The Folio represents the collaborative effort of the English and Art Departments of Holy Family College. The magazine is a journal of contemporary artistic expression of both the faculty and student body of Holy Family College. Contributions are also accepted from students and faculty of institutions other than Holy FamilY. Copyright c 1972 by Holy Family College, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania . All rights reserved. No part of thi s publication may be reproduced without the consent of the publisher.
CONTENTS JAN BRUEGEL THE ELDER Poem by Claude F. Koch, Professor of English, LaSalle College . . ... . . . . ... . .... .. . ... .. . .. . . .... . . . . . ...
3
JOURNE Y TO NAZARETH Po em by Thomas F. Lombardi, Jr., Assistant Professor of Engli sh, Holy Family College ... . . .. . .... . .. . .. .... . .
4
SONGS Poem by Sheila McLaughlin, Holy Family College, Cla ss of 1975 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
5
GOODBYE, MY FRIEND Poem by Dora C. Pruna, Assistant Professor of Modern Languages, Holy Family College
.. . . . .... .. . . .. .. . .. . .
6
A VIET NAM STORY Essay by Eleanor Dalton , Holy Family College, Class of 1971 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
8
A JOURNEY HOME Essay by Danny Altonari, Mater Dolorosa School, Grade Seven . . ...... ... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .... ... . . . . . . . . .
10
ON THE FIRST WARM DAY OF SPRING Po em by Joanne Nicol ai, Holy Family College, Cl ass of 1973 . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . .
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BETTER THAN ' BECAUSE' Poem by Robert Clothier, St. Joseph' s College, Cl ass of 1970 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
12
SO N NET TO HELEN Po em by Si st er M. Florence, C.S.F.N ., Professor of Engl ish, Holy Family College .. .. . .. . . .. . .... .. . .. . . ... .. . .
13
GREAT IS THE MAN Po em by Michael Blan k, Pennsylva ni a Stat e University , Cla ss of 1973 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
13
YOUR SECOND SPRING Poem by the Rev . Francis A. Cegielka, Assistant Professor of Theology , Holy Family College .. .. . ... .. . . ..... .. .. .
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I AM A CHILD OF YESTERDAY Poem by Sister M. Kevin, C.S.F .N., Holy Family Coll ege Cl ass of 1973 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
15
NARROWS BAY, 1971 Poem by Si ster M. Peter Sudol, C.S.F.N., Holy -Family College, Class of 1971 .. ..... .... .. . . .... . . . . . . . . .
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SISTER
t
M.
MARTINA
December 7, 1971
JAN BRUEGEL THE ELDER Claude Koch -for Sr. Martina, C.S.F.N. But for Jan Bruegel's eyes Who could conceive the blue Emblem of irises Ancient as Flemish skies Over Nativity Over that Peasants' Flight Coincenden tally Or what the seasons meant Gathered in earthen bowls Bluebell, chrysanthemum Spring and the fall 's descant Plucked for the instant's hymn Simultaneity There in Jan Bruegel's eyes Frame the remiterings Of time and of the earth See: Mary chides the Child Christ with His little drum Plays with Jan's little son Sweet coevality Bent to Jan Bruegel's whim Time having nought to do Feathers its wings to him.
JOURNEY TO NAZARETH
Thomas F. Lombardi, Jr.
Yearlong she supped and dined With Picasso and Matisse, tea with Raphael, talked with Tzara and Van Gogh, even Michelangelo. One lightning brush stroke, an amorphous hunk of clay, autumn in a butterfly tilt-a-whirled her mind. She was a gentle pilgrim without a plane or ship to Montmartre and Firenze. Sheer through painted mindscapes-her penultimate odyssey into Art
[On one blue December night with brush and palette she walked across her studio floor into and -througha near-completed landscape hanging on the wall, --toward home . ..
o exquisite-suffering journey! Little wobbly artist, bonnet slightly a wry, eyes twinkling, chuckling, slowly walking . . . the long winding ivory road -toward Nazareth. TIle last strokes-A house. A door. A knock ! (Jesus Mary Joseph) the extended Hands of Fire--]
SONGS
Sheila Mary McLaughlin
He turns off Blood, Sweat, and Tears, And watches the children play in the first snowfall. The music remains, as always, For there exists no music that was not hers. He goes back-Amid the chattering giggling faces, rustling papers, And young minds. Not much older She was, in spirit, But her mind soared. As he speaks of Mercutio and Tybalt, Tchaikovski rages through his mind Just as he heard it hummed. Always she hummed , when she did not know the words. And sang them when she did. He looks at themtrying to find yet another potential Shakespeare , James , or Emily Dickenson. So gentle, so peaceful, so bereft of worries, It was-She seemed; She wrote joyfully.
He captures their souls, bu t loses them again; He cries "Faust!" but receives no reply. She cried and laughed , or sat in rapt thoughtfulness ; She touched everyone so softly. The room is now empty and , cigarette in hand, he walks slowly to the window ; He softly blows on the glass, And prints her name in the haze . This poem is dedicated to a wonderful, creative soul who passed away without my ever knowing her, and the man who brought the fact so vividly to my attention-
Sr. Martina Thomas F. Lombardi, Jr. The tribute is theirs.
GOOD-BYE, MY FRIEND!
Dora C. Pruna
(Translated from Spanish by S. M. Immaculata, C.S.F.N., D.M. L.)
You came one tranquil and peaceful September morning to live in this tremulous and complex world. You lived your childhood in pursuit of a dream. One determining thought dominated all your actions. In you doubt had no place: I rather believe that you never knew that common human sentiment. You were so clear and direct , so mistress of yoursel( that from the beginning you knew what your path would be. lt must have cost you pain to be separated from the one who gave you your being; she whom you so much admired, and from the warmth and peaceful home in which you grew up ... but you did not belong there . .. you did not belong to yourself ... Already you belonged, wholly and entirely, to your Beloved.
And what was it, my friend, that you saw in the moment given you to live? So much and so controversial! Two world wars, and many bloody civil ones .... The machine revolution in aU its overwhelming impact ... T.V.. . . Pollution .. . Man on the moon ... Summary of joys and sorrows, of successes and failures, of doubts and of faith .. . this is the balance sheet of our century. But, could this whirlpool of changing ideas in which we live immersed, lessen your convictions? No, not you! You had a mission to accomplish; a divine commitment of love commanded you and to this you surrendere d yourself body and soul.
III
And what was it, my friend, that you gave of yourself, in the disquieting moment which was given you to live? So much and so transparen t and admirable! Your contagious joy . . . Your magnificent equilibrium .. . Your simple example of constancy and fidelity ... Your inexhaustible sense of industry ... Your firm and clear faith ... Your love and profound unde rsta nding of youth Your art and your extraordinary talent which you tried, modestly, to let pass unnoticed . .. Your excellent renunciation ... Will you permit me, Sister, to use your own words? "My work is to help my students. I am sincerely more concerned about their work than about mine."
IV In my opinion, the best work from among the many you left us, your masterpiece, the richest and most beautiful, the one which has an impression of highest quality, that in which are united as in a mystical symphony, color , rhythm, and balance, which could only be inspired and directed by God, is the picture of: Your Own life. And you went away one tranquil and peaceful December afternoon from this tremulous and complex world. Good-bye, my friend!
A VIET NAM STORY
Eleanor Dalton
I glanced over at the ten-eyed, black-shining monster and prayed it would remain silent. The shrill voice of that telephone could only give its receiver the message of another disappointment, another delay. Don, my twenty-two year old brother, had just finished his thirteen month tour of duty in Viet Nam. He was coming home. But when? last Tuesday we received a telephone call announcing his arrival at Okinawa. By Thursday, he had reached San Francisco; now there was some delay. Something about "delayed papers." Delayed papers! There had been no delay in getting him into the Marines; and there had been no delay in issuing orders or guns for combat because he saw action the first day he was in Viet Nam_ But I'm nervous. Everyone at home has been edgy lately. It has been a long wait. My mother suffered the worst. This long ordeal affected her physically as well as mentally. Some nights I'd see her sitting up long past midnight performing her nightly rituals. First, she would read the newspaper, finding the war reports, locating the most badly .;hit areas, and readirlg the death notices of the local boys who had lost their life - in action. After reading the newspaper, she would take out the all-too infrequent letter slie received from her only son and reread it again as if each word had a special meaning to her. And then she would cry. Cry. Sob. Mom tried her best to bear the burden well, but the constant pressure weakened her. Not until Don walks through that door will her fear diminish. Like Doubting Thomas, she will not believe until she sees. My father has also been deeply affected by the unceasing purgatory. He is not as strong as Mom; he never has been. Mom turned to a part¡time job as an outlet for her tension. Dad has resorted to full-time drinking. He has been a real help. He hasn't done a full week's work in the last six months. What he does earn, he manages to spend at the "Tappy" before he staggers home sometime early Saturday morning. Dad's favorite cliche is, "When my son gets home, he 'll be a man." If he isn't, he sure will have plenty of practice when he returns and finds a job open for full-time father and breadwinner for seven younger sisters. You see, my father equates maturity with a good service record and a good yearly income. So naturally my brother, the man, can take on all the responsibilities-or so Dad thinks. The poor gUy feels he has been incapacitated by his "condition." He is probably. right. I could cry as I see him sit there in his favorite well-worn chair. Like a guard of some precious work of art, he sits sentry over the almighty television. All day he sits watching clever quiz games and sudsy soap operas. And now, he sits there chasing shots of whiskey with beer, his favorite pastime. And then, there are the younger kids. They're very excited about Don's coming home. I think they picture him coming home in his camouflage fatigues, a helmet with branches of trees cropping out of it and a rifle slung over his shoulder. They also expect such souvenirs as Viet Cong rifles, grenades, bayonets, and a couple samples of K rations for good measure. Are they in for a surprise.
But everything will be all right when Don comes home . Everything will go back to normal, back to the way it was. Back to when Dad was only an occasional drinker, when Mom was a full-time homemaker, when there was enough money, when there was enough time, when we were "together." I have now taken at least one thousand periodic auditory and visual checks on that monstrous telephone, but it looks like another day of fruitless waiting. Today, like so many days, was to be the day of the return. ' It was about one o'clock. Mom and I were the only ones still up, but we, too, decided to end our vigil. Mom went out to the patio to make sure the decorations were still intact and to turn off the beaconing spotlight that illuminated a gigantic poster which read, "Welcome Home, Don." With the help of a near-by Texaco station whose borrowed flags looped from the porch to the sidewalk, our house looked like a red, white, and blue Christmas tree. In the midst of her chore, Mom caught sight of a young man with a familiar gait walking up the street. She froze , and the tears dripped down from her bulging eyes like melting ice cream in a hardened cone. And as h e advanced, and as his speed increased, so did her emotions increase until, unable to contain herself, she . ran like a child to embrace her boy.
And then, mass hysteria. "He's home! He's home!" Mom's siren-like voice announced, waking not only the family but the sleeping neighbors besides. Dad was ¡ the first to appear from the freshly ignited house, half-tripping down the steps--this time, . from sheer excitement. Don beamed when he saw him. Yet his beaming face couldn't hide the surprise to see his father, once a well-built, ruddy-complected construction worker, in such a deteriorated physical condition. And then came the kids, all seven of them grabbing at one time. Don looked like the Marine Corps' answer to Tom Jones with all those girls hanging over him. They were really glad to see him, even though he didn't have any souvenirs with him. Tears flowed, arms swung wide, and smiles flashed. Reintroductions to strangefamiliar faces and alot of catch~g up took place that night. We were all all together. There would be peace at home. Don was extremely excited that first night. He talked of the friends he had made and of the country and of the weather , but was more interested in what we had to say. Or half interested. For it seemed that while we were talking to him , he drifted off into a trance, a stare gaze at something. It only lasted a few seconds, and then he jumped right back into the conversation with his twenty questions. We all sacked out about five o'clock in order to give ourselves an hour or two of sleep before the next day's festivity--the party. But Don didn't even go upstairs that night. The next day was a hectic hustle of informing friends and relatives of Dan's homecoming and sending last-minute notices to the food distributors who had been "on call." All was set for tonight. Don enthusiastically participated in the preparations. He had his hands in everything. He was like a powerhouse of energy. A powerhouse whose energy came from an overburdened nervous system. Proof of this could be seen in the abnormal twitch of his left eye. He didn't keep still because he couldn't keep still. The party was a grand success. Eating, drinking, and entertaining were done on an epic scale, and it was not until five o'clock that the last guest left. Once again we got to bed at an ungodly hour, and once again Don remained downstairs to spend another sleepless night. My parents began to get worried about his behavior. But this was only his second day home, they rationalized. In the weeks to come, Don showed symptoms of strain. The ring of the telephone would cause him to perk up like a cat. Yes , he was a cat, always ready to react.
But the most terrifying experiences were at night. Don's insomnia lasted almost a week. He depended on taking little catnaps during the day. However, the end of Don's insomnia was the beginning of ours. He finally managed to settle down one night for a normal night's rest. But his sleep was interrupted by horrible nightmares. When these dreams would victimize him, he would wake, his body moving compulsively, fighting with the covers, his face breaklng out in a cold sweat, and would agonizingly scream, "No, no, he can't be dead--he can't--no, no." This nightly ordeal got so bad that he reverted back to sleepless nights rather than face the possibility of haunting nightmares. Peace? Togetherness? Things back to normal? Hardly. It has been months now since he has come home. It takes more than three months to adjust from a fox hole to civilian life, a fact that my parents just don't seem to realize. Don is jobless, doubtful about the future, and drained by the strain of adJustment,-coupled with the -1l10untingresponsibilities to his family. Dad is helping out tremendously--drinking. His "condition" is even worse. Mom is as nervous as ever. And the bills come in. And the tension increases for us all. And things will never be the way they were because we're not the way we were; we're not what we expected. Today's headlines read, "20,000 Marines Coming Home." To what?
A JOURNEY HOME
I think the most beautiful thing is a young man on his way home from Viet Nam. He thinks of his mother and father, his brothers and sisters, or his wife or his girlfriend. The time is going fast for him and his friends on the plane with him because they are going to see the ones they love. His mother and father who have been praying to God to look after him and don't let anything happen to him can thank God because their little boy is coming home.
ON THE FIRST WARM DAY OF SPRING
Joanne Nicolai
The whole world went to the park today To walk a while? To fish a little? Who knows why they really went, But they went to the right place anyway.
A treeful of monkeys in bright orange hooded coats and white plastic boots put some spring in the winter trees . A little polar bear girl put a twig in one hand And waited to be lifted from the muddy ground.
Young couples walked and paused. Older couples walked and walked. Men with cameras snapping "postcard" scenes Passed fathers who brought their little sons and daughters To the "nature scene" (Groovy people that they were).
I went to the park today. I enjoyed the sights and the warmer air ; And the people I met coming Were the people I met going And I laughed alot that For all their "progress" People came to the park today.
True love with grain of salt, Preserves the souls, young, fresh! It charms and thrills the hearts, Increasing righteousness. Firm and sweet love will blend, Shall make one all the hearts Shall care extend to all , Concern for all have-nots. The longing hearts of men Still wait for Star of love; In turning point of time, Nothing more great than love. Men wait for you, Young hearts! In your new spring of life. Fu ture is in your hands, If love does guide your lives!
BEITER THAN "BECAUSE"
Robert Clothier
"Daddy, why's the sky so blue, The grass and trees so green? Why do bluebirds sing all day? It's such a pretty scene !" "Dear," I said without a thought, "Because, I guess, because . . .. " "Why was it rainy yesterday? The sky was dark and grey . Why were the birds so silent then, And you just turned away?" "Because," was all I said, "because .. . " I stared out past the clouds. "Why did my little brother go? I wanted him to play. Why did he leave us? Where'd he go? Why did he go away?" Not knowing why I said, "Because . . " What else was there to say? "I asked Mommy why things are," She said, then made a pause. "She gave a different reason, though. Is 'Jesus' like 'Because'?"
SONNET TO HELEN
S. M. Florence, C.S.F .N.
What is a poem? A woman's charming grace Which beautifies each homely duty done, Calm of a priestess standing face-to-face Before her God while life-sands swiftly run. A poem is a fountain limitless Of limpid waters sprung from woman's faith; Though long and weary be her life's duress These waters flow and in no way abate. A poem, too, is a woman's love as found Deep and unchanging in a loved one's heart , In word and deed so joined in circle round That neither time can cleave nor humans part; If such are poems, dear , why then I see: You do not write, you live, your poetry.
GREAT IS THE MAN
Michael Blank
Great is the man who brings forth harvests from the land who plants his tender seeds under a whispering breeze who takes time, effort, and trouble to remove all wasteful rubble and who gives a loving, caring kiss upon a newly born child's lips.
YOUR SACRED SPRING
Flancis A. Cegielka
When men in older times Went through their spring of life, They tried to find their Self, Even with risk of life. Not only half alive, They realized their task. They searched for sense of life, For meaning, and its grasp. In serving, they found self, The noble, very blest. Through stepping stones of men, In God they found their nest.
But their hearts knew flames and storms, But grace had strengthened them ; God always brings support To those who hope in Him. To plan and to achieve Not always was the same. Through failures they have learned To choose their proper way. When now it is your turn, To live your Springtime through, We wish you, and pray, too That God may stay with you. Young Hearts! Your life makes sense! Fear not the gusts and storms In gentle and swift pace, You will conquer your world! The sparks that glow in eyes, The joy that shines in face, The love that burns in hearts, Will guide you to your plilce. When hearts become like shrines They shall reflect true peace. With joy, will grow in love. Their growth will never cease.
I AM A CHILD OF YESTERDAY S. M. Kevin, C.S.F.N.
Withered grass on a would be hill, Sea gulls crying in a bleak, grey sky , Slate sea slabs crushing the shore It is dawn .
I am the child of yesterday. I sit ll.mong the refuse of the past As if it were a treasure. I do not see the present As a gift or as a portrai t But as a reality threatening me With some unseen creature . .. Myself.
NARROWS BAY , 1971 S. M. Peter Sudol, C.S.F .N.
A narrow path On Brooklyn's shore Parallels the Bay. From this ribbon Of gray asphalt A vista unfolds. New York's skyline Against the heavens. Encircled by heat . Staten Island High with hilltops A vignette borough. Far New Jersey, Crossed by ferries. Tranquil foam makers . Narrows Bridge spans The balmy Bay . Magnificent Dream! Open gateway Leading to the Mighty Atlantic. Vibrant mountain Lined with currents; Blue-fingered giant. Awful power Is in Thy gras p No less, Thy beauty. Recalcitrant, Ageless and free. Constant harmony. Thou art a Yes Eternal Thing Non -relinquishing. Weatherbeaten, Dare to exist. Dountless in Thy strength!
STAFF Maria Oi Rienzo English Concentrator, 1973 Margaret Jaster English Concentrator, 1973 Joanne Nicolai English Co ncentrator, 1973 Jackie Rafa English Concentrator, 1973 Joann Spano English Concentrator, 1973 Thomas F. lombardi, Jr. literary Adviser Francis X. Smith Art Adviser
HOLY FAMilY COllEGE, TORRESDAlE, PHllA., PA. 19114