Folio 12 by HFU Folio

Teneor Votis

I am bound to give of myself because I have received

The Folio is a belles-lettres journal of contemporary art1st1c expression. The magazine encompasses in words and visual graphics the thoughts of the faculty and student body of Holy Family College. Contributions from other institutions and artists are welcome.

Contents Nature Presents. ..................................................1

by Anita Derbyshire

Hart Crane's Propulsions Toward What Capes. ........................2

by Thomas F. Lombardi , Ph.D., Department of English Route # 66: The Old Rattletrap. .................................. ..4 by Helen Loesch Daystar.. ..................................................... ..6 by Carol Meyer

Me, Myself, and I................................................. 7

by Christina A. Dolkiewicz

Inspiration. ............................... .................... ..8

by Maurice J. Kelly, Ph.D.

The Intruder. ......... ......................................... ..9

by Christina Wiser

Be Gentle With Me. ..................... ....................... .10

by Genaken

A Change of Wardrobe. .............. .......................... .11

by Joan Ostermann

The Hand..................................................... .12 by Sister M. Florence Tumasz , CSFN , Ph.D. Riddle........................................................ .13

by John Scioli All That Is Lost. . .............................................. .15 by Dennis Natoli I Died 'Cause I Was Lonely. ....................... ...............16 by Cynthia Beaumont A Peaceful Winter Night. ..... ......... . ..... . .. . . . ............. .17 by Elvira Saturno Wild Beauty. .................................................. .18 by Mary T. McMahon If.... ......................................................... 18 by Elizabeth Nadelstumph Shopping With Nanny. ................. ......................... 19 by Linda Bowen Santoro The Refinery. ........ .......................................... 22 by Doreen Murphy The Womb of the Stormy Sea. .................................... 23 by John Berkery I Rest My Eyes In Peace.......................................... 24 by Kathy Rossman

Nature PreseQts The beach is evacuated, as the winter clouds triumphantly announce their arrival. The rock-bound coast in the distance, along with the dim morning sky, make for an aesthetic backdrop, while seagulls stand perched, like jobless actors, in search of the summertime audiences that appreciate their aerial antics. No longer molded by the imagination of a child, weightless sand whirls about in constant search of attention. With the interest of concerned parents, the waves tip-toe upon the shore. Witnessed by a meager audience the summer draws a final curtain, which sets a flawless stage for an unrehearsed wintertime drama.

Hart Crane's Propulsions Toward What Capes Years of the Modern! Propulsions toward what capes? But thou, Panis Angelicus, hast thou not seen And passed that Barrier that none escapes----Hart Crane, "Cape Hatteras" Nags-glow, bobbing, waveward, still walk The beaches of the Outer Carolina Banks. Five hundred wrecks are not enough; Another comes lured toward those shores, Aground, upon the shoals of modern lies. And yet atop Kill Devil Hill at Kittyhawk Two brothers launched themselves beyond The dunes and marshland out toward truth!

At Hatteras one lighthouse winks, on... on... The proudest sea-eye in the East, As if to signal safety to those terrorized-Â Buffeted by gales toward foggy Ocracoke. Its only right to be is as a stairway for Hart Crane, whose wild eyes still search That spiralling funnel pushing upward Toward the fiery feet of God...

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Jhe Oldl Rattletrap The old street-car clanged to a stop in Andalusia. The Route # 66 trolley ran from Frankford to Bristol in the early 1900's. As she waited for her passengers to board, she looked like an elderly lady--a lady with a jaunty and rather unkempt air about her. She was not ashamed of the fact that she was old and held together by layer upon layer of yellowish paint. She glorified in her age, and her strident voice rang loud as she groaned up the hills, screamed around the curves, and arrived at her stop with a bone-shaking jolt. It was the disarray of her windows that gave her a rakish look. These windows had been made so that they could be opened and held open at any point that the rider preferred. Now, however, every window was absolutely immoveable, and each one was held fast at a different point--from almost shut to completely open. To add to the trolley's devil-may-care look, the curtain with which each window was provided was anchored in much the same fashion as was each window. Most of them billowed in or out according to the breeze, while here and there a few curtains were completely rolled up to the roof of the trolley. The passengers on the northbound route were usually as light-spirited as the street-car herself. Mothers and children made the bulk of the riders. The mothers, laden with picnic baskets, chose a seat and remained there. The children, however, were in a constant state of flux as they tried this window and that. Their excited, high-pitched voices echoed through the old car. She seemed almost to smile as she continued on her noisy way. An especially kind motorman would often allow a child to step on the treadle that sounded the trolley's warning bell. The youngster so honored spent the remainder of the trip in a daze off happiness and glory. The old car picked up a few more families and continued on her way. The trip took about an hour--a long time for the little ones. At the point where they began to grow restless, the car swayed into her berth at Bristol. A few yards from the end of the line was the little ferry that would carry the picnickers across the river to Burlington lsland--a fairyland of shady picnic groves and the thrills and joys of an ancient, tumble-down amusement park. When winter came the work became harder for "Old 66." But it took more than cold weather and hard work to daunt her. She was equipped with a sandbox that, at the touch of a lever, would sprinkle a little of its contents on the rails so that the well-worn shiny wheels would not skid as she drew up for a stop.

The open windows in winter were a thing to be avoided. The rider needed a good judgment in order to select a comfortable seat. A glowing coal stove in the middle of the car threw off a blast of heat that was incredible. The passenger, therefore, had to balance the heat waves from the stove against the icy wind that came in through the windows. The coal bin presented another hazard. The fuel for the little stove was kept under one of the seats, hidden by a straw cushion. When the stove needed more coal, the conductor asked the passenger to stand while he shoveled in the right amount. The winter-time riders were mostly workers using the southbound trolley. They boarded at the little towns that lined the route. They were on their way to work in the city. The happy air of "Old 66" seemed to arouse a spirit of camaraderie among her passengers. Everyone talked to his neighbor. Some of the men discussed items in the morning newspaper and somewhere in the rear, where the seats could be flipped over, a pinochle game was usually in progress. "Old 66" ran on and on. Burlington Island Park closed, and the little ferry ceased operating. The little towns along the route were grounded and replaced by the trackless trolley that now bears the same route number. When the new cars stop at Grant Avenue to disgorge the students for Holy Family College, they bear little resemblance to the old rattletraps that once served the area. Something delightful has gone forever. Only the number "66" remains.

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There are some who S!;l.yjJ@@prtality glitters in the sky

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) Further life to th�ir Heroes are said to live their fame. Artists and writers try td@rnortalize themselves Through their works, but Jiee life in a man Who keeps the little boy Within himself alive.

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Me, Myself, and I am the center of life. am the peacefulness of the deep blue sky. am as calm as the wind in the middle of a hurricane. am a student of philosophy. am a lover of nature's wonderful miracles. am a lover of wildlife. am simplicity. am a free bird flying in society. am the moist mountain air in the Swiss Alps. am a leaf in my family tree. am a faithful friend. am a grown plant. am the passing time. am the cross-country runner leading a race at the finish line. When I listen to my cassette, I feel as though I am in the center of the Philadelphia Orchestra. am every step taken by the Bolshoi Ballet. am a special little girl to my grandmother. am an independent sister to my brother. am a friendly girl to a stranger. am ambitious. am as wild as an ocean storm. am space. I am here. am alive. I am now.

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Inspiration is an illusion Made of the finest gossamer And woven together with the Silken threads of a dream! It has the brillancy of the sun. It is a delicate rare perfume. It is many, it is one. It is transparent, eternal. It is everything, it is nothing! It is yesterday, today, and tomorrow. It is spring, winter, day and night. It is peace! It is God! It is wrong. It is right. It's joy; it's hate. It's love; it's tears. It's a single second! It's a million years. It's It's It's It's

the trees; it's the skies. the magic blue in my lady's eyes. life; it's hope. a lump of sadness in my throat.

It's a fragile flower. It's the seed! It's a heroic life, a friendly deed. It's a kiss from the lips Of a starry-eyed Miss! It's a pirate's ship! It's a glass of wine. It's the shifting grains In the glass of time! It's the tender notes of an old love song. It's the hope of a soul that died! It's a glimpse of heaven! It is beauty personified. 8

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? The Intruder ďż˝ Out of the night, shrouded in mystery, it comes. It attacks the unknowing, the unwilling, and the innocent. It kills and maims, with impunity. It knows no bounds, nor age limit-Young and old are all candidates for its merciless destruction. It continues on its way, one human temple to another. Obliterating life, relentlessly. It leaves the body in ruin, sometimes death. The parts are worn, the exterior scarred. It never leaves, but hides away to plan more destruction, Coming back to deliver the final blow--the coup de grace. It will never die. It will roam the human population. It is an enigma feared more than a distant enemy. To those it inflicts, it offers no remorse. Only a taste of hell.

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(Jentfe {A/ith ;Jv[e What am I to do? Starting something new, I'm worried. Is it in my mind, Or maybe I'm afraid to find That a challenge won't be sad. Please be gentle with me Even though I'm on my own. I find it hard to see, I feel alone. I've done all this before, Now, it is just once more. Why do I suddenly feel so scared? It all will be over soon. The years go by so fast Stars hide behind the moon, The memories last. What is it that I'm looking for? This and nothing more? Will I still be there to say That it seemed but yesterday? The sun rose each day in my eyes: Futures hard to recognize. I always knew what I had done, But never lost and never won. Please be gentle with me, I'm on my own. I find it hard to see, I feel alone.

fl Of Wardrobe

Only last week the leafy tops of the trees were stained a healthy green. Now the leaves, as if the trees have switched costumes for the next act of a never-ending play, range from a wheatfield gold to a burnt orange to a fiery red hue. Continuing to watch, the sprawling branches appear to be swaying to a silent melody in the whistling wind. Rattling vigorously the leaves free themselves from the skeleton of the trees and with hesitation float to the ground creating a multicolored afghan for the delicate grass stems. Today the trees stand exposed, like animals

without shelter, in the shivering winter air. fl)

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An unknown scupltor carved this tree Lopped non-essentials away, And whispered to its heart a brief command, "Stand Here in the midst of milling humanity And nudge forgetful man to pray."

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Riddle ďż˝

The measure of all things Brought across on wings Of birds for birds, Revelant, relevant words, What I am is metathesis, When moving backwards, that is, In the junkyard of the mind, A universe of seek and find, Walt Whitman's estuaries Leading post-mensurals into the seas, Yea! As foretold by prophets, Jesus, Borne by our burly forbears to us, High up on rolling billows, We, byrr surged willows, Carried in a barrow on a wheel, In a basket with a meal, From mom borne by the child, Through forests blind and wild, From grandmom at home by Inverness, Under the moon in the wilderness, The ancient woman, waiting in night, Weakened by fates, and burdens light With ravenous wolves, in the order of things On the way, in truth, Red Riding Hood sings, "Between, behind and after, A word besides immense, Backward, with and laughter, New found innocence."

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During those moments that freeze our wonder, A gentle completion resolves the mystery within. All that is loved in the dimensional movements of man Sweeps by us for we are time-travelers Living within the eternal exchanges. Exchanges proud as the second; For all that is lost a perpetual taste Comforts us as our gentle completion. All is gained for the memories of our exchanges. Memories beautiful for our symphonic poem Playing out the seconds, as life's orchestra Acquaints us with the true music.

.--

I Died 'Cause I Was Lonely I died 'cause I was lonely, my heart a withered stone-It lacked the warmth that friendship brings to cold and icy bones. I searched for just one smile, to show that I was wrong; instead I found deceit and hate and life so very long. Then death came like an angel delivering me from the gloom, taking me to some place free from friendlessness and gloom. So place me on this coffin's bier; I'll plead my final breath-Lay me down to rest alone, and die a friendless death.

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ďż˝ Peaceful Wiqter Nigqt

It was a peaceful winter night, and the snow fell like faint teardrops of a child. As I stood gazing out the window, I noticed how delicately and soundless the snow fell against my windowpane. Each speck shone with a cold glassy brilliance, as if to brighten the darkness of night. The neverÂ ending patch of crystals appeared like a field of blooming snowdrops in the spring. As I looked up, the eyes of the sky looked excitedly at the shining white particles below. Those glittering specks brought joy and a tingling feeling, but the moment came where there was no more.

Wild Beauty A crooked tree bent On a mountain, Surrounded by wild beauty.

only we could look at each

other squarely in the eye with honesty, sincerity, truth, and Jove, oh, what a wondrous world this could be!

Shopping With

Nanny

ďż˝---ďż˝ In 1953, when I was six, Nanny and I made the first of what was to become an annual trip to Wanamaker's Department Store to buy back-to-school clothes. It might have happened yesterday, so vivid are the memories of that hot, happy August day. I slept overnight at my grandparent's apartment the night before our outing. Gandy (my grandfather) gave up his half of their big mahogany bed to me and slept on the sofa, so Nanny and I could plan our trip, giggle, and finally, sleep, with the comfort of the big window fan that cooled the room. We woke early and dressed carefully. After breakfast, we set off down Oxford Avenue for the Elevated train. At Margaret Street, we climbed a long flight of stairs to the platform. Nanny paid our fares with bronze PTC tokens from a special purse attached to a silver chain inside her white leather handbag. I heard the loud clickety-clack of the coming train long before it pulled into the station. When the train stopped, all the doors of the big dark brown cars opened at once with a "whoosh" sound. We stepped on, and Nanny selected seats across from the doors so we could see the boats later in our ride. The train's noise was much louder in the tunnel, and no matter how loud you talked, no one could hear you. Nanny and I sang "Yankee Doodle" at the top of our lungs and laughed out loud when the train stopped suddenly, became quiet, and the other people heard us singing. The stop before Wanamaker's, Nanny told me to hold onto her hand "no matter what," and we made our way to the door, rocking back and forth with the moving, swaying train. When I made funny faces into the dark window glass by the door, Nanny said, "Now remember Linda. Act like a lady." Nanny led me quickly through the basement store to a long row of doors. She pushed a button marked "up"; then we stood back and played a 19

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game of guessing which would open first. When the doors opened a few minutes later, we were greeted by a black man in a uniform and cap who shouted at us, "Going U-U-Upl" Clinging to Nanny's hand, I followed her into the box. I watched the black man shut the doors first, then a big, golden, shiny gate. All the people who got on with us gave the man a floor number. Nanny said, "Five, please." When the box started moving, my stomach jumped into my chest. At every floor the elevator would stop, and the man would make a little speech: "First floor. Books, notions, cosmetics, Grand Court!" Each time he would open the doors, like magic, the view outside would be completely different. When we got off at the fifth floor, we went straight to the girl's department. Everywhere were racks and racks of dresses and skirts and counters piled high with every color sweater and blouse you could imagine. Nanny didn't like the fancy, frilly dresses, with several petticoats underneath that I told her my friends wore. Instead, she picked out several plaid, pleated skirts in reds, greens, and blues, which we agreed we liked better. We took them, along with a few jumpers and tops, into the fitting room, a tiny little room off a long hallway with a curtain, stool, and metal hooks to hang your clothes on. Nanny helped me try on the clothes,and we selected our favorites. At the cash-register, Nanny paid for the clothes with a small silver charge plate in its own little leather case. The saleslady carefully wrapped everything in tissue paper, put it all in a big cardboard box, wrapped the box with string, and attached a small wooden and wire handle. Next, we rode up the moving stairs one floor to the shoe department. Here, we bought a pair of bright red leather shoes with plaid shoelaces. I felt like a princess. But, the best was yet to come! We got back on the escalator and rode it up, up, up to the top floor of the store. Nanny and I ate lunch at a little table for two people. I had my own menu, my own knife, and my own red cloth napkin. There were big lights over our heads with millions of pieces of shining glass that looked like diamonds. After we had finished our lunch, Nanny and I drank tea poured from our own tiny silver teapots and ate perfect white balls of vanilla ice cream from silver dishes. Nanny let me carry the bag with my new shoes in it when we rode the elevator down to the basement, went out the tunnel, and rode home on the train. I was so excited that I could hardly wait to get home and show mommy and daddy my new clothes and tell them all about my trip.

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The Refinery

Situated in the shabbiest part of town, Down by the river, Smoke constantly billowing from the smoke stacks Hard hats Junk piled to the sky Two cadillacs protected in the garage Men talking politics Women playing their fragile, feminine roles-Â Always obedient Millions made Lungs filled with lethal gases Employee absenteeism Only tired of working long hours And collecting low wages.

The Womb of the Stormy Sea While musing off the port-side of her scow, The fisherwoman was dissatisfied By turbulence that tossed about her bow And salt-scum that was washed up o'er the side. She saw her husband forward at the watch And almost bid him turn around for home Was only promise of abundant catch That kept her silent, then upon the tide, She saw a marlin leap majestically And seeing it, somehow it brought about Transference of thought to her own pregnancy Of which she'd tried to hide her nagging doubt. For she'd had a child before, some time ago With much hardship, for she was frail, though grand And, as he aged, she also thought a bother The fact that by some people in her land 'Twas frowned-on he'd not had a Catholic father. The sailfish leapt again, the sun's rays Illuminating blue his glistening hide, Then dove to murky depths and out of her gaze, As if to say he challenged and defied Anyone who'd come out from dry land Upon the green or blue of his domain To dare to try by rod or reel or hand, Subservience from this game fish to gain. She wished her son was there to give a hand But he was on shore studying for a test. Her husband inched astern along the rail, His eyes atwinkle in some secret jest. He took her hand and looked upon her girth Saying,"Let's head in," she'd not to ask why It somehow reassured her for her birth. As they bobbed and tilted roundward in the coup, the marlin Leapt again as in goodbye. She smiled looking shoreward, the sea forgotten In anticipation and the heady spray And overhead toward their Ulster home Four white swans made their tedious way.

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Alone on a hill Surrounded by thoughts In a meadow of memories Enchanted by a fusion Of mind and body ---1 think of thee--Together on the beach Surrounded by a sea of love Enriched with earthly sand Into the water we toss a pebble Before the world we stand ---Watching our love flow--Alone I am again Surrounded by angels Adorned with light I make my peace with God Inspired by his gentleness ---Climbing the stairs of glory--rest my eyes in peace.

Editor

Kathleen Rossman

Staff

Kenneth De Pinto William Derbyshire Marianne Heretyk Patricia Obelcz Christine Woods

Moderator

Thomas F. Lombardi, Ph.D.

Artist

James Mouat