Mosaic 2006: Silver Anniversary Edition
Editors
Lauren Cenac
Elizabeth Sanders
Art Editor
Julie Ledet
Assistant Art Editor
Rusty Bouvier
Editorial Advisors
Jackie W. Jackson
Tiffany Duet
Melissa Garner
Marla Bernard
Graphic Designer
Jerad David
Department Head,
Languages & Literature
David Middleton
Acknowledgements
Bruno Ruggiero
Wayne Molaison
Kerry Boudreaux
Mosaic 2006 - Table of Contents
Essays
Superstitions in Vietnam by Vien Huynh...................................................................................8
A Life-Changing Semester by Barbara G. Keir........................................................................12
A Duller Shade of Copper by Courtney Allison Buhler..........................................................34
The Female Perspective by Johnny Smith...............................................................................51
Short Story
The Math After Katrina by Nathan Folse.................................................................................20
Art
Toni by Emily Kate Verret...................................................................................................Cover
For Quentin by Eileen Cenac.......................................................................................................6
Disguise 3 by Alexis Pitre............................................................................................................9
Marie’s Reverie by Emily Kate Verret......................................................................................14
“Waiting” from the Sisters of Stone series by Heidi Domangue............................................19
Rita by Barbara Barras...............................................................................................................22
Memories by Emily Kate Verret................................................................................................27
Godzilla vs. Powerade by Rosemary Ramaraj..........................................................................29
Black Water Cypress by Brandy Toups....................................................................................30
Rhapsody by Eileen Cenac.........................................................................................................33
Disguise 2 by Alexis Pitre..........................................................................................................37
Fear the Roux-Ga-Roux by John Rhodes..................................................................................39
Aberration by Andrea Dupree-Cenac.......................................................................................41
Myth of Man by Jason Ledet.....................................................................................................44
“Contemplating” from the Sisters of Stone series by Heidi Domangue................................47
Untitled by Massie Bergeron.....................................................................................................50
Untitled by Massie Bergeron.....................................................................................................52
Fort Pike by Brandy Toups........................................................................................................55
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Poetry
Kamakura by Ferrin Folkert.......................................................................................................4
Renga by the University Honors Program.................................................................................5
Our City’s Prayer by Nicole Belisle-Lee...................................................................................11
If It Keeps on Raining, the Levee’s Going to Break by Andrew Barker................................16
Another Day of Destruction by Dannon Trahan.....................................................................17
The Sea Does Not Give Up Her Dead by Joshua Hebert.......................................................18
Katrina by Angela R. Lovell ......................................................................................................18
First Words by Ferrin Folkert...................................................................................................24
The Muse by Angela R. Lovell...................................................................................................25
Memories by Ferrin Folkert......................................................................................................26
Accessory to Crime by George Pitre........................................................................................26
Louisiana Cooking by Elizabeth Sanders.................................................................................28
Epigram by Andrew Barker.......................................................................................................28
Regal Estuary by Nicole Belisle-Lee.........................................................................................30
More, Please by Nicole Belisle-Lee..........................................................................................31
Spring by Elizabeth Sanders......................................................................................................32
Summer by Angela R. Lovell......................................................................................................32
Sundown on a Cane Field by Clay Melvin................................................................................32
Cold Outside by Jonathan LaFleur............................................................................................32
Until the Snow in Sheets of White by Clay Melvin..................................................................33
Lance of the Pale Rider by Justin Paul Robertson...................................................................36
Forge Song by George Pitre......................................................................................................36
Portrait of the Night by George Pitre.......................................................................................37
The Office by Elizabeth Sanders...............................................................................................38
A Look into the Future by Jonathan LaFleur...........................................................................40
Independence by Ferrin Folkert...............................................................................................42
The Potter by Jonathan LaFleur................................................................................................43
To Rosa Parks by Elizabeth Sanders........................................................................................43
Ashes by George Pitre................................................................................................................46
Quarry Children by George Pitre.............................................................................................46
Whisper by George Pitre...........................................................................................................48
Simul Justus et Pecator: Last Thoughts on Johnny Cash by Clay Melvin.............................49
Fickle by John Ray......................................................................................................................52
Love’s Precarious Perch by Tyler Brunet................................................................................53
To Copernicus by Clay Melvin..................................................................................................56
Mosaic 2006 - Kamakura
By
Ferrin Folkert
Words with pictures are paired,
Mountains as light as feathers,
And trees as fine as hair,
Lines that flow like the water
That trickles over and around
The stream-smooth pebbles bare.
No opaque color masks
The life that’s flowing there.
The page bears only
Enough color
To saturate the air.
No rising sun.
No budding leaf.
No waxing moon with fullness near.
No wind in grass.
No bird in flight.
For all these disappear.
No chimney smoke.
No drifting clouds.
These pale blue skies are clear.
Late could be the hour.
No sign what time of year.
No dark, long shadows painted, for
Time has no presence here.
- Mosaic 2006
RENGA
Renga is an ancient Japanese poetic form that achieved prominence in the fourteenth century. It is a descendant of the five-line tanka and the progenitor of the three-line haiku. Like
classical tanka and haiku, the subject matter of renga is largely nonfigurative and based upon
momentary perceptions of the immediate environment. Unlike tanka and haiku, renga is a
long form, consisting of alternating three- and two-line stanzas. Lines in renga are measured
in syllables as 5-7-5 and 7-7 stanzas or in stresses as 2-3-2 and 3-3 stanzas, respectively. Each
stanza is linked by either syntax or mood to the stanza that precedes it, such that any two stanzas (but not three) can be read as an independent poem. In this way, a stanza must both link
to its predecessor and shift to a new scene through which its successor will link. Creation of a
renga is often collaborative, with a renga master directing a group of authors and a scribe.
Long, collaborative, and shifting, renga provides the reader with a stimulating, constantly
changing set of naturalistic perceptions. Further, because historic Japanese practitioners
in their first millennium world focused on observations of nature, renga seems particularly
applicable to the subject of Louisiana with its unique and sometimes fragile environments.
Students of the University Honors Program at Nicholls undertook training in renga as a
component of their Spring 2005 Honors Forum class. Their work is sampled here.
Dr. John P. Doucet
Director, University Honors Program
Renga on a Sunrise
Fingers pierce thin air
With columns stretched, horizon
Salmon peaks dazzle
RA
Reviving nature’s new day
Beckons creation—re-birth
SB
Sharp drafts chill tender
Nostrils and dry, cracking lips;
Tufts of budding green
RB
Rivers of water running
Measured pain on dry, cracked cheeks
GB
Caressed by smooth hands
Holding under full night sky
Distant memories
JC
Rose streaks on azure canvas
Splotched hues stir electric lips
LC
Mosaic 2006 - Scorching hot sand grains
Crisp air brushes waves along
Dew drips off petals
MC
Rainbows light the newborn sky
Saline sea wakes as the moon sets
BD
Infant rays journey
Toast the skin and warm flesh
Redden the young plum
FF
For Quentin
By Eileen Cenac
Photograph
- Mosaic 2006
Renga for Shepherds
Cardinals rest as
Water falls in the distance
Waiting for bright stars
TR
Pink, orange and yellow sunset
Inhabitants of the trees sing
TP
Four leaves falling down
The colors shifting down
A world of decay
BD
Golden fish rise through the water
As bread crumbs fly in the air
TR
Royal ripples move
Gold rays dance on the surface
The smoothness disturbed
TP
Pyramids of slanted sun
Dropping slowly through the fog
BD
Silvery knife gleams
Air screams and whistles, light shifts—
Overflowing banks
TR
A variety of green
A snake slithers among them
TP
The traveler glides
Taking the shape of its coat
Brown and gray snake skin
BD
RA is René Aucoin, a culinary arts junior from Morgan City
SB is Sara Blanchard, a psychology junior from Houma
RB is Ryan Bonvillain, a biology graduate from Mathews
GB is Gavriel Burton, a biology junior from Dover, Ohio
JC is Jared Callais, a fine arts junior from Galliano
LC is Lauren Cenac, an English junior from Houma
MC is Melissa Champagne, a biology graduate from Houma
BD is Brittany DiBetta, a biology senior from Chalmette
FF is Ferrin Folkert, a fine arts senior from Baton Rouge
TP is Teresa Perry, a mass communications junior from Oakdale
TR is Tristan Robert, a biology senior from Dugway, Utah
Mosaic 2006 - Superstitions in Vietnam
By
Vien Huynh
When I was about ten years old, my mother owned a clothing store in a shopping center.
One early morning, a lady came to the store and spent almost an hour looking for a dress.
After having found a suitable one, she started to bargain but eventually left without buying
it. My mother did not say anything; she just took out a roll of paper, set it on fire, and swung
it around the dress. That was the first time I had seen such a weird action from her. When
I asked my mother what she was doing, she said that she was burning away the unluckiness
the woman had brought to the shop; otherwise, her unluckiness would remain there and
chase away other customers. Later on, I found out that this was a common practice of most
of the small business owners when they believed that some buyers had brought them bad
luck. Even though it is a superstitious act and quite dangerous, people still practice it now.
From then on, I started to have a particular interest in superstition.
It is hard to track down the origin of superstition, but we can be sure that superstition
has been around for a long time. Every one of us somehow believes in or practices some
superstitious acts, hoping that they can prevent bad luck and bring only good luck. Some
people truly believe in them; others take them lightly as a harmless habit; and some are too
embarrassed to admit that they are superstitious. But no matter how different the attitudes
towards superstition are, we all agree that superstition plays a big role in our spiritual lives
because it is a product of the human mind. Usually when we cannot find a reasonable
explanation for something we are afraid of, we try to create our own explanations to comfort
ourselves. If the explanations are not strong enough, certain actions are needed to support
them. After many generations of practice, the explanations are forgotten, but the actions
still remain unconsciously, just like a conditional reaction. Generally speaking, most superstitions are harmless; however, they can be quite dangerous when they are overused.
In my country, superstitions are still quite commonly practiced among the people. Some
of them are so common that people tend to forget that they are superstitions. For example,
before taking a test, most of the students avoid eating eggs or bananas because eggs look
like zeros, and the slipperiness of the banana skin is going to make them trip over and fall.
In Vietnamese, “to trip over a banana skin” is another way of saying “to fail an exam.” Meanwhile, mungbean and other kinds of beans are greatly consumed during the testing season
since the word “bean” is pronounced exactly as the word “to pass.” Many elderly people
do not like other people to dress in white to go to their house on the day of the Chinese
New Year because Vietnamese and Chinese people wear white clothes to attend funerals. I
remember my grandmother getting quite angry one year when some of my friends visited
her on the day of the Chinese New Year wearing white shirts and jeans, a fashionable trend
at that time. When I said she was superstitious, she did not agree, saying that wearing
white on the first day of the year was stupid and impolite. Coincidentally, my grandmother
got quite ill during that year, and she believed she was going to die. Of course, I got all the
blame. Luckily, she is still alive now.
Some superstitions seem to contradict one another in some inexplicable ways. For instance, businessmen hate it when the first person they meet when leaving the house in the
morning is a girl or a woman. They believe women bring them bad luck on their trips. Most
of the time, they will turn around, go back home, and cancel all the meetings of the day. On
the other hand, they believe that sleeping with a young virgin before an important business
trip will bring them good luck. Some of them pay a great deal of money to buy the virginity
- Mosaic 2006
of young girls who are even younger than their daughters. Sadly, most of the men who
practice this immoral act are men of high position in society. In 2003, one of the members
of the government was arrested for having sexual intercourse with an underaged girl. It
was not his first time. In court, the man confessed that he believed it was the way to chase
away the bad luck of the previous year. He was sentenced to twenty-four years in prison for
his crime. I wonder if that was enough for him to understand or not. For another example
of the contradiction of superstitions, many people believe that keeping a turtle as a pet will
bring good luck because the turtle is one of the holy creatures in Oriental belief, while many
others strongly oppose it, saying that keeping a turtle in the house will make the business
move as slowly as a turtle. In these cases, superstitions obviously depend on the different
thinking methods of the human mind. One phenomenon can have two or more different
meanings that contradict one another.
Disguise 3
By Alexis Pitre
Oil on canvas
Mosaic 2006 - However, some superstitions are based on some mysteries that cannot be explained. It
has nothing to do with the human will and cannot be understood by human minds. When
I was younger, I heard many North Vietnamese people talking about the “Mistaken Child”
phenomenon, which sounded impossible to me. According to this belief, certain families
can never raise their children more than two years. Before the children reach the age of
two, they die without cause. The unusual part is that the mother often gets pregnant right
after the death of her child, and when the next baby is born, it looks unbelievably like the
dead one and can only live until two years of age. Some parents, before having their child
buried, secretly use ink to mark the baby’s body, and when the next baby is born, they are
terrified to see that the new one has birthmarks on the body exactly at the same places
where they were marked on the dead child. People believe it is the same child being born
again and again. The only way to avoid the death of the baby is to dress a newborn baby in
the clothing of the opposite sex and send it to somebody out of the family to be raised until
two years have passed. When I first heard this superstition, I could not believe it because
this phenomenon had never happened in the south. So one day, I told my girlfriend the story
and asked her if she believed in it since her parents came from the north. She suddenly became serious. Holding her hands in mine, I could feel her hands shaking. She told me that
her father was one of the cases. He was the fourth son of her grandparents, and all three of
her father’s brothers all died when they were younger than two, so her grandparents finally
had her father dressed in girl’s clothing and had his ears pierced. They also sent him to
some faraway relatives to be raised until he was four. When we got back to my girlfriend’s
house, I talked to her dad about this matter. In a friendly manner, he showed me the family
album with the pictures of the dead babies and his picture when he was two. Even though I
did not want to, I had to admit that the babies in the picture looked as much alike as if they
were twins. I was speechless. Even now I am haunted by this myth. I cannot understand
why it never happens anywhere else in the world but the northern part of my country, and I
do not know why being raised as the opposite sex makes the child escape his fate.
My attitude toward superstition has changed through the years. Before, I strongly opposed it, thinking it was against science, but later on I realized that superstition is just a part
of the human thinking process. Everybody has the right to wish for the good, and everybody needs some protection from the bad. Superstitions can be considered a part of the
human culture since people from different cultures practice different superstitions based on
their backgrounds. Sometimes superstition has to do with people’s affection and emotions,
too. I always wear the shirt my girlfriend bought me whenever I have some big tests as a
good luck charm. By doing that, I feel more confident working on my test. As long as the
superstitions are not immoral and do not harm other people, they are fine with me.
10 - Mosaic 2006
Our City’s Prayer
By
Nicole Belisle-Lee
Our Father who art in heaven,
Our world has come crumbling down.
– But all is not lost.
The wind has blown us apart,
Separating us from our families.
– But the gales cannot sever our beliefs.
The flood has washed us away,
Drowning our remaining dignity.
– But the tides cannot engulf our faith.
The fire has burned us down,
Leaving only ashes of our existence.
– But the flames cannot incinerate our spirit.
Anarchy and chaos have left us terrified,
Rendering the streets perilous.
– But prayers can still be heard from rooftops.
Lead us not into temptation.
For renouncing Your name would leave us hopeless.
– But deliver us from evil. Amen.
Mosaic 2006 - 11
A Life-Changing Semester
By
Barbara G. Keir
I grew up in Okinawa, Japan, but my family has lived in New Orleans all of their lives. After
receiving my associate’s degree from the University of Hawaii, I decided it was time for me
to move to southern Louisiana so that I could get to know my family. This was a surprise to
everyone who knew me, since I had never spent more than two months in Louisiana. I chose
to go to my dad’s alma mater, NSU. My mother and Grandmother Gelis came to Thibodaux
in May to find an apartment for me. I ended up renting a two-bedroom townhouse. I thought
the townhouse was way too big for one person, but it was a very nice place.
The latter part of my summer was spent in Waveland, Mississippi, with my maternal
Grandmother Gelis along with my Aunt Gwen and Uncle John. I interned at my aunt’s art
studio and enjoyed the Gulf coast. They lived five houses down from the Gulf of Mexico.
I came to Thibodaux a week before school started. I spent many hours on the phone
because I was homesick. I explained to my friends how different it was in the South and
how I was having a hard time adjusting to the lifestyle change. School started, and that was
another adjustment. I was worried I wouldn’t fit in because I hadn’t grown up in America.
But the first week went by, and everyone was very nice to me.
For the first time in my life, my paternal grandmother was just an hour away. I decided to
visit my Grandmother Keir for the weekend. She lived in New Orleans, Gentilly, specifically.
We went out to dinner, and it was a nice feeling to be so close to family. When we returned to
her house on Music Street, my Uncle Buddy called us to tell us he was coming to pick us up
for the storm. I couldn’t understand why we would need to leave. In Okinawa, we get at least
five typhoons a year. Some were very strong, but we never had to leave our concrete homes.
My grandmother made sure to bring a week’s worth of medicine. No one could have ever
imagined we’d be gone longer than that. We picked up a few items of clothing and evacuated
with Uncle Buddy. Four hours later, sitting in the contra-flow lane, we were getting hungry
and decided to get off when the lane ended. As we pulled up to the only place open, I went
to help Maw-Maw Keir out of the car. Right away I could tell something was wrong. She had
no color in her face and could not feel or move her legs. It took my uncle and me fifteen
minutes to get her out of the car. Later, we would realize she most likely had a mild stroke. It
was obvious she couldn’t make it much farther. I made some calls to see if there was anyone
we knew in the Jackson, Mississippi area and finally reached Maw-Maw Gelis. She was with
my Aunt Gwen and Uncle John in Mendenhall, Mississippi, so we made plans to meet.
When we arrived, it was nice because for the first time ever, I had my family under one
roof, but there was an ominous grumble in my stomach. We were all glued to the television.
Hurricane Katrina was 24 hours away. The first night was filled with laughter as the two
sides of my family played catch-up. When the storm hit the next night, the feeling in the
house was a strong contrast. The weather got worse outside, and news from the television
sounded more and more like death threats to those in Katrina’s way. Around midnight everyone awoke because of the heat. The power had gone out, and the storm, which was still
a category three, was just outside Mendenhall.
As daybreak came, we all sat out on the enclosed porch and watched Katrina’s fury. There
was something beautifully mesmerizing about the trees as they danced to the moans and
whistles made by the wind. Daybreak also brought the news of what had happened to the
12 - Mosaic 2006
Crescent City. Our battery-powered radio gave us the news that a massive amount of water
was pouring into the city. It was estimated that 80% of the city was flooded. It was a surreal
feeling. There was no way this was happening to us! Despite the devastating news, MawMaw Keir kept reassuring herself that the home she had made in the New Orleans 8th ward
was okay. “It has never flooded before, not even during the May floods.” I heard her repeat
this over and over again.
We thought it strange that there was no news about Waveland, Mississippi. The last forecast was that it would receive a direct hit. We were still holding onto hope that no news was
good news.
That night was a hard one. The storm was long gone, but now we had to deal with the
devastation it had caused. As another night came to an end, the heat began to rise. By
morning the next day open doors no longer provided relief. Both of my grandmothers were
having trouble breathing, so we brought them to the hospital in hopes they would have
air-conditioning. Our family made a choice that the next day we’d have to find a town with
electricity to move to. My Uncle John had friends in Denham Springs, Louisiana. The next
morning we picked up my grandmothers and drove there.
Once in Denham Springs, we saw mobs of people at Wal-Mart and three-hour long lines
at the gas pumps. The city was in a panic; rumors of all sorts of crimes being committed
by “New Orleans people” were being whispered by locals in line. Finally, we made it to the
home of my Uncle John’s friend. We arrived there tired and hungry and disappointed to
find they, too, had no electricity. At this point, our family split. The women went to another
friend’s home, and the men stayed back attempting to fix a generator for the other house.
When we arrived at the home with air-conditioning, the people greeted us with open arms
and kind words. Before this moment we were all strangers. But soon, “I love you” flowed
naturally between us.
This was the first time since the storm that we had television. I was in the kitchen when
I heard gasps from the living room. I ran in to hear “completely obliterated.” Waveland was
gone. Nothing stood between the gulf shore and the railroad tracks. That included my MawMaw Gelis’s home. I began to lose hope as I watched my eighty-three-year-old grandmother
struggle to understand what this meant for her home, for her life.
When I found out my home in Thibodaux had electricity, my Maw-Maw Keir, Uncle
Buddy, and I set off for home. Before we left Denham Springs, my Uncle John gave my
Uncle Buddy a gun. There was hysteria sweeping the area. We didn’t know what rumors
to believe. But my uncles didn’t think it was safe. For the first time in my life, I was afraid.
Why did we need a gun? That was all I could think of. To this day, that gun sits in my closet,
a silent reminder of the fear felt during those two weeks after Katrina.
As fear subsided, reality set in. My family was not only homeless but city-less. Everything
they once relied on had vanished, disappeared from their lives. My Maw-Maw Keir has
become my roommate. In just two weeks’ time, I went from being a twenty-one-year-old
college student to a full-time care-giver.
I moved to the United States with the goal of getting to know my family. Little did I realize that a natural disaster named Katrina would bond me with my family. By losing all, we
gained so much more. I know my family now. This semester has been all about adjusting for
me. While most students in my class had difficulty switching teachers mid-semester, that
was one of the easiest transitions that I have made since moving here.
Mosaic 2006 - 13
Marie’s Reverie (#1, #2, and #3)
(above and opposite)
By Emily Kate Verret
Photographs
14 - Mosaic 2006
Mosaic 2006 - 15
If It Keeps on Raining,
The Levee’s Going to Break
By
Andrew Barker
On learning “Luna Sea” left the ocean,
Found a port, and spread its influences,
Three Pilgrims, with their Wits to sort, have chosen
To take solace from the world’s nuisances.
Grass leaves the horizon in gray morning
Air rending River Road hauntingly bare
As Oak Alley’s hosts, fearful of a dawning
Star retreat through fallen limbs to their lair.
The Pilgrims beat bright Sol, casting shadow
On homes that stand in darkest poverty,
To the levee’s crest, where the status quo
Spreads the toxic run-offs of Liberty.
Three Kin-Souls, in their Zeppelin, found peace,
Learning Earth’s Chaos, Love’s only on lease.
Marie’s Reverie (#4 of 4)
By Emily Kate Verret
Photograph
16 - Mosaic 2006
Another Day of Destruction
By
Dannon Trahan
And the water rose,
Washing the streets of our torn town, cleansing the wounds of its existence,
Tearing away our roots and watching our branches bow in wounded resistance.
Purging the sewers and culverts, washing away the rodents, contaminating homes and supporting decay,
Disheveling all structure, creating disorder and civil unrest, leaving behind only death and
dismay.
Through the twisted oaks of City Park and drowned neighborhoods, we hear the cries of
destruction,
The disease of disappointment caused by the cancer of corruption.
Such sadness and despair, hope of rising amidst the proof of defeat.
No promise of protection, our efforts dissipate in the midst of angst and deceit.
Persevere, accept, transform, survive, respect—we are aware.
Tears wiped, prayers chanted, compassion influenced in the moments of deep despair.
What now? Rebuild, they say! Get out? NO WAY!
Displaced and depressed, we watch our governments collapse and fray.
Fearing the fury of nature, we question the truth behind the ideal,
Split and uprooted, we continue with life although it’s seemingly unreal.
Appreciate the love witnessed, accept the risk, dare to dream.
Through experience of disillusion, witness the transformation at its extreme.
Learn to value more the priceless experiences of charity and human kindness.
Let not the corruption of sticky fingers and deep pockets continue to encourage blindness.
Let the water wash away our fear of being washed away.
We should always remember there will forever be another day.
Another day of destruction.
Mosaic 2006 - 17
The Sea Does Not Give Up Her Dead
By
Joshua Hebert
Down the bayou, the recently dead lay.
A ghostly breeze from the marsh blows.
How they got here only she knows.
The bodies are paling, sullen, and gray.
Here they find no peace; day by day
Their restless spirits wander aglow.
Hatred and anger their apparitions sow.
And in a low moan I heard them say:
“Why have you survived, and where is our home?
We know not this place, lost are we.
Where are our families? Where do they sleep?”
And thus I replied in a reverent tone:
“Your families are far from here, and I am sure that they weep.
Now leave me in peace, please seek out the sea.”
Katrina
By
Angela R. Lovell
August twenty-ninth, she massively scours.
Who could know the devastation to be?
Upon landfall, days would become hours;
A family of six would become three.
Her gripping, crushing, menacing waves swell,
Plunging bodies, stirring a witch’s brew.
They cry in woe, caught in her mud hell;
A family of four now becomes two.
Rent by her death grip’s hold, they interlock.
For a brief moment time gave its last hour
To swirl in a liquid dance of water’s mock
And cross the Rubicon’s dividing power.
One left alive to live the misery
Storm named Katrina, victim’s elegy.
18 - Mosaic 2006
“Waiting” from the Sisters of Stone series
By Heidi Domangue
Hand-painted photograph
Mosaic 2006 - 19
The Math after Katrina
By
Nathan Folse
This is not a story of significant tragedy. It would be difficult to tell a story of great tragedy which did not also involve a great heroic figure, much like the one not found here. But
it is a story nonetheless, and no less worthy of being read than all the worthless ones told
every day. Having settled this, then, on with today’s disposable narrative; its only tragedy
is being too soon forgotten.
He took five cautious steps into the dark bedroom, then slowly raised his hand toward
the whirring blades, blindly groping for a string. He found and pulled the string safely, then
kicked off his shoes and sat cross-legged on the floor against the wooden bed. He grabbed
the remote from atop his dusty black Marshall 40-watt and began surfing the news channels,
2 through 12 chronologically, whenever HTV ran commercials. He didn’t know why he was
so sadistically (or masochistically) drawn to these gloomy segments, but he felt compelled
and even obligated to watch them, as if watching them might prove to the universe that it
was unfair and convince it to behave. Robert assumed, no doubt accurately, that he was not
alone in this somber tele-vigil, and that most families in southern Louisiana, Mississippi, and
Texas were at this moment engaged in the very same passive ritual.
No matter how horrible the stories grew, how utterly pitiful and hopeless throughout that
first night, there remained in Robert some morbid compulsion to see every drop of rain
or gust of wind that Martin Folse (no relation to the author) could capture. How true, he
thought, that in these times of crisis, the media becomes a visual Vienna Sausage to all who
so desperately consume it.
What Robert saw most often on the 11 channels that weren’t local was that same stretch
of I-10, flooded with motionless cars of evacuees smoldering like toxic water in a concrete
ditch. The true focus of the shot, though, whether by accident or design, was the vast emptiness of the lanes leading into New Orleans. Robert could not see this angle as favoring the
ingenuity of contra-flow one bit, as it seemed to be cutting its possible resources—the entire
structure—in half. He dismissed the thought, though, deciding that it need not make sense
to him as long as it made sense to someone.
Even though they were a reasonably safe distance from New Orleans and other areas
which would suffer the hardest damage from Katrina, most of Robert’s friends in Thibodaux
had made plans to be somewhere else by tomorrow and had tried desperately to convince
Robert to do the same. Some of those who had failed in this endeavor made it clear to Robert
that they were very sorry to hear that he had decided to die. As much as this assumption
amused Robert, he was aware that Katrina was approaching the title of Most Catastrophic
Storm in Recorded History with a speed of 175 miles an hour and climbing. They wouldn’t
be lucky this time, no matter how much it dissipated before landfall. This is precisely why
Robert was sitting at home watching the cars and not sitting in one.
What his friends didn’t understand was that Robert wasn’t brought up in a manner that
would condone leaving his house when its very existence was threatened. His land and his
house were extensions of himself and his family, and if that was taken, then surely they’d
be taken with it. They had been so lucky the first time that starting over would just be
impossible. Robert would be alone for this storm, though, since Carlie and Claire, his two
daughters, had just started their first semesters at Auburn that spring. He missed them
more now than even the day he’d left them at the airport, when the silence of the hair dryer
20 - Mosaic 2006
and radio nearly brought him to tears, but Robert knew that it was better they were safe
in their dorms and not here with him. He would have broken his back to send them to
college after their mother died. He would have paid the tuition in full with his own Auburn
blood, but they, somehow knowing this, those sweet angels, they paid their own way with
full four-year scholarships. He felt so unworthy of such a pair of girls yet so grateful to have
somehow been blessed with them anyway.
As the story may at this point appear to be developing some sort of heroic figure,
thereby testing the credibility of its own prologue, let me now say that despite the aforementioned sentimental and (dare I say) tragic thoughts, Robert’s behavior throughout the
first night would suggest that none of these thoughts had ever crossed his mind. Judging
only from outward appearances, Robert would have seemed emotionless, stone-faced and
silent, immune to any moods but calmness. His survival strategy that night consisted
of listening to Led Zeppelin and the weather reports simultaneously while balancing his
checkbook. He passed several minutes this way, and at the precise volume for both his
television and stereo, he began to find prophecies amidst the old lyrics as the weatherman
spoke softly of the fallen trees and towers. And from his floor the story of Katrina was
told to Robert before it even occurred through the titles of songs: The Rain Song>Strung
Out>Communication Breakdown>Dazed and Confused>When the Levee Breaks>No
Quarter>Heartbreaker>Stairway to Heaven.
As he wrote his ending balance on the top line of his checkbook’s next clean page, a stubborn Southern sense of hope washed over Robert in the form of John Jones’s intro to “Into
the Light.” Robert turned off his own light and lay listening to the voices of not one but two
prophets, each as equally important to him at that moment as his own eyes and ears.
The math had been cold and calculated, a defense mechanism which proved stronger
than the broken levees and promises Robert would soon wake up to. It was done even more
accurately than the math done after Katrina concerning death tolls and power outages and
hours and days of waiting. And if you think this story completely misses the tragic point a
story about Katrina should strive for, that this is merely an attempt to steal recognition from
the worst victims of the storm to accommodate those more fortunate, consider this, then,
an undeniably American narrative, and move on.
Mosaic 2006 - 21
Rita
By Barbara Barras
Hand-colored Litho print
22 - Mosaic 2006
Mosaic 2006 - 23
First Words
By
Ferrin Folkert
I, a child with open ears, sit listening
To my mother and father speak.
I begin to notice a word or two.
I hear them again and again.
Eventually I attempt
To make those sounds myself.
I sputter over and over
Until my first words are uttered.
I know them and them alone.
With a child’s ears, I sit and listen
To the sounds that are provided:
The words of books and prayers,
Creatures and truth-sayers,
Liars and professors.
The sounds of winds and seas,
Of rocks and family trees,
Of foreign humanities.
Ultimately, I perceive
The words that are repeated.
One voice speaks through these voices,
These voices all around me,
A sound mosaic.
It speaks constantly, hastily,
Subtly, but clearly,
In a voice as new as it is archaic.
It is the spokesperson for nature,
For humanity, for wisdom.
Sometimes it is soft, but it never lies.
I name it truth, and I am lucky when I understand it.
Sometimes I think I’ve heard the tale,
And I try to pronounce the words,
But more than not, I fail.
When I understand, it is
Not by my own wisdom,
But, rather, by humility.
When, with a child’s ears, I listen,
I begin to hear the voice
Through the voices of the liars,
The shouters and the criers,
24 - Mosaic 2006
Beneath the sounds of life.
And then I attempt to document
The only words I really know,
The only words I hear,
The only words I somehow feel
Resonating in an inner ear.
Then, I sputter until I speak
As if with first words.
The Muse
By
Angela R. Lovell
Elusive,
Intrusive?
Enigma
Or stigma?
Creative,
Debative?
All apply.
Poets try—
Whatever
Is clever
To design
The line’s rhyme.
Mosaic 2006 - 25
Memories
By
Ferrin Folkert
Sweet paisley fabric and long goodbyes,
Trouble sleeping and several tries
At cartwheels before I got them down
On the post office lawn in town.
Hanging upside down from the monkey bars,
Standing outside, freezing, to count the stars.
A Rabbit Blanket and bottled milk,
Pearl buttons on Mom’s green blouse of sand-washed silk.
Realizing I was ten out on Mile Seven.
I don’t remember turning eleven.
Drinking from Grandma’s tin camping cup.
And thinking I’d never ever grow up.
Accessory to Crime
By
George Pitre
26 - Mosaic 2006
The tourist is the modern gypsy,
And with my help they steal
Culture in flashes. They do not
Notice that the legacy and history
Are not theirs. Nor would they
Care if they did know. As long
As others have what they want,
I will be used in their larceny.
Winding, clicks, snaps, and smiles
The language of the new thievery.
Of all the other jobs and their glamour,
Oh, the pain being a tourist’s camera.
Memories
By Emily Kate Verret
Pinhole photograph
Mosaic 2006 - 27
Louisiana Cooking
By
Elizabeth Sanders
In the South, my family knows only how to cook Big,
Which could feed a sum of fifty (if no one’s part pig)
On distinctive delights that have come to be expected
At any gathering where the family can be collected.
Shrimp dip is served first, with crisp chips and crackers
Or apple dip to eat with fruit, for all the calorie trackers.
Jambalaya’s a staple dish, brown rice with Tony’s and meat,
Chicken, pork, and smoked deer sausage, a treasured treat.
Crunchy crawfish shells crack beneath skilled, crushing fingers,
While on the tongue, pleasant potato salad and conversation lingers.
Beans, both red and white, blend well, and if you decide to smash
Your cornbread in while you joke around, you’ll make a hearty hash.
Pecan pie makes up dessert (if people quit worrying about their belts),
With homemade vanilla ice cream that spreads all over as it melts.
But, in the North, my family knows only how to cook Small,
Which could feed about seven people, if there are that many at all.
Slow-cooked stew is favored in large, wholesome bowls,
Served along with nothing, except (perhaps) some buttered rolls.
Heavy evening silences are broken only over milk and cookies,
While the older adults teach quiet Rook and Dominoes to us rookies.
On the Fourth of July, they generally decide to have a barbecue,
With hamburgers and hot dogs and then pecan cake for the lucky few
Who happen to be there. The flavors are good, pleasant in my mouth,
But I know I will not be satisfied until I have returned to the South.
Epigram
By
Andrew Barker
When sullen studies fill your room and disappoint your mood,
I spring a scent that slices gloom: “I brought you pizza, dude!”
28 - Mosaic 2006
Godzilla vs. Powerade
By Rosemary Ramaraj
Pinhole photograph
Mosaic 2006 - 29
More, Please
By
Nicole Belisle-Lee
The deep dark brew steamed in the alabaster cup.
Light carmelly notes wafted in the air.
With a splash of the sweetened cream,
The shadowy liquid lightened to auburn:
A smooth cup with a toasty character.
With the first anticipated sip
It demanded a breathy exhale.
Seduced with chocolaty undertones,
The sultry brew begged to be savored.
Each full-bodied taste better than the last,
The delectable treat delivered a dark, bittersweet finish.
With the robust aroma lingering above the thirsty cup,
The urge to replenish the dish was irresistible.
And so I asked the waitress for a refill.
30 - Mosaic 2006
Regal Estuary
By
Nicole Belisle-Lee
The Gulf rolls in;
The bayou rises:
Precious waters holding
So many prizes.
Golden shrimp,
Iridescent fish,
And crimson crabs:
A king’s richest dish.
Princes ride the waves
In their royal vessels,
Collecting the treasures
Of the bountiful channels.
Black Water Cypress
By Brandy Toups
Black and White photograph
Mosaic 2006 - 31
Spring
By
Elizabeth Sanders
The corpse lies beneath,
Giving its own blood to make
Blossoms in the spring.
Summer
By
Angela R. Lovell
Dragonflies hang high.
Fireflies illuminate.
Hot breeze carries both.
Sundown on a Cane Field
By
Clay Melvin
Hazy horizon,
There’s fire above and beneath—
November harvest.
Cold Outside
By
Jonathan LaFleur
I press my left hand
To the window while driving;
It feels just like home.
32 - Mosaic 2006
Until the Snow in Sheets of White
By
Clay Melvin
Until the snow in sheets of white
Falls with the shades unseen
(As it has in rarity on
Louisiana green),
My love, we’ll watch winter intrude
Slowly in the distance—
Yet fast enough to take our breath,
Ceasing all resistance.
Forget the way the sun shines hard
In humid afternoons;
Wait long enough with me to see
Aloof December moons.
Then maybe we can catch a glimpse
With nothing in between
And watch the snow in sheets of white
Fall with the shades unseen.
Rhapsody
By Eileen Cenac
Photograph
Mosaic 2006 - 33
A Duller Shade of Copper
By
Courtney Allison Buhler
We are small, round, and shiny. We can land heads or tails. We can be flipped, tossed,
spun, won, found, and lost, but it is where we end up that really matters. It is where our
journeys end that decides our fates. Whether we end up at the bottom of a wishing pond or
spare change for the President, our stories are individually unique and challenging. We’ve
each landed on a different path and have been carried by different hands. However, this
is my story to tell. And whether it is not as exciting as others does not matter because it is
mine. It is the roads I have landed on and the pockets I have been carried in. It is distinctly
mine.
I am Courtney Penny. I was minted on August 9, 1987, at the Philadelphia Mint. My
mother, a 1971 Nickel, believed herself too young to care for me. So on August 14, I was
shipped to a Baton Rouge Penny Adoption Agency and adopted by two wiser and older
Quarters. They would become my mom and dad, my parents in the true cents of the word.
Sixteen months prior to my adoption, they had adopted another girl penny through the
same agency. She would become my best friend and older sister, Brittany Penny.
For the first four years, we were close. She started St. One Dollar Bill Catholic Currency
Elementary a year before me, and it was about this time that I started to notice that Brittany
and I were different. Her copper was shinier. Her engravings more pronounced. My copper
was a duller brown, and my engravings worn down. It would become competition between
the two of us – probably not so much on her part as mine, but I was obsessed with proving
that I could be just as good as Brittany. But soon, everything would change. On July 17,
1991, my mother minted her and Dad’s first true penny. Jessica Penny was brought into our
family, and I was no longer the baby penny. I also began to give up the heroic outlook of my
father. Our relationship slowly began to decline.
I had an average life for a small town penny. I never rolled off a cliff, was never dropped
from the Sears Tower, was never run over by a car. My life was simple. I finished St. One
Dollar Bill when I was 13 and moved on to Bishop Silver Dollar High School. Brittany and I
were no longer close, and the older I got, the more distance I put between her and me. We
were too different now. She expressed a need to become closer to the Church. I pushed
away from it. She was strict in her respect for authority. I rebelled against it. As Brittany
and I battled it out on the religious front, Jessica seemed to just disappear from my life. She
was four years younger than I, and at age 14 the last thing I wanted was my ten-year-old
sister hanging around. I had always slightly resented her. While she and Brittany grew
closer, I became more and more distant.
The year I turned 16 would bring about changes to my family that we never expected.
Brittany announced she would be entering the Convent for Catholic Coins the year after she
graduated from high school. We were all shocked. I knew then that something would have
to change. Brittany was leaving, and soon so would I. I realized that Jessica was not my
enemy and began to try to rebuild a relationship I had never really let grow. We are closer
than we have been in years.
I turned 17 in August of 2004 and started my senior year at Bishop Silver Dollar. I had
experienced much of teenage currency life. As my time at Bishop came to an end, I had
many decisions to make. I chose to continue my education at Nickels State University. Here
I planned to study Culinary Art. It was not close to home, and I liked the idea of getting
away. In May of 2005, I graduated from Bishop Silver Dollar High School. It was truly the
34 - Mosaic 2006
most memorable moment of my life. Then on August 4, my aunt, two close friends, and I
caught a plane to Shannon, Ireland. We spent an amazing eight days there. On August 9, I
turned 18 in Dublin. We made amazing memories and even met a few Euros. Sadly, we had
to return home for the beginning of school. I was heartbroken.
So, here is the road that I have landed on now. I am an eighteen-year-old penny, wiser,
but still confused by life. I’ve only just begun. My relationship with my family is becoming
stronger. I doubt it will ever reach perfect because nothing is ever perfect. Over time I have
learned not to care so much about what others might assume. If my copper is not shiny
enough or my engravings are not distinct enough, it is simply who I am, and I would not
change for the world. I’m happy with that. This is the happiest I have been in a long time,
and I like that.
The Bayou Writers’ Guild
Salutes
Mosaic
Nicholls State University’s
Student Literary Magazine
For 25 years of publication
By Students
For Students
Mosaic 2006 - 35
Lance of the Pale Rider
By
Justin Paul Robertson
He walks alone, amidst timeless carnage,
Stalking civilians and soldiers alike;
His dark spear’s gentle gleam—the last image
Of rolling blue before the final strike…
“The Pale Rider!” They whisper that one name,
Steeped, filthy, in that thick crimson fear
Embodied within his lance of ill fame—
All living who fear its touch hold life dear.
Undefeated, thus assassinating
All of his set marks with cold, practiced grace.
He sets off, hardly procrastinating
In whisking off souls with nary a trace.
He wants not your malice, nor seeks your fear,
So show him neither, stifle every tear,
And face him with mettle, not frailty,
So then, his blue lance, guide to eternity….
His names number many—Reaper, Charon,
Though Death’s the most common, all doubt begone.
He’s hated by many, feared by far more,
For “doing my job,” he’s mentioned before.
Forge Song
By
George Pitre
Forges light the hill.
Molten metal snaps greetings
As worn hammers sing.
36 - Mosaic 2006
Portrait of the Night
By
George Pitre
On the banks of the once mighty river
Where the sweet sound of driving jazz horns
Can be heard across the spectral alleys,
Grifters, gamblers, thieves, and second-story men
Have come as the trickster children
Of the night to discuss their next
Master plan or amazing heist
In the creeping clouds of smoke that fill
Their midnight meeting. They lack care
Or concern, these hip cats of the shadow.
Through it all the barman takes in each sight
That surrounds him, the portrait of the night.
Disguise 2
By Alexis Pitre
Oil on canvas
Mosaic 2006 - 37
The Office
By
Elizabeth Sanders
Before there were Microsoft computers
Or foam-filled cappuccinos from Starbucks,
God sent a memo to his employees
That called an Archangel-only meeting.
The conference room rustled, paper wings
Folding beneath orderly business suits.
Lucifer and Michael sat on one side,
With Raphael and Gabriel across.
The Boss sat at the beginning and end.
He said He found a stock to invest in,
One whose value would increase over time.
He sent the stock information around.
The four trained workers examined it well,
The portfolio, then all grew silent.
Lucifer pointed out that the product
Was flawed and could be corrupted with ease
By viruses like SIN, whose signature
Kept changing, though the payload wrecked havoc.
God assured him that steps had been taken
To create a new office to handle
The damaged ones, so that only pure goods
Could come in. All four agreed to this plan.
Uriel filled the open Archangel
Spot left after Lucifer’s promotion.
38 - Mosaic 2006
Fear the Roux-Ga-Roux
By John Rhodes
Charcoal and India Ink
Mosaic 2006 - 39
A Look into the Future
By
Jonathan LaFleur
I can see someone behind me,
Walking fast as to attack;
My third eye lets me know
That the creationist is back.
What cause has he against me?
Just the notion that he’s wrong
About the book within his heart
That guides his empty prayers and songs.
I am walking, living proof
That evolution is the key;
To find the real objective truth
Point your mere two eyes at me.
I am what the human race
Has the power to become,
So do away with silly faith—
A life of purpose is outdone.
But since I am not real,
Just a joke from someone’s mind,
To what truth can I appeal
For answers you all seek to find?
40 - Mosaic 2006
Aberration
By Andrea Dupree-Cenac
Photograph
Mosaic 2006 - 41
Independence
By
Ferrin Folkert
People in this crowd,
Like well-dressed leaning towers,
Tuck their shoulders in.
One looks ready to topple.
The others give her more room.
Silently, they give
Perilous testimony
To independence.
Towers and mountains crumble.
No one picks up the pieces.
Giant soles crush down
On the little hills of ants.
The ants are no match.
Rebuilt spires testify to
Interdependence’s strength.
42 - Mosaic 2006
The Potter
By
Jonathan LaFleur
I came off of His spinning wheel ready to be dried.
He’d worked all day and loved the way
My pieces were applied.
He labored for a humble wage to meet His simple needs.
A pot as I, once sold, could buy
Enough for those He feeds.
He loved me almost too much to release me to be sold.
It hurt Him so to let me go
But did what He was told.
And then one day He left His home and came into the shop.
I thought it strange; He placed His change
Upon the countertop.
He pointed my way with a smile, and then I heard Him say,
“I’d like to buy the one that I
Had made just yesterday.”
He made me and He bought me; then He filled me to my brim.
It think it nice that surely twice
I do belong to Him.
To Rosa Parks
By
Elizabeth Sanders
It was not something you had planned:
By sitting down, you made your stand.
You taught us all that we could beat
Back injustice with rested feet.
Mosaic 2006 - 43
Myth of Man
By Jason Ledet
(Best of Show, Myths and Monsters, the 6th Annual Kappa Pi Art Theme Exhibition)
Oil on Masonite
44 - Mosaic 2006
Mosaic 2006 - 45
Ashes
By
George Pitre
Under the dusty tides of a mist-filled sky
Slate sails slip smoothly wearing cloaks of gray.
Through the harbor and across the fields they ride,
Ashen ships bearing every mother’s dismay.
The fog rolls across the well-kept field, hastily
Toward cottages that have yet to taste first light,
Carrying swift bitter tears for all. Silently
They stalk from farm to farm. Their blades near white
In the near dawn sun. The riders’ wrath
Comes wearing dark capes of half-heard whispers.
No door can stop them. No lock can bar their path.
A step behind darkness while they cut the tethers
That bind families together, before
Mothers find their children’s empty rooms.
At sunrise grieving mothers fall to the floor
To curse the returning ashen doom.
Quarry Children
By
George Pitre
Deep in the quarry
Miners carry out the ore,
Offspring of the earth.
46 - Mosaic 2006
“Contemplating” from the Sisters of Stone series
By Heidi Domangue
Hand-painted photograph
Mosaic 2006 - 47
Whisper
By
George Pitre
At a crossroad in the woods
Where whispers could be heard by those
Who wished to listen, two swordsmen
Came to test their skills. One man was dressed
In black while the other was in ivory.
When the two men met, they tipped
Their hats then quickly let loose steel.
With three quick cuts they clashed then parted,
The whispers lost under the crash
Of arms that filled the withdrawn walkway.
One fell, then so did the other.
The crunch of crimson leaves were
The only break in the wash of wind
That whipped through the crossroad,
And when the test was finally done,
All that remained were the whispers.
The English Society
Congratulates
Mosaic
For 25 years of
student publications;
We are proud to
support an honored
48 - Mosaic 2006
Simul Justus et Pecator:
Last Thoughts on Johnny Cash
By
Clay Melvin
When lines are blurry,
they’re best to walk.
When words are cheap,
they’re best to talk.
When flames are high,
it’s best to burn.
When roads are straight,
it’s best to turn.
Scales and bars, jails and scars
teach their disciple to dress
his thin skin in thick black,
familiarizing hell
to halo-headed hearers to feel
the fire round them
when they can’t stop grinning rhinestones.
Don’t stop. Don’t imagine yourself
Better when lying around talking of Michelangelo.
Don’t stop. Clench your eyes and loose your grip.
Lose your fetters. Lose the world.
Don’t stop. Race around the corner.
Find you’re in your starting place.
Don’t stop. Check your chalkboard.
Draw your chalk-lines
around your saviors and their
thistle-crowned heads.
Beyond wild borders there lies
life
within
death
love
within
losing
hope
within
Folsom County Prison
grace within
colorless canyons
So follow the trance deep
into the baptismal depth
gaze at the mirror
hold your hurt
and there find
the man
in
black.
Mosaic 2006 - 49
Untitled
By Massie Bergeron
Photograph
50 - Mosaic 2006
The Female Perspective
By
Johnny Smith
I have never been anything but open with all my writings, so here goes. Sex to me is
like a spiritual awakening. No, not just the first time, but each and every time I partake of
the flesh. Partake of the flesh, now that’s a screwed-up way of putting it, but oh well. I am
not addicted to sex; I just need what it provides. Nothing else has fulfilled my most basic
desires, nothing else has made me “feel” alive, and nothing else has ever come close to
complete satisfaction. When I am indulging, I feel as though I am alive inside. When I look
down on the face of my lover, I feel awakened. My soul rejoices when she reaches the apex
of her state of erotoclismic awareness. I live for the moaning.
I never thought a moan would ever mean so much to me, but I love it. No, not just your
average everyday porn star moan, but one that comes from deep within the heart, nay the
soul of the female perspective. The female perspective is a deep-seated need to be fulfilled
in many ways—not just one. The ripples on the water are usually proof that these needs
have been met. The back arches, the head throws back, every muscle in her body tightens,
and then the moan comes. But deeper than physical emanations lies the female perspective—within her mind’s eye she begins to fly, to soar above the meaninglessness of life and
just for a moment becomes one with all her being.
The orgasm is nothing but a shimmering reflection of her inner glory. For when she
flies, in her soul she is truly free. When she moans from within, she is emancipated from
drudgery. Free to roam as the being she truly is, she becomes entranced in a world entirely
different from that she is accustomed to. But nothing lasts forever; soon she will cease to
fly, but near the end of her journey, she must know that it is not the beginning of the end,
but the end of the beginning. It is my obligation then to set her free as many times as possible and revel in her flight. I give her wings; she soars above this world. My God, I live for
that!
When I have given everything I can, it is my time to fly, to soar, to live. But I live when she
lives; we fly together. Like eagles entwined in flight, we race skyward, and at the apex of our
embrace, we fall earthward in a death spiral, but just before we perish, we break formation
and land softly. Lying there next to her, I breathe in shallow breaths, quietly listening to
her subsiding moans. Bodies exhausted, souls spent, we fall into each other and watch the
rising sun make its debut.
You see, it is not the sex I desire, but the female perspective. For without that exaltation
of the female spirit, sex is meaningless. In other words, without it, I would rather please
myself.
Mosaic 2006 - 51
Fickle
By
John Ray
How many kingdoms have been given away
To a love that is gone with the setting of day?
The valleys of self-dethroned kings
Are filled with mourning of these bitter things.
So foolishly I handed my heart to a harlot
And felt myself drowning in a pool of scarlet.
Now aching and trembling, can you return my piece,
Up on the shelf of flowery wreaths?
For the heart of every man she met
Is collected where they left it, by the foot of her bed.
There I never made it, but I saw the room
Where misery blossoms as passion once bloomed.
Untitled
By Massie Bergeron
Photograph
52 - Mosaic 2006
Love’s Precarious Perch
By
Tyler Brunet
The day which was dawning was fair indeed.
To this latest white night he paid no heed.
For to this man ‘tis the pen that’s life,
But holding to this view, it can brew stryfe
Betwixt a good man and his loving wife
Sharp as the edge of a castle-forged knife.
Such is the case in the story I tell
Of this sleepless man and his wife as well.
As sure as the sun does rise in the sky,
So does a wife’s ire, and just as high
When she receives not so much as a look
Due to her husband’s affair with a book.
His hands may be busy, but not with her.
A wife so neglected stays not demure
But is wont to change like the autumn seas
Lorn with a marriage debts’ delinquencies.
“So this is where you devote all your time,
Laboring long on some new, sely rhyme.
States such as this can scarce be believed:
Wife bedded down, unresting, unswyved.”
“Peace to you, woman; leave off, I implore,
I’ve had little sleep since days three or more.”
“’Tis your own fault; day spent down by the quay;
Your nights spent on scribbling, I know not why.
Tell me again how the quill of a fowl
Can carry more weight than your solemn vow
To not only love but cherish as well
That maid that you took the day that the bell
Rang in the court-yard, filling the air,
Sounding our joy at this blessed affair.
Now ‘tis no affair, but nothing at all;
What’s happened to you, those readings of Paul?”
“Woman, desist! I’ve much work yet today,
And those men that I read in no way me sway.
Throughout the day I labour for our sake
Mosaic 2006 - 53
The flow of gold Gaunt doles, and which I take
Springs not solely from the fount of his soul,
But is payment for mine playing the role
To me which was given as his agent
To collect his coin and increase his rent.”
“Mayhaps there’s some truth in your words,” quothe she,
“But how are your scribbles worth more than me?”
“’Tis not as simple as that,” he replied.
“Should I, for you, my true nature deny?
If this be the case, who is it you love?
For writing is me and deep in my blood.”
After these words he paused for a time
Giving thought to his wife instead of his rhyme.
He could see in her eye full sore the pain
She felt to think she no longer held reign
In his heart or even his mind at all.
These thoughts him awaked and made him recall
That without her he would truly be lost;
His rhyming is worthless if then the cost
Is his wife’s loving look, so precious a thing
Its value exceeds the wealth of a king.
He set down his pen, stood up from his chair,
Stretching his arms out and up in the air.
He walked to his wife and took her to him
And whispered to her that never again
Would he be so blind with work and his words
To withhold attention which she deserves.
To this she smiled and said that he lies,
But his intent is good, and it would be wise
From time to time to reflect on this day
To ensure he’s still held tight in love’s sway.
With this he was off, their money to earn
But pledged her his time upon his return.
54 - Mosaic 2006
Fort Pike
By Brandy Toups
Photograph
Mosaic 2006 - 55
To Copernicus
By
Clay Melvin
I’ll rise over your head
When I stand still.
I’ll awake you with my red.
And keep you alive until
My prophet follows,
As a light in darkness swallows
Darkness’s dark hollows,
To foretell Great Apollo’s
Reign at the coming hour
Where all will resolve.
Truthfully, you are no Power.
I am fixed—you revolve.
those interested in the visual arts.
56 - Mosaic 2006
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