to compose philosophically ripe poetry. Len Anderson’s Autopoesis, one
of the few short prose-poems in the 2011 PGR, brews a physical scenario for an
abstract human idea involving existentialism. He metaphorically connects the act
of cooking to the philosophy that we are a product of our own creation. The three
stanzas compare the human self/mind to a chef cooking in a cottage. What the
cook prepares is our human reactions, sensations, and memories; the foundations
for the growing self. Anderson then compares these human functions to ghosts
and aromas, and claims that without them we would lack the structure for what
makes us human. The existential idea I believe the author is suggesting is that
although the structure for the human self is a physiological phenomenon, it is still
a beautiful and profound way to view our existence. The author illustrates the idea
that rather than looking towards some higher power to find the meaning of our
existence, we should look within ourselves (physiologically speaking as well as
ideologically). Pertaining to cognition, humans are too quick to discard the idea
that we are simply a cellular structure.
Our first clue at what the author is trying to compare the cook in the
cottage to is apparent right from the start; “the cook works in the small kitchen
of a cottage hidden deep in each synaptic gap of the brain”(lines 1-2). What the
author probably means by “synaptic gap” is the synaptic cleft, which is the space
within the chemical synapse that the neurotransmitter travels through. The study
of biopsychology has found that it is these circuits that engineer our perceptions
and thoughts; “Empirical discoveries about brain structure and function suggest
ways that ‘naturalistic’ programs might develop in detail, beyond the abstract
philosophical considerations in their favor” (Bickle). There is a vast amount of
knowledge on the verge of being discovered in this field that contradicts previous
philosophies. The subject matter is notably controversial. It deals with the most
ancient and human cause of debate and war; religion. It is this view known as
“materialism” that combats most religions.
D.M. Armstrong argues that “we must try to work out an account of the
nature of mind which is compatible with the view that man is nothing but a
physico-chemical mechanism” (Cooney 4). At face value, this view seems to take
the meaning and sparkle out of life, but what the author of Autopoesis creates in
his prose poem is a alternative interpretation; “Without these ghosts, the world
would be perpetually so new that we should be divine idiots locked in eternity,
would never know what we are eating or what we are, never know what a moment
is” (Lines 7-9). Aside from the lack of poetic fluidity- the line is choppy and does
not bear graceful transitions -this idea brings light to a traditionally dark subject.
The author is saying that because of our infinitely complex brain, we as humans
have the power to understand our outside and inside world better.
Similarly, an existential topic in itself that can be further discussed is
actually the title of the poem. “Autopoesis”, most commonly spelled “autopoiesis”
and literally translated as “self-creation”, is “the process whereby an organization
produces itself” (Principia). It is within the meaning of this word that we find the
concept underlying the author’s philosophy. The steady growth of the individual
is controlled by only the forces buried within their own brain, not some external
power.
The prose-poem could surely use some light editing. Some parts of it break
out of its poetic style and read as if it were a persuasive essay; “So the self, the
substance of our being, is primarily a cottage full of ghost aromas that dance in
and out of us at the will of the cook and drive our pleasure or pain” (lines 9-11).
The piece of writing would be much more poetically fluid had this line be taken out
or drastically edited. We have already twice previously read and understood the
author’s comparison of humans’ sensations, reactions, and memories to ghosts
and aromas. We do not need some sort of conclusion reiterating this point; it
removes that metaphorical texture. What the author could have instead written is
something like “the ghost aromas dance in and out of the substance of the self at
the will of the cook”.
Despite this one minor flaw, the poem continues to conjure up some
profound material. The last stanza brings up his poetic interpretation of people’s
belief in a higher power; “Some fools argue about a secret cookbook, or whether
there are recipes, even whether there are any cooks at all” (lines 12-13). “Even
whether there are any cooks at all” questions religion’s belief in fate since the
idea of fate disregards personal influence on one’s own life; most religions praise
some sort of God-like creature outside of themselves. Despite all this however,
the author sympathizes with the human race. He admits his own need to find the
answers in a higher power; “I am one of those fools. I try to write recipes down. All
in the hope of knowing my own ghost aromas. I’m such a fool that I want to meet
the cook, thank her and shake her hand” (lines 13-15). When admitting to be “one
of those fools” he is portraying the idea that humans cannot help but want to find
meaning in their self existence.
So inferring what we can through the author’s words and our own
background knowledge, who or what is the cook? The answer is found even in the
title, the cook is our selves. The author’s thesis of his poem is that it is within our
own brain- our own soul- that metamorphoses every moment, whether
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I Am Not My Brain!
Works Cited
Anderson, Len. “Autopoesis”. Porter Gulch Review Submissions (2011). Composition
and Literature Course Reader Ed. 26. Sullivan. Aptos, Ca. Print.
“Autopoiesis”. Principia Cybernetica Web. Web.
Bickle, John, Mandik, Peter and Landreth, Anthony, “The Philosophy of
Neuroscience”, The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Summer 2010
Edition), Edward N. Zalta (ed.) Web.
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Mariela Rosas
Stereotype Identities: How they affect Society
Rachel Rose
Stereotype Identities: How they affect Society
Claude M. Steele
W.W. Norton & Company Ltd.
In Whistling Vivaldi, a well-known social psychologist, Claude M. Steele,
addresses one of the most complex social issues of our time: the trend of minority
underperformance in higher education. Steele investigates explanations, which
involves more than weaker skills, but strong evidence, which focuses on stereotypes
and identity. This evidence describes how humans cogitate about ourselves,
our abilities, and our relationships with each other. Through personal stories,
Steele reveals the researcher’s experience with social lives to reveal experiences
of stereotypes based on age, gender, race, and class. These cultural classifications
form the basis for stereotype threats, which undermine our performance, cause
emotional and physiological reactions, and affect our career and relationship
decisions. Another major role in stereotypes is identity threat, which causes
segregation through lifestyle. Since the Civil Rights Act of 1964, deep-seated racism
has decreased, yet the long-term affect of threats and stereotypically segregated
communities that exist today persists we must build awareness and solve this issue
because this will bring Americans closer together.
First, “stereotype threat” (Steele 9) roots are based on the condition of life tied
to identity. A condition of life, for example, is de facto school segregation, is
separation of races, because of patterns of residential settlement. These conditions
are a pattern of society, which first started because when Africans were enslaved,
and brought to the U.S. However, African Americans are no longer slaves and have
equal rights and protection according to the Constitution all men are created equal.
This statement is against racism. The definition of racism is “a belief that race is
the primary determinant of human traits and capacities and that racial differences
produce an inherent superiority” (Merriam-Webster). Though racism does not
exist today, due to, the government’s rules have that enforced racism and unequal
resources were banned. The definition of prejudice is “injury or damage resulting
from some judgment or action” (Merriam-Webster). The distinguished difference
between prejudice and racist is prejudice is the judgment of a person, in particular,
racial prejudice is judgment based on race. So Steele argues prejudice still exist
because of “individual and group competition for opportunity and the good
life” (Steele 3). During the period of this biography, Chicagoland was structured
around race in the late 1950’s and early 1960’s. Whistling Vivaldi depicts how
these conditions form the basis of – identity contingencies – the things you have
to deal with in a situation because of your social identity: race, class, and political
preferences. The social identities are contingencies, which are a type of stereotype
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insignificant or consequential, in our lives. We may not realize or understand every
miniscule thought that passes through our mind, like a ghost, but they are there
and each one affects us, like an aroma. Our job is to pay attention to these ghosts
and aromas to better understand ourselves and allow for growth.
communities, which perpetuate racial discrimination and exclude blacks out
of benefitting outcomes of social networks. Specifically, in 2000, the average
white American lives in a neighborhood that is “80 percent white and 7 percent
black” (Steele 195). In the case, Brown v. Board of education the 1954 Supreme
Court decided on a desegregation of school districts. In 1974, the Court ruled
against desegregation plans, as a way of integrating schools. The context in which
identity’s threats role in segregation, therefore, originates from is the history and
organization of a society and how society stereotyped that racial identity.
The biography focuses on racism, although there are many other stereotypes,
both positive and negative including other mainly stereotyped groups. The author
lived as an African American during the 1950’s and 1960’s, this was a period when
racism prevailed, before the Civil Rights Act of 1964. This civil rights act, led to
the civil rights movement, which dealt with, “voting, employment, schooling, and
public accommodations” (Wilson, Dilulio, and Bose 136).
Today, racism has nearly disappeared, yet the prejudicial stereotypes still exist.
Stereotype awareness reduces racial, social class, gender related achievement gaps,
and societal progress, therefore justice. Rather than assume the stereotypical roles
given to individuals, who create an individualistic society, we should form a unified
society. The method, which we could form a unified society is set our differences
aside, and not believe in stereotypes. According to the 14th Amendment, in the U.S.
any State cannot “deprive any person of life, liberty, or property” (Amendments to
the Constitution) created, in order, to protect and prevent rights. As a result, we
would attain the equal opportunity that is the founding dream for our society.
Cody Gilbert
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threat, which influence us. The first is by putting the behavior on the ground, for
example, like how blacks were restricted from the swimming pools during certain
hours. The second type of stereotype threat is a threat in the air. This threat
means that whenever we are in any situation, when a negative stereotype about
our identity is applicable, we know that we could be “judged and treated” (Steele 5)
accordingly. The two differ because the first is merely about rules and the second
is just about the fear of confirmation of the stereotype itself.
The solution, to how stereotype threats negatively affect minorities in education,
by undermining minority’s performance is appropriate feedback. A recent study,
conducted by Geoff, a social psychologist interested in psychological theory,
investigated which type of feedback is the most effective. The two forms of feedback
from a white professor that were not effective with specifically black students are
neutral nor a positive statement because they believed that it had a racial bias. In
contrast, white students trusted this feedback. However, one method of feedback
was effective, when the feedback giver clarified he or she “used high standards”
(Steele 163). After reading the essay, the feedback giver believed the student could
meet those standards. As a result, the minority student was motivated to improve
their essay, in other words, solve the social issue.
Another social issue, such as, division of communities in America is caused by
“Identity threat” (Steele 109) that causes segregation, based on pursuit of lifestyle
through segregated residence communities, and relationships within those
communities. Societies are divided into isolated “cultural zones” (Steele 193) which
focus on particular identities, such as, social identity. Racial identity is segregated,
into predominant groups, in particular, “high-income professional neighborhoods,
and immigrant enclaves, all the way to the exurbs and rural areas” (Steele 193).
In my opinion, the surprising impact segregation of community has is that the
border of the communities are unfamiliar about the other cultural zones, which
border their own community. The location that a person resides in creates a social
network and relationships based on its social, economic, and cultural structure.
Therefore, different locations allow a “different access to the ‘social capitol’ of skills,
knowledge, opportunities, and life chances” (Steele 197). These circumstances are
critical to success. These social capital networks are organized and manifest into
an advantage of associational preferences. Based on this research, my opinion is
society judges people based on their stereotyped identities, and people separate
into groups because they all want the best opportunity based on their shared
preferences and similar stereotyped identities. People in wealthier locations and
networks get easier access to a better education, jobs, healthcare than people in
less wealthy locations and networks. In my opinion, society’s optimistic view is
if you receive an education, you will receive a job is true only to the extent of if
you apply in a highly developed region, because there are many job opportunities
available.
The opportunities created by a segregated community, which are an advantage
to the predominately-white communities, are also a disadvantage toward black
By: Mariah Hum
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Title: Belong to Me
Author: Marisa de los Santos Publisher: Harper Pages: 398
Price: $14.99
The novel Belong to Me by Marisa de los Santos is the classic story of friendships,
neighbors and intimate relationships that all seem to have issues surrounding them. Yes,
this is one of those chick literature books that women read on the beach and on airplanes.
In this story, the characters are mainly about females that do not get along with one
another, gossip behind each other’s backs, and have many relationship problems, like
every chick lit. book on the shelf. Even the cover screams chick lit. with it’s cute colorful
rain boots, bright colors, and bold font. Yet, this story is different than other chick
literature because the language that is being used is sophisticated and the characters are
well developed; it’s witty, not corny, and the observations of society by the author is spot
on. The novel opens with vivid imagery of Cornelia moving away from the city with
her husband Teo to the suburbs where the women stay at home, wear pastel colors, have
perfectly manicured lawns and their husbands make a great amount of money. The
author uses the voice of Cornelia as the narrator of the book, until she introduces the
neighborhood queen bee, Piper, and the extremely intelligent boy Dev, whose mom is
friends with Cornelia. Then the narration switches off between the three to give in depth
perspective and detail about each character and their relations with the others. While
a lot of chick literature authors do this, the reader always feels as though they need to
skip ahead to a more interesting perspective, but in Belong to Me the characters are all
different and well developed so the reader does not feel compelled to skip ahead to a more
interesting perspective. Each narrators perspective is just as valuable and important to
the plot as the next. For example, during the first party with all the neighbors it starts off
with Cornelia describing her horrid fashion choice which she originally thought would be
perfect for the occasion until she sees what the other women are wearing; “Linen pants
with sleeveless silk blouses or cotton sweaters. It was a pastel-colored prairie of linen
pants and sleeveless tops, stretching in every direction as far as the eye could see” (de
los Santos 5). In contrast to Cornelia’s observation of the party, de los Santos choose the
opportunity to develop Piper’s character. “Cornelia’s ludicrously skimpy black dress and …
four-inch-high ‘do-me’ shoes. ‘Fuck-me’ is what she’d meant, but Piper only ever swore in
her head. If she had been being completely honest, she’d have to retract the bit about the
shoes.”(de los Santos, 27). This is also an example of the witty humor that is throughout
the novel. The characters have just enough wit and snappy comebacks to keep the book
interesting, yet it is not so much that the novel becomes corny. The underlying humor
throughout the book is what most would say defines it as chick lit. and not women’s
literature. Marisa de los Santos uses her expertise in poetry and literature to select the exact
words to describe situations in the novel so it is not just any ordinary chick literature
book. Her word choice makes the book sophisticated and cultivated. Her writing makes
readers engaged and it feels as if they are actually participating in the story. While yes
her writing does fall under chick. li. “which all deal with the issues of modern women
humorously and lightheartedly” (Hooten).
She also pulls in real life observation and experiences to further enhance the realistic
plot and story. In an interview de los Santos states that “yes, it was a big shift to move
from Center City Philadelphia to my beautiful, quiet, green neighborhood. I’d grown up in
the suburbs”, is referring to her move from a city to her now suburbs like neighborhood
just like the character Cornelia in Belong to Me. The social and cultural observations
that the author make are spot on to real society, yet she incorporates them into the
novel as funny and satirical. Her characters each have their own in depth personalities
and lives that seamlessly interact with one another to create a realistic storyline. All
chick lit. “novels exhibit the sociological and psychological problems of the modern
woman”(Hooten) which de los Santos exemplifies in her novel in a mannered way that
most chick lit. authors do not do. Most chik lit. authors take the truth about sociological
and psychological problems women have today and make them into a glamorous problems
that all get resolved by meeting the right guy at then end of the book. de los Santos uses
her knowledge about women in society and creates a true picture of what they experience. This book would be considered chick lit., yet the book runs much deeper. It has a
depressing underling story of heartbreaks that is not only related to intimate relationships,
but also to best friends as well. Piper may be seen as the mean spirited, uptight, perfect
queen bee across the street, but she is covering up her real self. She is secretly dying
inside along with her best friend who had recently been diagnosed with cancer and is
not reacting to treatment. As the novel plays out, Piper’s character becomes more deep
and complex. Another reason is the fact that this is no ordinary chick literature because
there is a mystery to the book that always keeps one on edge about people’s motives.
For example, one of the narrators Dev is only a kid, but extremely smart and obsessed
with Charles Darwin. His mother moved them cross the country to go to a special school
for Dev, yet there always seems to be an alternative motive for the move “What he was
positive of was that the secret was big” (de los Santos, 70). The mystery aspect of the
novel puts yet another layer to the book making it deep and not one of the archetypal
chick literature books. The author also uses Dev’s character to relate the experiences he
has to the Darwin Theory. Most would probably not take Dev’s character seriously if he
was not incredibly intelligent. By bringing in this context and Dev’s character the novel
suddenly becomes more than a story about women in a classy neighborhood. It gives an
alternative view point other than a lady in her thirties; this was very clever of the de los
Santos because it creates the feeling as though each character has something important
to say. Many novels are considered to be chick literature where best friends have tiffs
over guys and drive around in sports cars. Chick lit. was not intended to be about the
glamorous, beautiful girls who go to the beach and shop until they drop. When it was first
introduced in the nineteenth- century by authors like Jane Austen, it was about great
stories of struggle and heartbreak written by women for women. While Belong to Me is
considered chick literature, it deals with issues much deeper than a bad breakup
PGR 245
Not Belonging to Chick Literature
Works Cited De Los Santos, Marisa. Belong to Me: a Novel. New York: Harper, 2009. Print.
Hooten., Jessica Lynice. “Chick Lit: The New Woman’s Fiction.” Jasna. The Jane
Austen Society of North America, 2007. Web. 16 Apr. 2011.
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“What Is Chick Lit?” Chick Lit Books. Web. 25 Apr. 2011.
A Winter’s Journey Worth Taking
James O’Hare
Winter’s Journey
By: Stephen Dobyns
Copper Canyon Press
65 Pages
$15.00
The book WINTER’S JOURNEY, by Stephen Dobyns, is a collection of
interesting poetry. The poems are diverse in their subjects and often have a
stream of consciousness feel to them, as though they were being written down as
the author was going about his day. There are at least a few poems written while
the author was just out walking the dog or waiting for the heating oil to be turned
back on. While the author’s musings on philosophy and days past do from time
to time abruptly stray into political rants, which will likely detract from this book
for some, this is generally a very well written book that contains some wonderful
imagery, metaphor, and even a few good yarns. In fact the best of these poems
have the three aforementioned qualities: effective imagery, good metaphors and a
narrative quality. This really brings the poetry to life and makes it difficult to put
this book down.
The language Stephen Dobyns uses in his writing is fairly straight
forward; the metaphors and figurative speech are effective, common, and
generally simple; which makes the intended meanings of the poems easily
understood. One point where the author’s straight forward style of prose is well
demonstrated is in his prose poem “Rhinoceros” beginning on page thirteen,
as the author is pondering the feelings he has about his marriage on Saint
Valentines Day:
“…Rhinos, for example. Collectively
they’re called a crash of rhinos, which doesn’t
sound reassuring. So would it surprise anybody
that rhinos aren’t famous for having friends?
But at times I think I should have lived like that,
hunkered down in my rhino den and feeling sullen
as I sharpened my horn on a rock, but, believe me,
it wouldn’t have meant happiness or even pleasure” (28-35).
The word Rhino makes a very effective metaphor as it is used in this poem as
it quickly brings up images of unfriendly, solitary creatures that can’t see very
well and who are prone to charge any living thing that gets too close2,3. So the
mental jump from the literal image to the personal metaphor is a short one.
Also, this passage makes for a great example of how the poems are written in an
off handed, stream of consciousness manner, as the author’s convictions waffle
back and forth. This makes for a pretty interesting effect, as this is often the
human condition, which is often overlooked. We all know that feeling of self
contradiction and indecision, when we objectively know something but feel
PGR 247
and wearing the wrong skirt to a party like the average bright colored front cover
chick lit. book. The characters are extremely well thought out and developed, the
language is sophisticated and the observations the author makes about society are
witty and intelligent.
of Stephen Dobyns’ poems. Shortly there after the author begins to consider the
broader implications:
“…I think of the money
trickling back to the Mideast. A dollar hear, a dollar there,
with the last few cents held in the hand of a man or woman
going to the market to buy bread-Iraqi, Saudi, or somebody
else. But isn’t that how it works?
....
Nearly every day the newspaper has a picture
of the results of a bomb blast in an Iraqi market, busted
cars and body parts tossed around…” (8-12, 15-17).
While this poem lacks a great deal of metaphor, it is still a very powerful piece, it
contains imagery and it has a distinctive narrative quality. Also, what may further
contribute to the strength of this piece is the connection to everyday lives; we
all use oil in one form or another: gasoline, plastics, etcetera. This seems to give
us some sort of connection with these people on the other side of the world,
even if the connection is primarily economic. In addition, we are all familiar with
those stories on the news about new tragedies in the Middle East, The Lancet
estimates that there have been 601,027 excess deaths in Iraq up through the end
of 20064,5,6, thirteen percent of which were as a result of car bombs. Thus it isn’t
difficult to imagine what is described in this poem. This all goes to support the
assertion that many of the best poems effectively use metaphor, imagery and a
narrative quality.
Another point of possible interest for someone looking to
buy or borrow this book is that it is short, only about sixty-five double spaced
pages. However, these pages are generally used to their fullest in unique poetry:
““[Dobyns’ poetry] has a somber, eccentric beauty not quite like anything else
around these days.”—The New York Times Book Review”8. By all accounts Winter’s
Journey is densely packed with well written poetry: ““[Dobyns] blends philosophical
musings with daft, deft metaphors and a cheeky vernacular.”—Poetry”8. All these
factors make for a fascinating read that most people will enjoy.
Despite some aspects that will doubtless insult some readers, this book
has a lot of brilliant writing. The poems are interesting and don’t stagnate by
slowing down. The metaphoric imagery is extremely effective and the stories are
riveting. This would be a good book for most people who enjoy reading poetry.
The mixture of musings on subjects ranging from the ideal lifestyle of ducks to
the moral quandaries involved in politics, will lend meaning to a grey winter’s
day.
Works Cited:
1) Dobyns, Stephen. Winter’s Journey. Copper Canyon Press. Port Townsend,
Washington, 2005
2) Joel Berger and Carol Cunningham, “Natural Variation in Horn Size
and Social Dominance and Their Importance to the Conservation of Black
Rhinoceros,” Conservation Biology 12:708-11 (1998).
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inclined to the opposite.
One aspect of this book that bugs me is the political rants that seem to
pop up at random within many of the poems. This is especially well demonstrated
in “Balance” on page thirty-seven, where the poem begins with the author
pondering a brief acquaintance he had with Jimmy Hoffa, who was a well known
union organizer who disappeared without a trace, and was possibly murdered by
mobsters:
“The other day I looked for Jimmy Hoffa’s grave
(I didn’t find it) as our southbound train sped through
the New Jersey Meadowlands buried beneath two
or three inches of snow-acres and acres of dead
marsh grass the exact color of Willie, a friend’s
yellow lab-and I thought, why shouldn’t Jimmy’s
skeletal hand be poking up there, too? But it wasn’t” (1-7).
This beginning is really intriguing; it provides some great imagery and it sounds
like a real good story about the good left undone is about to be told. However this
poem goes only a little further in this vein before describing the scene at an art
show in Washington D.C.:
“…My wife and I were traveling to D.C. to see
a bunch of paintings, a city I hadn’t visited for at least
ten years. The White House and Capitol were ringed in
by more armed guards than hairs on a hog. And Al Gore
was in town to warn Congress about global warming
and was praised or sneered at along strict party lines,
but when Florida’s voting machines are under ten feet
of water, then perhaps the Republicans will think again
pardon the oxymoron. Attila (not the Hun) once said:
that’s not me shouting, it’s the earth that roars…” (23-33).
Then he goes on to talk about paintings. These spontaneous ad homonyms
that can be found within many poems in this book are likely to irritate many
potential readers as ad homonyms generally can not co exist with well reasoned
arguments7. This may render this book less enjoyable for some.
Another notable quality about this book is that just about all of these
story like poems seem to be catalyzed by events in the author’s life; “Nickel”
on page twenty-eight for example, seems to be a somewhat politically charged
transcript of the author’s musings about the human cost of our use of oil from
the Middle East, as the author waits for his heating oil to be turned back on. It
begins with:
“This morning I awoke to find the furnace had shut down
in the night. Outside it was fifteen degrees and the wind
had blown every cloud from the sky. Inside even the dog
was shivering. The man at the oil company said happily:
You sure do use a lot of oil…” (1-5).
This effectively illustrates the everyday happenstance that tends to begin most
Mass Media’s Destruction of Art
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By Chris Camp
A critique of Phil Wagner’s An Arist’s Obligation
Through this poem An Artist’s Obligation the author vividly communicates
their perception of what an artist’s obligation is. The author structures the poem
to emphasize strong points with few words in each line, and ending each line with
a period as if making a list of an artist’s obligation. At first glance I read this poem
very literally and assumed the author was just saying it is an artist’s obligation to
paint old things from the past, but after the discussion with my group, and talking
with the author Philip Wagner I saw that the poem is actually saying that mass
media is drowning out true art, and ersatz tripe for true art.
Make a place for a friend to breathe.
Lie down in the grass, touch the naked lady.
Flood the skin with simple flowers
Sew your coat of many colors.
Carve Mud.
Make space where there was none.
Give the signal, make the sign: it’s never too late.
Throw a line to your drowning self.
In these lines of the poem, the author is saying that the artist in present
times is getting drowned out by all the mass media, and it’s an artist’s obligation
to bring back beauty of art with colors instead of being drowned out by the media.
“Give the signal, make the sign: it’s never too late, Throw a line to your drowning
self” (Wagner 7, 8), the author is saying it’s never too late to bring back the power
of art, all it takes is a signal, someone to start it, and the artist is getting drowned
out by all the media; as an artist you need to throw a line to yourself and overcome
the mass media.
“Mass media, in a mass society are bringing into existence a mass
culture. In a mass culture true art is drowned out, contaminated, or turned into
something else” (Jensen 109). As mass media gets bigger, the media is drowning
out and changing what true art is and used to be. Artists may be subject to the
allure of money by mass media to produce what they consider art, and take away
the potential of the artist to produce true art. “The artist can be seduced by the
commercial marketplace-“sell out”, and produce tripe. In addition, the audience can
be seduced by the ersatz formulations of the commercial marketplace, coming to
seek and accept tripe as art” (Jensen 110). With all the mass media, commercials,
advertisements, television etc; people are being brainwashed to come and accept
false media art as true art.
Breathe into the reedy mouth of the deceased.
See over the curve of the earth.
Fall into the earthy pigment.
Raise the Dead.
To save each other from the cold,
Paint the bird that a long time ago fell into oblivion.
Make her fly with colored feathers.
The lines “See over the curve of the earth, Fall into the earth pigment” (Wagner
10, 11), the author is saying to try and see over what the mass sees; just because
everyone believes something to be one way, what art is, doesn’t mean it is true, and
artist’s need to see over this and draw what they believe true art may be. The lines
“Raise the dead, to save each other from the cold, paint the bird that a long time
ago fell into oblivion”(Wagner 12,13,14), an artist needs to bring back true art, art
that got pushed aside by the mass media and forgotten. In order to save art from
being drowned out, replaced by mass media tripe artist’s need to stop painting
the media’s perception of what art is, and to create art that was once celebrated
and praised upon. “Make her fly with colored feathers”(Wagner 15), in order to
overcome the media’s tripe, that they call art, artists need to show the audience
what true art is by drawing the forgotten art, more magnificent and beautiful as
ever before.
In these present times, art and the artist are being drowned out more
than ever. The artist once one of the most respected members of society such as
during the renaissance era has now been pushed down the social class and the once
praised artwork has been replaced by the media’s tripe. Some of the most common
household names are artists who emerged from this time period, Leonardo Da
Vinci, Michelangelo Buonnarotti; since then the artist status quo in society, and
instead of praising this gift that artists have of creating, how we used to, we
disregard and have replaced this true art with the mass medias tripe. During the
renaissance art was so praised and encouraged that towns began to use some of the
wealth that they had created to support artists (Smith). This is definitely not the
case in present times, the media overrides true art, and society doesn’t encourage
true art enough for real gifted artists to emerge. “True art is not merely at risk- it
us under siege” (Jensen 111).
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3) Honoluluzoo.org. The Honolulu Zoo. 5/1/11. <http://www.honoluluzoo.org/
black_rhinoceros.htm>
4) 2006 Lancet study. “Mortality after the 2003 invasion of Iraq: a crosssectional cluster sample survey”PDF (242 KB). By Gilbert Burnham, Riyadh
Lafta, Shannon Doocy, and Les Roberts. The Lancet, October 11, 2006
5) Supplement to 2006 Lancet study: “The Human Cost of the War in Iraq:
A Mortality Study, 2002–2006”PDF (603 KiB). By Gilbert Burnham, Shannon
Doosy, Elizabeth Dzeng, Riyadh Lafta, and Les Roberts.
6) Opinion essay (numerous signatories) (October 21, 2006). “The Iraq Deaths
Study Was Valid and Correct”. The Age. Accessed September 2, 2010
7) Ad Hominem. California State University Bakersfield. <www.csub.edu/~jkegley/
phil102/documents/AdHominem.ppt>
8) Winter’ Journey. Goodreads.inc <http://www.goodreads.com/book/
show/7846589-winter-s-journey>
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by Alexis Sicairos
Book: The Road, by Cormac McCarthy
Vintage International Edition Pag. 287
Price: $14.95
“Man can live about forty days without food, about three days without water, about
eight minutes without air, but only for one second without hope”(ThinkExist).
The Road directly connects with this quote because of the way Cormac McCarthy
reveals how essential hope is in times where most people would give up. In this
post-apocalyptic malaise, a father and his son hold onto their hope of a better
life by reaching the coast. Their hope enables them to keep overcoming constant
obstacles throughout their journey; such as the constant struggle of finding food,
water, and safe shelter. In the world of a post-apocalyptic malaise, hope will play
an essential role in the survival of the few morally sane survivors, who still grasp
to hope and haven’t cast aside their morals like the other survivors who became
cannibals. How can hope fuel these two survivors to keep looking at the bright side
when they’re constantly fighting off starvation and seeing sights that no human
being should ever witness? My claim is that hope is such a powerful motivator that
can get you through the hardest times.
This book is like many other post-apocalyptic literatures & films in the reason that
it revolves over how the world is after a catastrophe; generally an event that puts
civilization in danger of extinction. A post-apocalyptic film or book looks at the
civilization after the catastrophe as they struggle to make a living in a world that
looks entirely different from a world before the catastrophe. The Road Warrior is a
movie that revolved around a lone wanderer struggling to survive in a devastated
Australia after a nuclear war. Both The Road Warrior and The Road share the same
in common in terms that both take place in a post-apocalyptic setting.(Squidoo)
Cormac McCarthy shows the importance of hope when the father and the boy
find a shelter full of non-perishable food left by someone else. “The boy sat Staring
at his plate. He seemed lost. The man was about to speak when he said: Dear people
thank you for all this food and stuff. We know that you saved it for yourself and if
you were here we wouldn’t eat it no matter how hungry we were and we’re sorry
that you didn’t get to eat it and we hope that you’re safe in heaven with God. He
looked up. Is that okay? He said. Yes. I think that’s okay.”(146) The way the author
presented how some people still have the ability to say grace in such troubling
times; produced a great effect in showing how some good can still be found even in
the darkest of times. M’Carthy shows how, even in darker times where the bad in
people is brought forward in their struggle to survive by any means possible, some
individuals still hold on to their morals and have the capability of still giving grace
in such difficult times. This is important because M’Carthy is describing what it
takes for a person to live on a dying land where you can trust no one. This quote
demonstrates how maintaining morals is important to stay on the right track to
survival.
This following passage intrigued me. “He was standing there checking the
perimeter when the boy turned and buried his face against him. He looked quickly
to see what had happened. What is it he said. What is it? The boy shook his head.
Oh Papa, he said. He turned and looked again. What the boy had seen was a charred
human infant headless and gutted and blackening on the spit.”(198) It’s terrible
how morals can be cast aside when an apocalyptic event occurs; where the few
survivors fight and kill for food and water, struggling to survive one more day on a
burning land. I find it intriguing that the author chose to pick an infant burnt and
gutted rather than a teenager or an adult. I feel that the author did it purposely to
get his message across at a deeper level by utilizing the image of a beheaded human
infant. However it frustrates me that the boy experiences these horrifying images
that no-one, not even an adult-should ever have to see. Who knows what kind
of long term effect the boy might have throughout his life due to his traumatic
upbringing in a world of ash and death.
It disappoints me how the author doesn’t put enough emotion into the father and
son when they go through tough obstacles such as the event that was described
above. It’s as if the boy doesn’t express his true feelings to his father and the events
that he experiences and goes through. It creates a sense of apathy that really
becomes annoying to read throughout the book due to the lack of what a normal
child should react when seeing such a horrific sight. I feel that if a child was to
suddenly see a charred headless and gutted infant; the child would shake in fear
and start crying rather than just say “Oh Papa” and then press his face against his
father facing away from the headless infant. The lack of a true sense of reactions
from events the boy faces throughout his journey takes away from an overall well
written book. The author is creating this flat emotional dialogue between the
man and boy to grasp the attention of the reader and create a craving. Naturally,
the reader will be expecting some form of deeper more meaningful emotion to be
portrayed later in the dialogue and when it isn’t included you’re left wanting more.
The inclusion of more emotions in the rather flat dialogue, I feel will not only
increase the attention of the reader but will also enhance the dialogue by creating
a deeper, and more meaningful interaction between the boy and the father going
through the experiences they witness. An excellent example of a flat emotionless
dialogue between the father and boy is as follows:
Are you going to die, Papa? He said. Are you going to die?
No. I’m just sick.
I’m really scared.
I know. It’s alright. I’m going to get better. You’ll see.
I would like to see more context and depth to the dialogue because as its written
PGR 253
Holding Onto Hope
PGR 254
This produces a more emotional connection between the father and the son I
feel, and gives the reader a better sense of the gravity of the situation they are
in. when the boy shows true feelings for his father it adds to the realism of the
situations they go through. Because what they through, requires more emotion to
be displayed to show a more realistic dialogue between the father and son; rather
than a dialogue that presents the boy to be by far more mature for his age than he
should be. That creates a yearning in the reader, whose waiting for the boy to open
up and show his true emotions.
“Do not seek death. Death will find you. But seek the road which makes death a
fulfillment.” Quoted by Dag Hammarskjöld. The author demonstrated in the book
that by holding onto hope, people can still survive even in the direst of situations
they hold onto that belief that there is still some good left in the world; even if it
can’t be seen. The father and son could have easily stopped trying and let death
take them, but their goal to reach the coast and hope that something good would
be there was powerful enough to keep them going day by day in the never-ending
struggle to survive on a dying land. Only once arriving to the coast would the
father feel fulfilled and let death take him, which leaves the son to find his way on
this dying land with other strangers who found him and would look after him, just
like his father did.
Works Cited
“Mad Max 2: The Road Warrior (1981) - IMDb.” The Internet Movie Database
(IMDb). Web. 01 May 2011. <http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0082694/>.
“Post-apocalyptic Books & Movies.” Squidoo : Welcome to Squidoo. Web. 01 May
2011. <http://www.squidoo.com/post-apocalyptic-books-movies>.
“Quotes on Death and Dying.” Angel-on-my-shoulder. Life after the Death of a Loved
One.Web. 20 Apr. 2011. <http://angel-on-my-shoulder.com/quote1.html>.
“Survival Quotes.” Find the Famous Quotes You Need, ThinkExist.com Quotations.
Web. 17 Apr. 2011. <http://thinkexist.com/quotations/survival/>.
Missing You, Metropolis
By Gabby Bedolla
Inspiration From Superman, by Gary Jackson
Page count:85
Graywolf press
$15.00
The poetry book “Missing You, Metropolis” grants insights into Gary Jackson’s
life. He does a great job incorporating people close in his life, for instance his best
friend Stuart and his sister who had passed away in his younger years. He also talks
about his home town in Kansas where he grew up in a close neighborhood, and
some racial isolation he experienced. Jackson creatively includes super heroes such
as Superman, Batman, X-man, and Spiderman, and comic book theme is played
with throughout the poetry. I believe that “Missing You, Metropolis” gives a great
perspective on Jackson’s life and his passion for comic books and super heroes:
From it I learned that imagination can transform raw life into art.
In the poem “Stuart” Jackson talks about how Stuart is his best friend and
that comic book brought them together. Jackson reveals the racial isolation when he
states, “Blacks were still rare/ on our street, while whites/ filled the neighborhood
like dead/ leaves in pool water (Jackson 7).” I like the metaphor he used because
I imagined how many white people there were in his neighborhood. It affected
him because he might have felt left out or not accepted yet. But he felt accepted
by Stuart because of their common interest. Jackson states, “We are Batman and
Robin, Captain America and Bucky- not created to be singular (7).” This quote
is significant because it symbolized how strong Stuart and Gary’s friendship is.
Batman and Robin have been a great team together and they symbolize strength.
Jackson gives a good example of their friend ship and how they were created to
be best friends. Jackson also mentions how no one is alone by stating, “Consider/
how we enter this world, not alone,/ but with someone / only one scream away(7)
.” I absolutely agree with this quote Jackson wrote. It shows that no one is alone
in this world and we all can unite together. I also think that the word scream is
significant because when giving birth a scream is a sign that the baby is alive. A
scream can be heard no to far away. There is always someone with you in this world.
This poem gives a good glance of his close friendship and his love for comic book.
Another poem that gives an insight of Jackson’s life is “Gap.” The poem brought
up his sister who had passed away. Jackson mentions how his mother reminded
him to put flowers on his sister’s grave. Jackson states, “I do this/ for all of us. My
sister buried in Topeka. / My mother who left for Dallas. The boy/ I used to be who
still clings to the years between (77).” This is really important because he is family
oriented and he misses his sister and the memories they had together. He didn’t
want to go but he had to for everyone in his family, and to show his sister respect.
PGR 255
now I picture a scared boy, but a boy who should be asking more questions besides
“Are you going to die?” since it’s his father that’s sick, one would expect the boy
to cry and ask if he can do anything to help. The way I would rewrite this flat
dialogue and create a deeper emotional effect between the father and son would
be as follows:
Papa? How do you feel? He said. Are you feeling dizzy or tired?
Yes. I feel dizzy and weak. But I’ll be alright in a couple days. I just need to rest.
I’m really worried about you Papa. He said. (Holding back tears that were seeping
out of his eyes slowing)
I know you are son. But I’ll feel better in a couple days, you’ll see. Get some sleep
son.
Metropolis would be so intense. When I say what it meant I thought of how much
it related to me and how I feel. This relates to his poems and I’m glad Jackson’s title
is “Missing You, Metropolis” because it fits perfectly with his theme. It also goes
well with his poems and giving them a creative emotion.
“Missing You, Metropolis” is exceptional and gives the reader a playful
experience filled with superheroes and comic books. Jackson insight on his life
mentions his sisters passing and his best friend who is always there for him. The
use of imagination is played through the book, and it can go a long way especially
when you add superheroes. The inspiration of superheroes gives a sense of power
to Jackson, and the power can also be in you.
Works Cited
Blatner, Adam. “Comic Book History (1950s).” Blatner.com. Web. 16 Apr. 2011.
<http://www.blatner.com/adam/cartoons/comicbooks/history.html>.
Jackson, Gary. Missing You, Metropolis. Minneapolis, MN: Graywolf, 2010. Print.
Anne Clements
PGR 257
PGR 256
He drove down to see her where he used to hang around. In the poem Jackson
states, “By the time I’ve pulled onto 21st,/ the black iron gates behind,/ I think of
how there is no real distance/ between anything, how Kansas/ is always a breath/
away./ It’s not the grave,/ but the memory that pulls(78).” This quote is strong
because he gives emotion to the poem by going into his past and reliving it. He
feels that the memories he had with his sister pulls his heart more than seeing her
grave. I like how he added his home state in the quote as well. By opening up about
his sister who passed away, Jackson way able to release emotion into the poem,
and express his grief.
In both poems “Stuart” and “Gap” Jackson opens up his life to his readers.
The significance of the two is how close their friendship was, and their common
interest of comic books. It was clear he was close to his sister and he missed her
with all his heart. The comparison I saw in these two was how he gave so much
emotion to the people he was close to. He did a wonderful job engaging his readers
into his personal life to comic book life. What stood out to me the most was how
he included super heroes in his poem, and his love for comic’s because I have never
read a poem like these.
Comic books have been around for a really long time. The first comic strip
created was in 1827. Most people have read a comic book, and it has become part
of our American culture. Adam Blantner states, “Soon after their creation in the
early 1940’s and increasing into more of a movement among concerned parents,
librarians, and others, there was an increasing outcry against their possible bad
influence on youth.” This quote reminds me of how video games are considered
bad influence on younger kids these days. Blantner mentions how Jerry Siegel and
Joe Shuster were developing a superhero since 1934 which later came to become
Superman. Superman was featured in 1938 action comics, and Batman and Robin
were published around 1939. Blantner says, “Captain America and all the rest began
to fight not only crime, but during the Second World War, against the Nazis, the
Japanese military, spies, and other nefarious influences.” I thought that was their
way to get back at the enemy. The World War influenced comic book writers, and
continued after the war. Wonder Woman was published in 1942, “A psychologist
suggested that a woman superhero would be empowering for the many women
who were becoming involved in the war effort (Blatner).” I think that is great how
they thought of Wonder Woman, and how it gives women empowerment knowing
there is a Woman hero. By including superheroes in Jackson’s poems he was able
to give the poem a clear understanding and is entertaining. He shared his love of
comic books with his best friend Stuart. When comics produced in great numbers
it was called the “Golden Age” of comic books (Blantner). Overall comic books are
entertaining and they have become a part of our culture for centuries.
What is Metropolis? According to Yusef Komunyakaa Metropolis is “a
place in our psyche tooled by dreams and wishful thinking, where secret oaths are
gladly taken; each nuance and gesture seems to reflect the concerns of the cultural
architects of nowness, but this place is also a community of proper names, aliases,
and familial ghosts.” I would have never thought this would be the meaning of
PGR 258
Gabby Bedolla
Critique of Eden White’s poem Thin Air
Eden Whites poem “Thin Air” displays the difficulty of being ignored by others,
and how to find a way to shape her life. It inspires the reader to never give up
and find your true self. The imagery and strong poetic language give the poem
life. “Thin Air” reveals challenges the poet faces communicating with people: the
struggle with not being heard or understood, and finding her voice, and suggests
we all must build a common language.
“Thin Air” describes how she feels when no one listens to her. She gives
her point of view which puts the reader in her shoes. When she says, “Sometimes
I hear myself talking to thin air/ ‘cause no one else is listening to shape of the
words that / are broken, unspoken, restless, and listless/ I see them fly from my
lips and band against deaf ears” (White 1). It shows how it feels when no ones
listens to the words she says. What I found out from speaking to the author
was she was feeling frustrated with the people around her at the time. She had
taught English for a living, so she expected everyone to understand her. The poet
demonstrates good imagery when she says, “Now the silence in my head echoes
graveyards and junkyards and abandoned schoolyards/ and I wonder if I will ever
find the real shape of the music and words that/ someone/ scribbled over long
ago.” The ways she writes this gives me the idea that she is alone and wants to
find herself. The places she mentions are probably the most significant in her life;
such as schoolyards she might have not had many friends and was alone all the
time. When she mentions graveyards it is most likely important to her because
someone close to her might have died. This poem caught my eye and drew me in
because I wanted to write a poem about the same topic. I feel that the topic of not
being heard hasn’t been brought up at all in the poems I have read. The poem was
so well written and expressive that I didn’t want it to end. What stood out to me
was her way of unfolding what it was like when she wasn’t taken notice of because
it connected to my life experiences.
From my experiences I felt voiceless because no one heard or understood
what I was saying. I had to grow up and go through life’s experiences to find my
voice. I felt a strong connection with “Thin Air” because I can relate with White
and her feelings. When I would try and speak my thoughts the listener wouldn’t
acknowledge what I said. It would make me frustrated because my feelings and
thoughts were not registered in the listener’s mind. If I were to have a conversation
with one of my friends and attempt to say what I feel or think they would talk right
over me, not even giving me an opportunity to speak. It makes me think that they
do not care what I say, and think my thoughts are important. I start criticizing
myself and turn it into a personal issue of self doubt. It bothers me because I am
not the type of person who won’t listen. I acknowledge what people say to me,
and allow their feelings or thoughts to be heard. By feeling like no one wants to
listen to what I say for so many years I usually keep my thoughts to myself. It
is like my comfort zone is in my head. In “Thin Air” when she says, “that would
rather think my thoughts than try to hear as/ I cogitate, conjugate, obfuscate, and
frustrate word-carriers who/ carry my words” it relates to how I feel. It makes me
feel safe being in my head because of the fact that I know I won’t get my feelings
hurt by not speaking. On the other hand it begins to get scary being alone and
not expressing my feelings. When I don’t have anyone to talk to I feel like my life
is full of silence. The challenging part is communication my thoughts and feelings
clearly, and just opening up in general. By speaking to the author she suggests we
all have a complicated process when communicated and we should build a common
language. I realized I should turn to people I trust and know will understand and
pay attention to what I say.
When reading “Thin Air” I noticed that the poem “Right English” had a
similar layout. I was also informed that the same author wrote both poems. What
is significant about this layout is how unique it looks. It always entertains my mind
when I see jagged lines because it is unusual. It gives the reader a creative way to
gaze at the poem because it is nontraditional. The line breaks and goes diagonal of
the line from above such as:
“I used to think
in something other than English.
I used to write
with a hand other than my right.”
This layout is uncommon to see for me because I’m usually seeing typical poem
layouts. I like how the poet used this layout for both of her poems because it gives
the poem life. It makes you pay attention to certain words that she wants to stand
out such as “ I used to think, I used to write.” The line breaks right after she states
what is important. It slows down your reading in order to get her message. Similarly
what is also comparable to the poem “Thin Air” is “The Journey” by Mary Oliver.
Mary Oliver does a great job at writing her poem “The Journey” because
of the simplicity. She describes how to find yourself and recognizing who you
really are as a person. I like how she gives this meaningful message of following
your heart and not let anything get in the way. I also like the title because life is a
journey that we all go on and it is our decision how we do it. How we find our voice
and how we get through the tough times in life. The poem by Mary Oliver:
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice -though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
PGR 259
Listen To the Voices
Works Cited
Oliver, Mary. “The Journey” Out of the Box Coaching. Web. 22. 2011.
White, Eden. “Thin Air” Cabrillo College English 1b spring 2011David Sullivan.
White, Eden. “Right English” PGR 2010 25th Anniversary Issue.
The World is How We See it if We Never Open Our
Eyes
A critique of Debra Spencer’s In Concert, by Zachary Smith
In the Bill Graham, a grand concert hall in San Francisco, a large concert takes place. In
Debra Spencer’s prose poem In Concert she describes the concert events as they unravel
before her in a haze of pot smoke. The event reminds me of my first metal concert:
the overwhelming atmosphere consisting of marijuana smoke and dense fog machine
vapor suffocates the crowd. As a new song begins the wild movements of the crowd drag
audience members into mosh pits like tornados pulling houses into the eye of a storm.
Stage divers jump from the stage before security guards can stop them and ride the crowd
like foam on the ocean. Before I realize what is happening my body is slammed from the
side and I collide with another moving figure falling like a rock to the floor. Desperately
I reach to the floor and begin to push myself upward, not wanting to be trampled by the
raging crowd, but as a push up I am hoisted by rough hands to my feet and slammed and
pushed into the swirling mosh pit. I push back and slam into faceless bodies, if I fall I am
picked up immediately and thrown to the middle of the pit as if cast into the belly of a
beast. I loved becoming part of that monstrous beast so much that I stayed in the mosh
pit for the remainder of the concert. I was part of something bigger and stronger than
myself and I knew the participants at the concert could never fall as long as we remained
united as one. The concert embodies our goals as a global community. On the surface In
Concert describes the scene at a rock concert, depicting the events as they unravel, but
beneath this hazy exterior lies true meaning: we must participate in the moments that
shape our lives.
As I explore this prose I will examine each individual paragraph and attempt to grasp a
deeper understanding for this piece. As I read the first paragraph this fragile ecosystem
holds my attention. Billie Joe Armstrong, the lead vocalist and guitarist, with Drummer
Tré Cool of the popular punk rock band Green Day amuse the wild crowd perpetuating
the rowdy uncontrolled vibe that continues throughout the short story. Although
there is very little dialogue from anyone in this narrative the author keeps her readers
entertained with the dramatic events that transpire at the rock concert, describing in
detail the sights and sounds of the crowd. In the second paragraph Billie Joe calls for
members of the gathering to join him on stage “He picks another boy, farther out, who is
surfed by hundreds of hands to the stage” (Spencer). The crowd obeys the commands of
Billie Joe, but the reaction is more complex than a slave obeying its master, Billie Joe and
the participants in the crowd behave as one working together to benefit each other and
achieve the same goal: to entertain one another.
The prose poem is broken into three simple paragraphs, with a smaller fourth paragraph
to sum up the end of this dramatic short story, which gives the prose piece a simple
attractive physical appeal. The author begins the story mentioning the Bill Graham in
San Francisco, a multi-purpose arena capable of entertaining 7,000 occupants, once
PGR 261
PGR 260
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do -determined to save
the only life you could save.
This poem stood out to me because it gave me some inspiration how to find voice
and gave me some confidence. It also opened my eyes to get the bad people out of
my life who will bring me down. I am the only person who can save myself from
situations I am in and people I surround myself with. This poem compares to “Thin
Air” as a result of finding yourself and not letting anyone get in your way.
“Thin Air” releases creative, strong, expressive emotion across the page.
The nontraditional layout gives the poem life along with the poetic language.
White reveals the challenges she had with communication during a time in her life.
She suggests that we all build a common language. Communication is a difficult
process, but we can all work through it.
home to the Golden State Warriors basketball team (onlyinsanfrancisco.com). The piece
of literature fills my mind with images of a very large and spacious concert hall decorated
with red curtained walls. Flashing lights from the stage ignite the concert hall before it
fades to darkness and becomes bright again. The large masses of people occupy every
space available. Spencer describes the movements of the crowd as if they are a single
entity moving to the rhythm of nature “I watch the arms of the crowd bend and sway like
long grass, watch mosh pits like dust devils form and fade” (Spencer). In this paragraph
Spencer presents the idea to her readers that our behavior is natural. Humans are social
creatures and instinctively desire to communicate and interact with one another.
I can picture the large interior of the Bill Graham; I watch the crowd from the balcony, as
I stand at Debra Spencer’s side she describes their movements. Billie Joe orders the crowd
to participate exclaiming “this isn’t fucking TV it’s a concert!” (Spencer). His exclamation
provides an example of how I can participate in the events that shape my life. My goal is
not to sit idly by and watch the world shape itself: I must participate.
Billie Joe stands on stage and calls out for a drummer. Pointing to a raised hand he
asks “who plays bass?” a second boy farther out is surfed to the stage. Next he calls for a
member of the audience who can play guitar. He moves a spotlight illuminating a kid in
a red shirt on the balcony. Billie Joe offers him a place on stage if the boy jumps to the
crowd fifteen feet below. Billie Joe orders those standing below to bunch tightly together.
I was reminded of a circus act with a trapeze artist balancing on a tight rope, a group of
crazed clowns holding a gigantic trampoline to catch them if they fall running around
wildly beneath the trapeze artist. Only in this scenario the kid is sure to take a leap of
faith; my heart stops as I witness him fall like a stone, only to be buoyed on the crowd and
surfed to the stage a moment later. This deliberate act of faith in others only gives a more
resounding trust in the goodness of people. Caught up in the moment the boy probably
gave very little attention to what might have happened if the crowd had not caught him.
will shape our lives.
The idea behind this piece emphasizes the view point that we are all one: we share this
world and are responsible for the safety of others. The prose poem In Concert makes
profoundly clear the concept that I cannot sit idly by and watch events take shape around
me and complain when events do not end the way I expected because I did not take action.
I must participate in my own life to provide an example to others so they may learn from
my behavior. It’s amazing how much a small gesture like a concert can affect hundreds,
thousands, millions, or the world at large. A single idea can spread to limitless potential.
My participation is invaluable. I have control over the moments that shape my life, the
world may indeed be how I see it if I never choose to expand my awareness. If I choose
to look deeper I may find something I was ignoring or may have never seen at all. Billie
Joe once said “time passes by like lightning. Before you know it you're struck down.” So I
suggest we enjoy the events life has to offer while we are still living.
Works Cited
Spencer, Debra. In Concert. Porter Gulch Review. 2011. Print.
" Bill Graham Civic Auditorium San Francisco." Onlyinsanfrancisco.com
Only In San Francisco. Web. 29 Mar. 2011. <http://www.sfcvb.org/media/downloads/
convention/bill_graham.pdf>.
"Billie Joe Armstrong Biography." The Green Day Authority. Web. 29 Mar. 2011.
"Tre Cool Biography." The Green Day Authority. Web. 29 Mar. 2011.
PGR 262
The boys make it safely to the stage and Billie Joe teaches the boys a three-chord song.
Once the music starts tension eases, I am transported to an event that reminds me of
my first metal concert. I join the crowd as an equal, and forming a hive mind we move
as a single entity as we drift to the sound of music. My reactions to the concert events
are not my own but the reactions of the single body I become part of. Spencer shares
my perspective “We have sailed rough seas, we have steered the ship, we are still afloat”
(Spencer). The gathering works together to make the most of the event as it takes shape.
The boys return to the crowd like a river returns to the ocean, safely back where the
journey began. Spencer’s story ends with a humorous description of a trumpet player
dressed as a bee playing the national anthem, I can imagine the buzzing sound the trumpet
must have produced. Yet beneath this rambunctious exterior lies a separate meaning. The
image of a buzzing bee on stage portrays the idea that we are part of a hive and we must
work together to accomplish our goals. Poking fun at the idea that we follow a leader who
buzzes unclear orders yet, just like a hive could not survive without a queen, we could not
survive without a leader. We have to decide what events we will participate in and how we
Angela Sarkysian