quiz and quill
The Quiz and Quill Published by THE QUIZ AND QUILL CLUB of Otterbein College
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THE STAFF
Cheryl Ann Goellner................ ... . . . ... . Editor-in-Chief
Rachel Cring........................................
Assistant Editor
Frank Garlathy .......................................................... Assistant Editor
Peter Bunce......................................................................... Art Editor
Spring, 1967
Founded 1919
THE QUIZ AND QUILL CLUB 1966-1967 President ................................................................... Verda Deeter Vice-President ........................................................... Rachel Cring Secretary-Treasurer .............................................. Betty Steckman Faculty Sponsors ....................................................... John Coulter Todd Zeiss Alumni Relations .................................................... Sarah Skaates
Carol Grinde Mary Lou Bistline Steve Lorton Peter Bunce A1 Myers Linda Clifford R.H. Orndorff Rachel Cring Jo Platz Verda Deeter Paul D. Robinson Larry Edwards Jinny Schott Janet Gallagher Carol Sorensen Frank Garlathy Betty Steckman Cheryl Ann Goellner Dave Stickweh
HONORARY MEMBERS Dr. Harold Hancock Walter Jones Dr. John Laubach
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Mrs. Hazel H. Price Dr. Robert Price
LITERARY AWARDS Quiz and Quill Poetry Contest First Award ........ Second Award ...... Third Award ........ Honorable Mention
David Thomas Karen Anderegg Dave Partridge ... Jinny Schott
Quiz and Quill Prose Contest Peter Bunce Jinny Schott Tom Lauchner Duane Hough
First Award ........ Second Award ..... Third Award ....... Honorable Mention
Quiz and Quill Humorous Writing Contest First Award ............................................................. Second Award ......................................................... Third Prize ............................................................. Honorable Mentions ...............................................
Bob Harmelink Dave Partridge Betty Steckman Virginia DeWitt Charles Dyer Jinny Schott
Walter Lowrie Barnes Short Story Contest First Award ................................................................
Jinny Schott
Roy A. Burkhart Religious Poetry Contest First Award ................................................................. Steve Lorton Second Award ............................................................ Wendy Ficker Third Award ................................................................. James Jones
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CONTENTS Haiku, Kathleen Ann Williams ................................................ 7 Illustration, Betty L. Steckman ......................................... 7 The Little War of Charlie Bean, Jinny Schott ...................... 8 Patience, Allan Strouss .............................................................. H An Observation, Don Parsisson ................................................ 12 Spring, Reginald Farrell .............................................................. 12 Illustration, Betty L. Steckman ............................................ 12 The Dove of Peace, Betty Steckman ..................................... 13 Follow the Bouncing Brains, Maggie Tabor ......................... 15 ........................ Bobbie Stiles .................................................... 1ÂŽ Illustration, Betty L. Steckman ......................................... 17 One Solution, Dave Partridge ................................................. 18 from Life at the University, Dennis Brookover .................... 18 Slice of Life, Duane Hough ..................................................... 19 Vietnam 1967, Paula Kurth ..................................................... 21 Retrospect, David Thomas ....................................................... 31 Panmunjom, Peter Bunce ......................................................... 32 Illustration, Peter Bunce ........................................ ........... 33 The Look of Love, Dennis Brookover .......... ......................... 34 To Dorothy, Sharon Luster ....................................................... 34 Visions for Tomorrow, Larry Edwards .................................... 35 A Verse to a Fair-Haired Lady, Steve Lorton ................... 26 Balloon, Ginny Willis .................................................................. 36 Moment, Rachel Cring .............................................................. Illustration, Cheryl Ann Goellner ........................................
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Grandpa, Cheryl Ann Goellner ................................................ Pluvial Night, David Thomas ................................................. on In Georgetown, Jinny Schott ................................................... Mirrored Yesterday, Kathy Earnest ......................................... Mother’s White Bow, Peter Bunce ............................................. 32 A Poem for a Reason, Larry Edwards ................................... 33 Experience, Karen Anderegg ...................................................... 34
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Ah! Life, Cheryl Ann Goellner ............................................... The Embattled Biscuit, Jinny Schott ..................................... Shadows of the Mind, Betty Steckman ................................... A Comparison, Cheryl Ann Goellner ....................................... Plea, H'endy Picker ................................................................... Illustration, Lester Shumaker ................... ......................... A Penguin, Jinny Schott ........................................................... The Coronation, Virginia B. DeWitt ....................................... Janus, Dave Partridge ............................................................... Illustration, Lester Shumaker ............................................. Apocalypse: The Beginning, David Stickweh ....................... Divine Irony, Steve Lorton ....................................................... Decorating the Tree, Paula Kurth ........................................... “Different #1”, James Jones .................................................. “Our James Jones ............................................................ The Price of Apathy, David Partridge ................................... A Poster. . . , Tom Lauchner ................................................. Cave Painting, Betty Steckman .............................................. Wednesday Afternoon, Linda Karl ......... The Earth's a Funny Ball, Virginia DeWitt .......................... Illustration, Peter Bunce .................................................... H^O, Charles Dyer .................................................................... Knit Tale, Virginia DeWitt ....................................................... Cynicism, Allan Strouss .......................................................... judgement, g.l. judice ............................................................... Musing, Rachel Cring ................................................................ from Untitled, Cheryl Ann Goellner ........................................ Illustration, Lester Shumaker ............................................. Without Explanation, Rachel Cring ......................................... Public Auction, Bob Harmelink ............................................... It’s Too Late, Karen Anderegg ................................................ Illustration, Betty L. Steckman .......................................... from The Nine Thoughts of Geoffrey von Kappel, a. a..............
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Cover Design by Lester Shumaker
Five
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HAIKU The sea - moat between Two continents: divider Of souls, yet a bridge. Kathleen Ann Williams
Seven
THE LITTLE WAR OF CHARLIE BEAN First Prize, Walter Lowrie Barnes Short Story It was because he told them to polish their buttons when they were lying in the mud and he was neat as a lady that the men of the 47th hated Lieutenant Cutter ... not hated exactly, but as Corporal Charlie Bean put it, the men were “highly tossed-up.” Charlie Bean’s men were a little more "tossed-up” than the rest of the 47th. Since his men were the hardest fighters they usually got dirtier than the others and expected to be criticized for it less. The worst part of it was that their old sergeant had gotten it right through the forehead from a possum-shot when they were sixty miles north of Atlanta. Since the Army had no sergeants to spare. Cutter was given direct charge of Charlie Bean’s men. “It aint real hard to understand why they got so many lieu tenants,” said Charlie. “There aint a whole lotta danger in button polishing.” Every morning at dawn Lieutenant Cutter would emerge from his tent, resplendant in his sharp navy blue wool, the brass buttons glittering in the early sunlight, his boots gleaming with a high, mellow gloss. Every morning, to the dismay of everyone included. Lieutenant Cutter would review Charlie Bean’s men. At best Charlie’s men looked like refugees from a pauper’s farm. None of them had a complete uniform, and so some substitutions had to be made. Private Wilhelm wore low shoes and a plaid beret picked up from one of the nearby Scotch brigades. Private Lewis carried the company flag of one of the Confederate com panies stuffed in his belt. Private Harrison committed the worst offense - the top half of his uniform was Union, the bottom was Confederate. “Won’t hurt him none, sir,” said Charlie Bean to Lieutenant Cutter’s objections, ‘“less he lies on his back an’ waves his feet in the air. ” None of the men had the regulation rifle issued by the Army. Butch Cravits, who was considered to be the best shot of the group, carried no rifle at all, but a one-shot pistol which he had brought from home. Every morning Lieutenant Cutter would look at this group of irregulars with something resembling disgust slowly spreading across his face. “Gentlemen, I am going to try once more to bring some order and dignity to this company. You, gentlemen, are the thorn in the side of the 47th,” Cutter would begin. Then, whipping out his small blue book of Army regulations, he would begin to read the sections on Army dress and attitude. “Section five,” he would begin with his educated nasal twang, “section five specifically states that no member of the Army shall appear out of uniform while on duty.” Then, looking around, he would say, “I believe Wilhelm, Harrison, and Lewis
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are the most graphic examples of disobedience to this rule. “Section twenty-two sta*^es that only those weapons issued by the Department of War shall be employed in combat, Cravits.” Although all the men would appear to be properly impressed at the time, this practice went on every morning with no effect. One of the areas in which Lieutenant Cutter was most effec tive however, was the area of scavenging and looting. The Army regulation on that subject was simple: major scavenging would have to be approved by the commanding officer of the entire company. This included livestock, furniture, clothing, and the like. Minor scavenging, which included small game, tools, and weapons, had to be approved by the sergeants, but in the case of Charlie Bean’s men, by Lieutenant Cutter. Before the advent of Lieutenant Cutter, Charlie’s men had been the most active of the secret scavengers, mainly because their sergeant was on their side. “Had a fine stomach, Sarge had,’’ said Charlie Bean. "Al ways knew where to find the best turkeys and chickens. Once, he even let us grab a cow.’’ It was noted also that Charlie’s men were the only ones who didn’t have creeping scurvy. “A little here, a little there,” Charlie would say to charges of fruit stealing, “it all adds up in the end. An’ living clean don’t hurt.” With the coming of Cutter the average weight of the men in Charlie’s group dipped sharply. Living on the meager Army rations had never appealed to them. It appealed even less when that was all they were expected to live on. Slowly the empty stomachs and loosening uniforms began to weigh on the morale of the group, and they began to realize that their one hope of eating “regular” lay in the agile mind of Charlie Bean. Back home in Ohio Charlie had been a shopkeeper and horsetrader, and the latter occupation seemed to have affected him the most. He knew how to get a lot for a little. So Charlie Bean’s mind began to work. Later Private Cravits was to describe those days as the work of a "genius.” “Men came from far and ’round to see oT Charlie think. It was beautiful. OT Charlie, he thought for three days, didn’t go to sleep a minute. He did all his work, but you could tell that all the time he was athinkin’. Then, ’round about evenin’ of the third day, oT Charlie got the idea.” “Sir,” said Charlie Bean addressing Lieutenant Cutter, "the men would like permission to scavenge for some grub.” The lieutenant, who had come in time to be suspicious of Charlie, eyed him warily. "What sort of food?” “Thought we might go out after some wild geese an’ turkeys an’ maybe a few shoats.” Charlie’s eyes narrowed. The lieutenant started. "A few geese, some turkeys, and a few shoats. Some geese, some turkeys, and some shoats. Shoats,
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huh?” Charlie bit the inside of his lip. “Shoats?” questioned the lieutenant. “Yes, sir. We really need some.” “Why ol’ Charlie, he could see right then that he had the lieutenant right where he wanted him,” said Cravits telling the tale. “The lieutenant wasn’t gonna say he didn’t know what a shoat was, and oT Charlie, sure wasn’t gonna tell him. ‘Shoats?’ the lieutenant asks, and ol’ Charlie, he just stood there an’ said, ’Yes, sir. We really need some.’ Before it was over oT Charlie had the lieutenant believing that a shoat was something like a squirrel.” So Lieutenant Cutter gave Charlie permission to depart in search of food, which was to include only geese, turkeys and some shoats. “So oT Charlie, and Marshall, and me went out to this little farm we seen further up the road. First we come to this little forest behind the barn, an’ we shot us a couple of the geese and the turkeys, so’s to make the whole thing legal-like. Then we went back to the barn. There was these pigs just aroamin’ around in their pen. Ol’ Charlie started to laugh ’bout how we were gonna get even with the lieutenant once’t and for all. He started laughing so hard we had to hold him down so he wouldn’t fright the pigs. We had to be extra careful so the farmer wouldn’t catch us. We crawled up on those pigs and grabbed us one before he could squeal an’ give warnin’. Ol’ Charlie slit the pig’s throat, an’ we got this big, heavy stick an’ tied the pig to it.” The sight of the pig being brought into camp was a welcome one to Charlie Bean’s men, and they decided to cook the turkeys, geese, and pig all at once and have a celebration of the fact that they had scored a victory over Lieutenant Cutter, since they felt it would probably be the last one. They built a strong little fire and spread the cleaned carcasses on a spit. “’Long ’bout that time the lieutenant, he comes along and says, ‘You had a successful day, I see, corporal.’ An’ ol’ Charlie just kept lookin’ into the fire an’ smilin’. ‘Looks like, says Charlie. Then he adds ‘sir’ real fast. Then he says, ‘Would you like to eat with us, sir? Aint much, but it’s real good. The lieutenant says he thinks he would an’ sits down. OT CharUe cuts him a slice each of the geese, the turkeys, and the pig. The lieutenant ate a little chunk each of the turkey and the goose, an’ then he tried the pig. ‘Very good,’ he says, ^especial ly the last. Is that the shoat? Tastes a little like...’ Then he stops for a moment. ‘Tastes like ... It is! It’s pig! You stole a pig!’ OT Charlie, he just sat there smilin’ and lookin’ into the fire.” The lieutenant grabbed Charlie by the collar and pulled him to his feet. “That does it,” he said. “Major Bowling’s going to hear about this right now. I really didn’t think you had it in you to so completely disobey a superior. Come with me.”
Ten
Lieutenant Cutter and Charlie Bean went into Major Bowling’s tent, Charlie leading the way with a hardly suppressed grin, Cutter bringing up the rear with righteous indignation flooding his face. “What is it. Lieutenant?” asked Major Bowling, a man who filled the room with his height and bulk. “I’d like to report a case of insubordination and theft, sir.” “Oh?” “Yes, sir. Corporal, here, took some of his men and went out and pilfered unauthorized goods from one of the local farmers. At least, I think the pig is from one of the farms around here. At any rate it was unauthorized.” “You say it was a pig?” “Yes, sir. “Well, when I found out I realized I should come right here to you and report it. I only gave Bean permission to get some geese, turkeys, and shoats, but no pigs, sir.” Charlie snorted under his breath - snorted with glee. “But you said he could take the shoats.” “Of course, sir, but no pigs. I never told him that the men could take the pigs.” Now Major Bowling began to grin. “Corporal, tell Lieutenant Cutter what a shoat is.” “Well, sir,” said Charlie, choking with laughter witheld, "a shoat is a young pig.” The color flamed up in Lieutenant Cutter’s face as Major Bowling and Charlie joined each other in the humor of the situation. “After that ol’ Charlie came back an’ told us what had happened, an’ we laughed ’til we fell asleep with laughin’. Next mornin’ Lieutenant Cutter came out like always an’ looked us over, but he didn’t read from the little book no more. Matter of fact, we never saw that little book again. We didn’t laugh a whole lot at the lieutenant anymore either. Ol’ Charlie said it don’t do to laugh at a man who’s down.” Jinny Schott
PATIENCE Patience must I have. To seek out light where there is none. To plod upon untrodden ways. To speak to stones for no return. And gather in my strays. Allan Strouss
Eleven
AN OBSERVATION Perhaps we should take death for granted, And be surprised by life. Don Parsisson
SPRING I vision a bloom. Spring! The life of mortal man; Blossom of my life. Reginald Farrell
Twelve
THE DOVE OF PEACE Third Award, Quiz and Quill Humorous Writing Mrs. Garrity liked cats. When you had said that, you pretty much summed up the situation at 18 North Grenshaw Street. She had lived there so long no one could remember the neighborhood without her, and during the whole time there had been cats there, too. She’d started out modestly enough with two, but after the manner of cats they had increased and multiplied. At one time she had had fourteen, but death and wanderlust had taken their toll, and at the moment she was left with eight and a promise of more. This tranquil state of affairs was broken abruptly by the arrival of one Mr. J. Bunton Plumgood at 21 North Grenshaw Street. He himself was a balding widower with a genial expres sion on his round face, but it was his companions that attracted the attention of the residents of Grenshaw Street. Mr. Plumgood was accompanied by three more-or-less terriers, one dachshund, and a slightly collied German Shepherd. Neighbors could almost see the frost gathering on Mrs. Garrity’s parlor window. Mr. Plumgood was welcomed with polite curiosity by his new neighbors, or by most of them, anyway. It was through them he learned of Mrs. Garrity’s cats. Mrs. Garrity herself did not come to visit him. That, after all, would be unthinkable. Consorting with the enemy, so to speak. An uneasy calm fell upon Grenshaw Street. Oh, the usual noises of small-town life didn’t cease, but there was a tension in the air like that supercharged feeling just before a storm. The truce between 18 and 21 Grenshaw couldn’t continue forever. It didn’t. One night about a week after Mr. Plumgood had moved in, the neighbors were awakened by a terrible growling, barking, and screeching. War had been declared.
It was Mr. Plumgood’s habit to buy some soup bones from the local butcher every afternoon. However, in the afternoon after the fight, the butcher was sold out of the nicest bones by the time Mr. Plumgood appeared. An earlier customer had already purchased them. Oddly enough, Mrs. Garrity and her cats enjoyed a nice tasty soup for dinner that evening. Several days later Mrs. Garrity found to her surprise that the local market was all out of catnip. There’d been an unexpected demand for it, and the stock was depleted. No doubt it was merely coincidence, but that evening Mr. Plumgood was enjoying some hot catnip tea. A week passed. One afternoon, returning from his shopping, Mr. Plumgood noticed that his garden gate was open. Could he have forgotten to latch it when he left? The dogs, loose in the yard, had escaped. Two of the terriers were easily recaptured down at a neighbor’s garbage can, but the others were nowhere
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to be seen. Before long he spotted the dachshund wriggling between the pickets of Mrs. Garrity’s fence. He reached for the dog, but somehow he didn’t quite make it in time, and the dog pattered off into Mrs. Garrity’s garden. While Mr. Plumgood was standing there wondering what to do, he saw the German Shepherd in hot pursuit of a small boy on a bicycle, so he took up the chase. Two blocks later, red-faced and panting, he latched onto the dog’s collar, with the help of five children who had corralled him. One terrier was still missing, but he turned up in the local dog pound. Now only the dachshund was still loose, but at suppertime he returned of his own free will. He was muddy up to his eyes, and a leaf of one of Mrs. Garrity’s prize roses still clung to his ear. After this event, neighbors hastily tried to negotiate a truce before actual blood was shed. But their hopes sank when one morning they heard the frenzied barking of a terrier punctuated by the angry spitting of a cat. Two doors flew open, and two people approached the quarreling animals. They saw each other at the same time, and both froze for an instant; then, with in creased dignity, drew up to the animals. Mrs. Garrity was the first to break the silence. “Why,” she cried out, "your dog’s got a dove!” ”I beg your pardon,” Mr. Plumgood replied, “your cat has it.” In truth, the bird was lying on the ground between the dog and cat. It had seemed dead, but just then it fluttered a little bit in a futile effort to escape. With one impulse Mrs. Garrity and Mr. Plumgood grabbed at their pets. "The poor thing’s still alive,” said Mrs. Garrity. "It looks pretty badly hurt, though.” "Wait’ll I put Theodora in the house,” Mrs. Garrity said, "and then we can decide what to do.” "I’ll tie up Butch,” replied Mr. Plumgood. The neighbors watching through their lace curtains, at first surprised, grew astonished as they saw the two people counsel ing together. Their astonishment reached epic proportions when they saw Mrs. Garrity pick up the injured dove, put it in a box she’d brought back with her, and accompany Mr. Plumgood to his car. And they were positively incredulous when Mr. Plumgood opened the door and Mrs. Garrity eased in, still carrying the box tenderly. He closed the door gently, then climbed in on the driver’s side and started the car. Hardly had they driven off in the direction of the vet’s when telephones were snatched eagerly off their hooks, and the lines vibrated with the latest news. Mrs. Garrity was an upright woman, and Mr. Plumgood was a gentleman, so there was little scandal in that direction. It was news enough that the two had even spoken together, let alone drive to the vet’s together. Of course, argued the skeptical, they couldn’t just leave the bird there in the street, and they couldn’t adopt it because of their pets. And besides that, neither could drive to the vet’s and handle the bird as well. So really
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they had no choice but to go together, one driving and the other holding the bird. Still, the more romantic of the neighbors felt justified in their hopes when, in time, Theodora had her kittens - four of them and Mrs. Garrity received a card and a box by mail. The card, it turned out, was a congratulatory one from Mr. Plumgood. And the box was a handsomely wrapped package of catnip. Betty Steckman
FOLLOW THE BOUNCING BRAINS or: I just got back from the employment office and the man says 1 have to be able to type 50 words a minute and i can’t type fifty words a minute and how in the name of Remington, Royal and Underwood can 1 learn by tomorrow? follow the bouncing brains through a wonderland of despair — t.s. eliot, anybody? no former experience and few skills to declare & t.s. eliot, anyBody? valedictorians and various other jerks all become wAltresses and dollar-an-hour clerks, and all because of a high school giXKcK grind in prepare-for-college courses which leave you little time to hunt for jobs® and job sources. foLLow the bouncing brains follow the bouncing brains follow the bouncing brains T.S. Eliot, anybody? here we go down to the Employment Office employment office employment office here we godown to the prickly pear as employers screech and eyeballs stare prickly pair, bouncing brains, eyeballs stare glare rare or well-done. T.s. Eliot, anybody? Maggie Tabor
Under an asinine April sky Peter, Jamie, John, and I Walked unharmed in the city’s lap. The city’s playpen, the city’s trap. We were not there for any reason, (Why be anywhere in such a season?) Except that we were nowhere else. We learned that once in school. Peter, always wide-eyed, then espied In front of St. Patrick’s, the Fifth Ave. side, A bent over figure with a long brown beard. “Hey, John,’’ Pete said, “look at the weird Who is dawdling in front of St. Pat’s door! Wonder what he’s hanging around there for!” “He’s sure from the Village,” John replied. We learned that once in school. The man appeared to have no care Or thought at all except for the stair That he stared at and contemplated. He looked not at those who him berated. He was not old; yet, he was not young. And his clothes appeared upon him hung. “I bet he’s crazy,” Jamie said. We learned that once in school. John said, “Look at his mis-shaped head.” “He looks like Jesus,” Jamie said. And John and Peter laughed at that. “Or better yet, perhaps St. Pat Has come back to us unaware To stand and contemplate his own stair.” And other niceties they said That we once learned in school. Peter, Jamie, John, and I, Under an asinine April sky. Left a person standing there A person, a human being, on that stair. And I now had three less friends. A man loves those whom he defends To himself, even though he stares at stairs. I learned that once in school. Bobbie Stiles
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Seventeen
ONE SOLUTION Second Award, Quiz and Quill Humorous Writing If all the yeses were maybe’s and all the maybe’s were no’s young girls with unwanted babies wouldn’t need maternity clothes Dave Partridge from LIFE AT THE UNIVERSITY Oh look around, can’t you see By our smiling, eager faces That this a university. What’s that you say, we all look alike? Well isn’t that the way we are Supposed to be? “I’m Buster Brown and I live in a shoe.’’ That’s my roommate, he lives there too. My parents know I study very hard To the library I go every night. But ah, under the table what a sight. Wondering whether my mirror will win at Pop art or just contemporary. Maybe if I popped a few more pimples I could call it “Purity” and Enter it as a religious abstraction. Lying here, record player blare’n “This could be the one,” but I doubt it. Never was, never is, probably never will be. There’s more important things in life like Sam the Sham, Right Guard and Listerine. It is quiet now, and I’m alone. The shower has stopped and No one is talking in the halls, I read her letter again, I don’t love her - I think. But I don’t know. If only I understood or She understood or We were together now. Dennis Brookover
Eighteen
SLICE OF LIFE Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Prose When he awoke, he did not immediately open his eyes. Instead he remained motionless while sensation and thought slowly returned to him. His first thought was of heat and dampness. His profuse sweating during the night had soaked the sheet under him. Still, he did not stir. He remembered that it was Sunday and he was alone in camp with nothing to do. He wished that he could return to sleep, but his drowsiness was disturbed by the daylight which penetrated his eyelids, causing him to see redness, a redness which moved about. A sharp metallic sound disturbed his ears. Sally, the camp’s pet baboon, had knocked her pan against a rock to signify her hunger. He listened to her fussing about just outside of the opened tent flap. Then all was quiet, as though the steaming jungle had swallowed all life. Moments later his closed eyes filled with the vision of moving indescribable objects, all red. As his vision slowly subsided, there crept upon his brain an awareness of presence - not his own presence, but that of something, or someone, else. He had the uncanny feeling that there was some living thing close to him, watching him; that where there should have been solitude, there was none. It seemed that where there should have been only his weight upon the cot, there was an additional weight. With mounting fright he surmised that the moving red objects he saw through closed eyelids were caused by an external being. Long experience with the ways of the jungle had taught him that any sudden movement, any impulsive gesture, might cause dire consequences, even death. Slowly he opened his eyes, and instantly his sensation of heat was replaced by that of cold which accompanies fear, for there on the cot beside him and not more than ten inches from his face, squatted a huge scorpion almost nine inches long, with all the bulk of a lobster; and curling horridly over its ugly seg mented body was the tail with its deadly pointed sting. The creature had crawled upon the cot sometime during the night and, finding the sheet moist, had settled for its cold-blooded snooze. It had backed against the mosquito netting at the head of the cot. It was cornered, angry and ready to strike! The scorpion’s only means of escape - and undoubtedly its point of entrance — was blocked by the man’s arm. The man thought of lifting this human barricade, but would not the primi tive mind look upon it as an attack? The muscles in his arms and body now began to ache from forced immobility. If he could only move something! He thought of shifting a leg an inch or two. As though it had read the thought, the scorpion suddenly arose upon its eight yellow legs. From the man’s cramped position on the cot, the ugly brown body seemed to tower over it. Slowly the scorpion crawled forward, swinging its tail back and forth. At a point not far from his nose
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the creature stopped. The only things the man could move now without provoking an attack were his thoughts and these he began to move rapidly. But, despite his desperation, he could not devise even one means of escape. And ever ascending on his frustrated brain were the visions of his last association with a scorpion. One of the bearers from the nearby village had been stung, and he had arrived a half hour afterward to find the poor man lying on the ground, trembling spastically and muttering inco herently. His face had turned gray. There had been a spasmodic jerking of the lower limbs, and his life had ended. The scorpion was so close that he could see directly into its mouth. He had not known before that the creatures were so com plicated; it was as if he were peering into the works of some delicate machine. The rising sun had entered the tent flap. He felt its rays slowly creeping along his legs. He knew that scorpions detested light. When the sun reached this one, where would it go? Would it try to burrow in the shade under his chin? How long had he lain there? An hour? Two hours? No, his mental state must have been exaggerated by the flow of time. Why was the scorpion so composed? Then he remembered that time could not be conceived by this creature. His position, for merly so blissful, was now sheer agony. How long could be endure? Escape involved movement. What could he do in a situa tion where even the batting of an eyelash might bring on the whipping of the evil pointed tail? He could not move without being stung many times, and two injections of the venom of such a large scorpion might be fatal. What could he do? He could only stare with eyes fixed, as in death. And so they remained on a hot and humid morning in a Brazilian jungle: the cold black scorpion eyes looking into the straining, blue human eyes. Some sweat poured down the man’s face, gathered into a ball at the tip of his nose and hung there. Would its fall trigger the attack? He tried to suck the drop up his nostril, but he was powerless to exert any control over it. Terror raced through his nerves. He listened. Then sticking his dry tongue against his hard palate, he made a feeble sound. The scorpion did not move. Cautiously he made the clucking sound again, louder. The scorpion brought its claws together - but that was all. The strain of maintaining his rigid position approached the point of nonendurance. Every nerve in his body cried out for movement. Finally the hopelessness of the situation brought submission to the agonizing demands of his body. Just before he was seized by violent trembling, he had closed his eyes and opened his mouth. The big scorpion leaped toward him; something hairy brushed the tip of his nose; and then the tent was filled with an inhuman scream. The man opened his eyes. Through the opening where the mosquito netting had been lifted, he saw Sally squatting on the
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dirt floor. In one black hand she held the separated and still quivering tail of the scorpion: with the other she was stuffing its body into her mouth. With a gasp the man rolled over. He listened to the sound of the scorpion’s body being crushed between the sharp teeth and happy grunts of the ape over the norsel she had found. Now the sun felt good on the man. Fear’s brassy taste gave way to the sweet taste of being alive. Duane Hough
VIETNAM 1967 The The And The The The
flag is waved; orders are given. the drums still beat; bugles still blow. men still fight; blood still flows.
And the rockets red glare, The bombs bursting in air Give proof through the night That our men can still die. Then the silence which is not silent Is filled with dulling grief. Paula Kurth
RETROSPECT Contentment - in the eyes of those who see today as something good. Resentment - on brows of Negroes as they feel the pain of clubs of wood. Contemplation - considering all we’ve done with all we’ve had. A nation - heaping mem’ry on tradition, pretending we are glad. David Thomas
Twenty-One
PANMUNJOM First Award, Quiz and Quill Prose It was a hot August morning as an army bus moved slowly through the crowded streets of Seoul. The destination was Panmunjom, located in the demilitarized zone, or the DMZ, separating North and South Korea. The cries of vendors and honks of vehicles could be heard. Bicycles darted between trucks and cars; oxen-drawn carts plodded along the road. Eventually the bus picked up speed as it left the environs of Seoul. The warm breeze drifted through the bus. Now there was an abrupt change of scenery. Fields of rice paddies stretched from both sides of the road to the hills in the distance. How striking these hills were with their jagged and irregular peaks silhouetted against the blue sky. Again, without much warning, the scenery changed. It was no longer the lush green of rice fields and the wide open space. The road was no longer wide and paved but narrow and rough; the terrain was hilly, not flat. Vegetation was thick and crowded the road. Dust covered every thing: the leaves, the seats of the bus, and ourselves. We were now in the DMZ. The bus halted in front of a check point where an American sergeant handed out forms to be answered. This was really a security check; a double check, in fact, since we had to get security clearance even before our departure from Seoul. We were then given badges to wear, indicating we were visitors. The sergeant gave a security talk in the form of orders. “You may take pictures if you want but if the Communists object, stop. Don’t wander from the group. Don’t touch any of the Communist buildings; they’re painted green, ours are blue. Any questions? No?’’ The bus started moving again, a bit farther north, to the buildings where the armistice talks are held. We got out of the bus and climbed the stairs to Freedom House, erected by the South Korean government as a symbol of freedom. Beyond it were the buildings, lined up side by side in garish green and bright blue. A line was marked on the ground, the actual division between North and South Korea in the DMZ. When the line reached one of the buildings, it went up the side, across the roof, down the other side, and across the ground to the next building! Later, when we went in some of the buildings, we was that the line was marked on the inside as well. The con ference tables were placed over the line, half in South Korea and the other half in the North. The guide reiterated the check point sergeant’s orders. We went inside one of the buildings from the South Korean side and were told the history of the Korean War and the armistice talks. We then crossed over the line and left the building via the North Korean side and proceeded to the next building. We saw a few Communists; they kept their distance, we kept ours. We had been warned that they might come over to us and attempt to engage in a conversation. It was certainly a weird feeling to
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Twenty-Three
know that I was standing in North Korea I felt somewhat relieved once back on the South Korean side We were then taken to the “loneliest outpost in the world.” This IS actually a point on the edge of a hill. It overlooks a valley with a river; beyond that, the steep mountains of North Korea. Across the river is the “Bridge of No Return.” Here prisoners were repatriated. Once a prisoner reached the halfway mark, he had to continue on, there was no turning back. I ignored the members of the tour momentarily and imagined how it would feel to be the soldier guarding this outpost, sweating under the hot summer sun or freezing in the bitter winter months. He would be away from home, away from family, friends, and companion ship. He would have to stand here alone . . . alone, watching waiting, and listening .... The noise of shuffling feet and murmurs of the departing tour snapped me back into reality. I took one last look at this quiet but troubled area, the region that divides the two Koreas. So this was Panmunjom ... I thrust my hands in my pockets, turned and caught up with the tail end of the crowd. Peter Bunce
THE LOOK OF LOVE I saw her today and when she looked at me she seemed to say “Goto hell!” Dennis Brookover
TO DOROTHY Lovers, enclosed by words, embrace, offering a common sacrifice, expecting... fools. Sharon Luster
Twenty-Four
VISIONS FOR TOMORROW
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There is a question in the hills which the trees are bound to answer, while in the noontime sun the earth shimmers sharply alone. My flashing flesh cannot wait for the spark of your breath, 0 diana - dark beside the forest pool. I call you from your head-maid shell; kiss my head and toes as well — open my arms and let the sky in. Bright my eyes when skin by skin. Call the joyful keeper home; let the burning embers in. Trees
Rain
Wind
I wait for your tumbling towers Life failing Love filling Alpha Omega Delta Gamma Beta Draw me o Jerusalem down diana for your sighing way The stars will shine beside Larry Edwards
Twenty-Five
A VERSE TO A FAIR HAIRED LADY Two of us on a jolly yellow bus, set off to see the city, and we joggled along over miles of smiles, and we gave the world no pity. We whispered of geraniums in a secret voice. we laughed at the limb bald trees, and at sixty-fourth and Folly, we jumped off the trolley to run in December’s breeze. Skipping downtown over snow covered ground, 1 sang to the steel scraped skies, and as if we had planned, she held my hand, with all that is youth in her eyes. Ah! We knew we were free - as we had to be, from life’s fine web of confusion, but still 1 pondered. Is this reality, or do we just share the same illusion? Steve Lorton
BALLOON Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Poetry The slippery red balloon that buoys Up Past the dirt of the day. Past the cares for the dirt. Past the need for the cares. The shiny red balloon that lifts Up To give the romantic view of an ugly existence. To give the clear view. To give the undistorted view. The tense red balloon that glides unsteadily Up Over realities but pops. So easily. So mockingly.... Ginny Willis
TwentySix
MOMENT I had spent my noon reading Bhagavad Gita, And when he came, my thoughts were astral Of the pothood, not the pot. But I loved him more... even more, For he didn’t look or speak in question, But twisted my coatsleeve tight, While he helped me put it on. Then, playing the game for spring, I led him out into November (Transformed for a time to yellow and green. And fresh-coffee-smelling air). My silent mood completed By his laughter. And I loved him even more. It was a day to buy a flower, But we played pool instead. (When one is poor, one has to choose.) For his beer signs he bought Red Christmas tree bulbs. I hung his jacket on the ‘‘no parking” sign, And I loved him even more. In The Pit we played rotation For ecstasy, unbearable. Whoever lost, the other won The chance to give him pleasure. We sank the green and white Frank Garlathy By proxy in the ten. Because the Frank refused to fall. ... And I loved him even more. “Lisa- Kitten- Honey- I love youWhy do you look so sad?” It was a day to buy a flower... “You hung my jacket on the sign. And... Hove you.” But we played pool instead. And I love you, Michael... darling Michael.... It was a day to buy a flower... No longer gray and astral. But clearest white, and real. It was a day... to love him even more. Until the time that came had gone, It was a day.... Rachel Cring
Twenty-Seven
1........
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Twenty-Eight
GRANDPA
And Aunt Mary came in... —Where’s Mommy? How come you’re here? I slipped my arm around Aunt Mary’s neck, and she pulled me up on her lap. -Mommy’s gone to be with Grandma, Honey. I’m going to stay with you until she comes back. That was fine for Waynie-Pooh and Barbie. They liked for Aunt Mary to stay here, because she always gave us lemonade and made cakes. But I knew something was wrong, because Aunt Mary s eyes were all red, and it was Wednesday. Mommy was never gone during the week- and Aunt Mary wasn’t making me get ready for school. -Why is Mommy with Grandma? -Grandma needs someone to make her feel happy. You see Honey, last night Grandpa went to visit God in Heaven. -Oh... I slipped off Aunt Mary’s knees and went to my room. My throat was getting all cloggy, and I thought I was going to cry. So I lay down on my bed and put my pillow over my face. -What does it mean that Grandpa is visiting God? I talk with God when I pray. That’s visiting... but that wouldn’t make Grandma sad. Maybe Grandpa is dead. And the choking in my throat got bigger, and tears were soaking into my pillow. -How come Grandpa is dead? Was he bad? No. He always gave me macaroons and that white candy with the colored circles in it. And remember the time he showed me how he took honey from the bee hives, and when he let me gather the chicken eggs. Oh, he scolded me when I was bad, but I deserved it then- it wasn’t his fault. I turned over in my bed, and pulled my knees under me. I felt like trying to disappear into a tiny ball. And I remembered Grandpa... He was standing under the lilac tree. That was my tree, because my birthflower was the lilac. He took a blossom from it, and pinned it to my dress. -There, now you’re my pretty girl! How about a swing? -Yes! Up and up he pushed me, and the cool night air whished past my face. -How high is up? Does it go to the sky? -Up is heaven, dear; it goes beyond the sky. Up is where God is.... —Up is where God is...and Grandpa too. And I wiped my eyes and went outdoors to swing. Cheryl Ann Goellner
Twenty-Nine
PLUVIAL NIGHT First Award, Quiz and Quill Poetry Descending from their callous clouds And draped in shades of black, The raindrops join the earthly crowds Of liberated brack. A time ago they formed a sea Or some small sparkling stream. But now they’re on their own and free To live their life-long dream. Their freedom only lasts a while A little puddle forms. The raindrops form a rank and file, Their numbers swelled by storms. David Thomas
IN GEORGETOWN Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Poetry It is not trying to remember. I am there whenever I look into your eyes. I am among dappled lights And whirling worlds, On a sweet warm evening Up the street in Georgetown. There are streets there Where no cars pass at night. We listened - remember? - for horses’ hooves to hit cobbles. Even the lanterns of the streets were muted. We walked on the slate sidewalks. Our heels clattering, our voices soft. We breathed the breaths of past lovers. We walked beneath the big-leafed trees And thought of what we would remember Of ip the street in Georgetown. Jinny Schott
Thirty
MIRRORED YESTERDAY Many motorists pointed at the old house as they sped past, and the older passengers usually nodded silently, their thoughts briefly on the impressive old place. The first thing any passer by noticed was the evident age. However, only the more obser vant realized that it was not abandoned; neyer abandoned, yet sometimes alone. The red brick was weathered to maroon, the white gingerbread porch to silver. Antiquated steps led to the massive carved door of almost-white. The lawn was left to its own devices to hug the walk and trees and walls with unhindered gray-green stems. Yet the windows, the facets of windows, sparkled with peeks of white curtains and reflected river water. Inside the house it was warm and comfortable, softened by worn carpets and delicate sunbeams. The parlor hosted an over staffed chair with a sagging seat and faded tapestry, flanking the blackened fireplace. The massive rocking chair glowed with memories of lullabies crooned and childish tears ceased by its creaking song. Only the old woman of the house knew the stories told by the Oriental rug, echoed by the novels and family albums lining the walls. Scowling tin-types and grinning photographs leaned on a heavy table splattered with ecru lace. The fair young girl in the portrait above the mantel now gazed at her daughter as she touched the dust on the elaborate frame. Humming nonsensically, the old woman stared out at the lanquid river glazed by the late afternoon sun. The creases in her face deepened momentarily as the shadows caught and threw back the impression of age. As she moved away, the light cap tured her gray hair and gilded it with silver, then flowed down to hold her hand, flickering a blue veined opaqueness before the ray caught the heel of her slipper and returned to the rug. She shuffled into the foyer and turned to mount the stairs. Each step sighed with the remembrance of youthful strides; the banister moaned with the task of years. Upstairs, the air smelled of musty quilts and furniture polish. The old woman wrapped her hand about the handle of a broom by the door of an open room and began to sweep with scratchy jabs, from the hall into the bedroom. Shoving the dust toward a basket, she propped the broom against the wall. As she smoothed the calico quilted coverlet, she noticed the scent of a new rain. The old woman puffed out the dazzling curtains, then let the fresh ness of the new breeze permeate the thick air, twisted the rock ing chair toward the open window and eased herself to the cush ions. As she rocked, the rain whispered the passing of every vehicle. With darkness, the shower ceased and headlights beamed shimmering reflections on the patent leather highway, chased by bright red taillights. Kathy Earnest
Thirty-One
MOTHER’S WHITE BOW “In honor of the President of the United States of America, the President of the Republic of India requests the pleasure of your company at dinner . . . .’’My hands trembled with excite ment as I read the engraved invitation. What was I excited for? I wasn’t to meet the President, but my parents were. The occa sion was former President Eisenhower’s visit to India several years ago. At that time my father was a senior officer in the American Embassy in New Delhi. After the initial excitement had worn off. Mother faced the decision of what to wear. This wasn’t hard; she had only one floor length gown! It was made of white brocade and had a short train. Then there was this bow, big and floppy, that could be hooked on at the back of the waist. Mother called a family con ference to decide whether to wear the bow or not. Dad said she she should. What did he know about fashion? My older sister said she should. What did she know? Secretly, I think she knew Mother wanted to wear the bow. I said she shouldn’t wear it. I thought the bow was hideous. What did I know? Ah, I was the aspiring young dress designer. Then there was my younger brother, but what did he count? He probably couldn’t have cared less. But to be democratic, we let him have his say. Any deci sion Dad made was fine with him; another vote for the bow. I snorted and folded my arms in contempt. Including Mother, it was four to one in favor of the bow. I left the room trying to ignore the “ha-ha, you lost” taunting of my brother. The night of the banquet arrived and the parents were getting ready. I walked into the bedroom and saw my sister hooking the hideous bow on the dress. Mother smiled. My lips curled slightly. I urged her again not to wear the bow, but to no avail. I did have to admit she really looked lovely, just so long as you didn’t see the bow. She then put on her evening coat and gloves. We escorted the parents to the front door, our hearts beating wildly as if we were going to the banquet. For the moment I forgot about the bow. They climbed into the black chauffeurdriven car, waved, and were soon out of sight.
The car pulled up in front of the President’s palace. A guard opened the car door and the parents stepped out. They started up the marble stairway. Just as they reached the top, a guard stepped abruptly in front of them. He was dressed in a crimson uniform with gold trimming. He looked sternly at Mother. Her heart did a Hip-flop. He pointed down the stairway to where the car had been seconds earlier. There, on the ground, lay Mother’s white bow! It became unhooked when she sat in the car. Another guard quickly retrieved the bow. Mother thanked him, her face as red as his uniform. The parents made their way through the corridors to the re
Thirty-Two
ception hall. Mother hung on tightly to the bow until the protocol chief had directed them to their spot in the receiving line to greet the Presidents. The parents greeted the surrounding guests. Mother then jammed the bow into Dad’s hand and lifted the back of her evening coat. Dad fumbled around trying to hook the bow back on. Suddenly he felt an urgent tapping on his shoulder. “The Prime Minister’s coming,” Mother whispered. With the bow half hooked, Dad dropped the evening coat in place and regained his composure. The parents smiled and shook hands with Nehru. After he had gone quite a way down the receiving line. Dad hooked the other end of the bow on. Both sighed in relief. Following the receiving of the Presidents, the party found its way to the state dining hall. There was one large table in the center of the room with four smaller ones surrounding it. The parents were seated at separate tables. Sometime during the lengthy dinner and toasts Mother put her hand behind her back. Her heart did another flip-flop; the bow was gone! Mother closed her eyes. “Somewhere in this magnificent palace,” she thought, “in one of the countless rooms or corridors, lies my white bow!” From where Mother was sitting, she could see down the corridor through which they came to the dining hall. There was no white bow to be seen on the red carpet. The dinner seemed to drag on endlessly for Mother. Course followed course and speeches were, made. Finally it was over; she could begin the search! She got up from the chair and caught a glimpse of white where she had been sitting. It was the bow! Apparently when Mother was seated she sat on the tails of the bow, causing the bow to unhook. All this time she had been sitting on it! The next morning when Mother told me of her adventures, I just sat there and laughed. It was a true laugh, but one of vindication as well. Since then. Mother took the advice of her aspiring young dress designer and had the bow cut to a small, flat tailored look and sewn onto the gown. Peter Bunce
A POEM FOR A REASON I (whom she thought she had pushed, pulled, prodded, bent) Came, saw. Conquered, And went. Larry Edwards
Thirty-Three
EXPERIENCE Second Award, Quiz and Quill Poetry All is still on this Most blinding oppressive plain. Motionless it lies In the finality of wakeless sleep. No notion, stir. Dry blending of form, particle, air Monotonous except for A rift of sand A wave of dead wind. No history to be found here. Yet the rift, the wave; A hope, a future... No...just a small dust devil Gathering the particles near by And rising, higher, wider Deepening form and air, Whirling, gathering momentum Until, reaching the full height And breath of that solitary endeavor It descends and again Is molded into the Smooth sands Of traceless time. Karen Anderegg
AH! LIFE The drums beat So did my heart. The costumes flashed; The sounds and colors Cheered in great profusion. The parade passed. And I was left Waving my limp dandelion. Cheryl Ann Goellner
Thirty-Four
THE EMBATTLED BISCUIT Second Award, Quiz and Quill Prose It all began when Papa bounced a biscuit off Mama’s forehead, and it ended ... well, I thought at the time it was going to end in divorce. Of course, we were all Catholics - "Good Catholics,” as Mama said - so divorce was out of the question. But I was a very little girl, and divorce seemed to me to be both fearsome and wonderful, and within the reach of everyone. My best friend, my best friend outside the realm of St. Paul’s Grammar School, was named Mary Becker, and her parents were divorced. Mary lived with her father, for a dark and secret reason we both specu lated upon, and he was always giving her presents. Mary Bec ker’s father was a large, good-natured man with a certain faraway sadness in his eyes. The sadness was in Mary’s eyes, too. But this sadness I recognized only when I was much older. When I was little, I saw only the presents. I worshipped the presents because at home there were so many of us that presents were often just hand-me-downs, and they were always shared. I had six brothers and five sisters; the singular nature of Mary Becker’s existence appealed to me. So when the fight began between Mama and Papa, I was at first thrilled at the thought of divorce. Mama had been baking. She baked every Saturday morning. Since she had baked every Saturday morning during the fifteen years she and Papa had been married. Mama was pretty good. We girls could bring home report cards with straight "A’s,” we could all get leads in the school plays, and Papa would beam and say, "No matter what you do, Annie (or Clara, or Edna), you’ll never be as pretty as your Mama or as good a cook if you don’t work at it.” That’s why the fight was such a shock to us and to Mama, too. Mama had just taken a batch of buttermilk biscuits hot out of the oven and had set them on the table. "They’re hard,” said Papa, fingering a biscuit lightly so he wouldn’t burn himself. Mama smiled. She thought he was kidding. "They’re hard,” repeated Papa, this time with more emphasis on the "hard.” Mama’s smile wavered. "I fixed them the way I always do.” "Well, they’re too hard this time.” As if to prove the point. Papa picked up one of the now-cooled biscuits, bounced it on Mama’s forehead, and said, "See?” "Al!” Mama was horrified, but even more she was mad. She picked up a biscuit and threw it at Papa with an admirable sense of direction. Clara called me to watch just as the battle was reaching its peak. Biscuits were flying all over the kitchen. I had never seen Mama tmd Papa fight like that, and I immediately came to one conclusion - divorce. I began to think of what presents I would pick.
Thirty-Five
Then suddenly Mama started to cry and ran from the kitchen up to Papa’s and her bedroom. Papa went into the living room and hid himself behind his newspaper. Great rolling billows of cigar smoke surged over the top of the paper. It wasn’t so bad until dinner came, and Mama didn’t come down. Papa said he wasn’t very hungry either, that the biscuits had made him sick of food. It was the first time I could remember not having Mama and Papa at the dinner table with us. It was too quiet. Clara said grace. After that nobody said anything. There was no Papa to tell us about Mr. Lindstrom, his assistant at the lumberyard, no Papa to tell us the funny stories of when he was courting Mama. There was no Mama to tell Papa not to go on so, to correct our table manners, or to cook a good dinner for us. Now, more than ever, did we realize that Papa’s admonitions to to the girls (to Clara, especially, since she had cooked the meal) to pay attention to Mama’s lessons were right. It was quiet after dinner, too. We didn’t even feel like making wine out of the vinegar and sugar and pretending we were in a night club while we washed the dishes. It began to dawn on me slowly that with a divorce it would be like this all the time. Mary Becker once told me that she had never seen her mother. I suppose that was why she loved Mama so much. It was quiet for the rest of the evening. A slow, cold sickness crept over me. What if Mama and Papa did get a divorce? How could we ever choose between them? I wanted to live with Mama and Papa! But Papa just sat behind his paper, and every now and then we could hear Mama moving around upstairs. I wondered if she were packing to leave us all. Clara was studying in the dining room. I went in and sat down next to her. "Clara,” I said to her, and I was gravely serious, "are Mama and Papa going to get a divorce?” I thought her lower jaw was going to drop out of her head. "Edna, are you kidding me? Honestly!” she said in her best stage voice. "Honestly, you children don’t learn anything in school anymore. Didn’t Sister Ursula tell you that Catholics stay married because they love each other and God too much to do anything else?” "Well,” I stammered, somewhat humbled, "it didn’t sound as if they loved each other very much tonight. I just wondered.” "You shouldn’t have. My gosh, you’d think you’d never seen anyone have a fight before.” "But, Clara, what if they don’t make up! What if they just stay mad at each other for the rest of their lives. I couldn’t stand your cook..., er, the quiet another night.” "Look, Squirt, you just wait. Tonight Papa will go up to bed just like always, and tomorrow we’ll all go to church together.
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and it’ll be just like it’s always been.” And Papa did, and we did, and it was. I think it was the next day that 1 first noticed the sadness in Mary Becker’s eyes, but, then, the weekend had aged me a great deal. (As Clara said, “Suffering makes you grow up.”) 1 was much older. I felt a little sad myself for Mary Becker and her father. But I still envied her the presents. Jinny Schott
SHADOWS OF THE MIND Who can see the movement of the mind? Flickering shadows Pass across the soul unnoticed. And he Who sits and talks and lives with you Remains a stranger. While he whom you know, no longer lives But in your mind. The shadows shift, and light illumines Older darkness And shadows other lights. Betty Steckman
A COMPARISON Those I admire who stand tall, Head erect To face all the blows of life. They do not lean on others - no need for buttress: They stand straight They are alone and independent 1 am just alone. Cheryl Ann Goellner
Thirty-Seven
PLEA Second Prize, Roy Burkhart Religious Poetry They are trying to create an endless me, Formed from a single soul, Leading to the civil pathways of righteousness. And there, they will desert me. With the empty mold that they have So skillfully constructed, and I must find in its void a Purpose. Excuse me, you who are Engaged in the most worthy task Of my creation. Listen to me. For once you must forget the Honor and glory of your job. The service you are rendering unto Society, And the thanks you will receive — Undoubtedly — From all concerned. For once, think of Me, And cease. Shall 1 no more feel The joy of life. But merely the role? (I realize that responsibility will be demanded of me.) Am I destined to become Just another Of your existentialist dwarfs Or giants the difference is only in the extent of absurdity — Or will you grant me the Privilege of Being me? Deny me this and perhaps I may, in that most notable portion of your creation - the mind Find a certain merit and strength Which could fulfill your Blueprint expectations. But grant to me the Right to Live,
Thirty-Eight
And I will find, in That neglected center of soul (my heart), Love. Wendy Picker
Thirty-Nine
A PENGUIN Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Humorous Writing A penguin Or at least A postulant 1 saw Pitching her black form Against the white courtyard After juncos. Snow blotted against her as she ran And shook her cape Like wings behind her, Laughing at a wind that whipped her veil. Jinny Schott
THE CORONATION Dear Mary, virgin, innocent and sweet. An angel came to visit you one day With message bright, yet doomed you to obey The call from God from which we ne’er retreat. God put on you a burden of great weight; Explain to mother, friends, and relatives. To Joseph that you bear a child - not his; That you should bear God’s son and know no mate. What scorn you felt from eyes and mouths of man! What long, long nights you spent beside your love! You wondered: Does Joseph really understand You, vailed from him by order from above? But you rejoiced one Holy Christmas Night When you were crowned in God’s eternal light. Virginia B. DeWitt
Forty
JANUS One half of me is white the other half is black I’ll sing so sweetly to your face and curse behind your back I am a good clean Christian I go to church on Sunday but just like Cinderella I’m different when it’s Monday and I believe in God, the Father The Son and Holy Ghost but my own lusts and desires are the things that count the most and Equality’s for everyone it’s just and fair and right yes, Equality’s for everyone if he’s middle class and white for these are the rules of God and are part of His plan that’s viiy I disagree with Shelton and the Klan and the atheist is an evil man and hell will be his grave, but he has no morals to guide him I know how to behave for I never offend anyone to get along I must conform and if that means lust and booze so viiat, it’s the norm
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And churches come in handy when filing income tax you see when He was nailed to the cross they just used carpet tacks and He didn’t feel pain at all He didn’t suffer much Yet I cling desperately to my faith I grope and grasp and clutch and pray “Sweet Jesus save me!” when things are going wrong But after He has helped me out I’ll sing another song. Dave Partridge
Forty-One
Forty‘Two
APOCALYPSE: THE BEGINNING Stones and bones and cries that with my eyes See death and all that’s left of man’s ignoble breath. Laced and waste and torn within me mourn The sight of eternal night that no longer yields to light. I cry and I die for no longer now may I Be seen and be clean in a world that’s now unclean. I drown on blackened ground with no form of life around To see and to plea with this vain fixed death in me. And when the hours of men have come into their end With cries of false disguise for the human soul to rise Who will be left to hear? David Stichweh DIVINE IRONY Words were words and not poetry Thoughts were shared, but not philosophy. But words became verse and ideas theology. And in the frantic frenzy, The swirl of chaos and fright. The madness of revelation and thrill. People jeered and cheered. And screamed and pounded. And tromped, cried, shrieked and pointed. And they seized Him and judged Him, And they nailed Him to a tree. And like all men. He died - but then. Became a god to me. Steve Lorton
Forty-Three
DECORATING THE TREE The hook which held the ornament Dropped from my grasp And, falling to the floor, The delicate glass ball on it broke. 1 cut my fingers on it’s now sharp edges As 1 futilely tried to re-join the pieces, And smiled ruefully As 1 thought on beliefs of the Christ-child Which I let slip and break so carelessly. Paula Kurth
“DIFFERENT #1” Third Prize, Roy Burkhart Religious Poetry Stop - Go - Run - Run There’s the Red. There’s the Green. What a Soap, a little Island In a Big Sea - If only God Was, And didn’t have to be Dead! The Chopper chops - and All that falls Is and All that stays Is Not. James Jones
“OUR #1’’ The Head that walks on wheels in wheels And looks around and sees the All, With His face of four. He looks there And sees the birth and death of Man, Lives in each inner world of All. Which is the disbelief in soul that is That White Whale that swims in Everyman. James Jones
Party-Four
THE PRICE OF APATHY Third Award, Quiz and Quill Poetry as a small child drawn by curiosity, I often studied the builders dressed in gray work uniforms joining gray bricks with gray concrete forming a gray wall for the gray house of a gray man the foreman glanced at me and laughed “Come back in a month, kid, you won’t recognize the place.” time goes slow when you wait for miracles but patiently I waited. I didn’t sleep much I was too excited But, - finally the day arrived and I returned I was astounded to find the bricks had turned to yellow the wall was yellow yellow house occupied by yellow men it was a black day! for the gray man of no conviction, of indifference was on display in a silver bird cage and every hour the emperor’s new found nightingale sang the praises of Mao Tse Tung accompanied by an orchestra of cannons and machine guns Dave Partridge
Forty-Five
A POSTER ON THE WALL: “BLOOD DONOR TRIPS” TOM LAUCHNER 3:30 P.M. Third Award, Quiz and Quill Prose Corning out of class, feeling hung up because you are hung up - at least on The Theory of Economic Growth, going to burn that book! Walking slowly down a leaf-strewn sidewalk, the at mosphere warm and muggy — a smell of decay in the air. Sickly sweet. A group in the parking lot — fellow donors. Four homely girls, two boys, one very talkative driver. You climb in the car, light up a cigarette and listen to him eagerly blow-off — “It doesn’t hurt at all ... nah, nothing to it ... sure Tm glad I’m not there to receive it heh, heh, heh. Yeah. Sure Pal. One pint is O.K., but don’t let you be caught over there. A fellow could get killed over there.” Already I hate the driver and he is one of the petty or ganizers of this bit. His yellow streak shows. Inside my shell now, I watch the road and smoke in silence. Inside the hospital, walking down pure white corridors — the smell of antiseptic pervading all else. Into a lounge where the girls sit down and chatter nervously about nothing. You attempt to read a magazine. Second thoughts start darting around in your brain. A nurse in her late forties’, “Who’s next please?” A bit too eagerly, jumping up, sitting at a desk. The usual questions and answers. The ten-dollar winner, “Do you wish to donate to a specific person?” Oh boy. Yeah, to some poor guy who’s been shot and is hurt and is crying and I can hear it and I am sure it is me - even in my dreams it is me - no one answers my plea — don’t worry I hear you — I know your fear and I’m grateful not to be there - “No, no one.” Next room — blood pressure — blood sample test — cold impersonality — the nurse has a headache, hungry and tired — a long day. "Go into the next room.” Eight beds spaced about the room - friendly, attractive nurses - an air of compassion. “Your cards please?” Here, I don’t want them. Reminders that anything you do is recorded. For the rest of your life. “Lie down, Tom, and just relax.” Sure, but what about my heart - it looks funny sticking in my throat like that. The extended arm, the sharp sting and a wooden peg to hasten the flow. “Squeeze it every so often - it helps.” Roger Wilco - over and out — now leave me alone dammit! A pure white ceiling - no marks - nothing to focus attention on. How many people have searched the shiny surface? Squeeze. My mind wanders. In a small tent a lone soldier writhing on a cot. “Jesus! I’m dying somebody help me. He shot me ... my insides are coming out, I hurt. Help me, help me, help me, help me, somebody, anybody, medic - medic - MEDIC!” Squeeze. “The poor kid. He’s had six bottles. White count way the hell up. Better call the chaplain. He’s had it. Hello son, how are
Forty^Six
you? Our Father who art in Heaven....” Squeeze. "How are you doing Tom?” Peachy keen. Squeeze. "... he died in the service of his country. Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust....’ Squeeze. Darkness. From nowhere, a voice, ‘‘Tom, wake up. Were you sleeping? Let me wipe your face.” I am dripping wet. The man next to me thinks, ‘‘Poor kid. Probably never given blood before. He s scared to death. Why, there’s nothing to it.” Go to hell mister you’re too old to go and besides you never had the chance to see yourself dying. Probably shake you up too. The nurse slips the needle out, ‘.^Rise up slowly, Tom. Thata boy. Are you hungry?” Yeah, bring on the filet mignon. Yes, can I have some coffee?” Walking unsteadily to the canteen, the smell of warm coffee and doughnuts. Others bragging about how easy it was - It didn’t hurt at all.” Agreeing and smiling weakly, trying to hide the trembling hands underneath the table. The ride back in silence. In your hand a small pin. Blood donor.” You thrust it into a coat pocket. The street lamps begin to blur, the road runs on in a haze, there is complete silence. On the radio, ‘‘There were several minor skirmishes with the Viet Cong today, American casualities were listed as moderate. God Bless America. I feel sick. Tom Lauchner
CAVE PAINTING Brawls Break the stone air On cavern walls Bawling cows And wounded, crawl To where The bulls walk, stalk (Painted ochre, orange, and red. Black-spotted, lined) some dead Laid Upside-down and helterskelter Underneath the glaze Of calcium falls (a subtle haze) On cavern walls. Betty Steckman
Forty-Seven
WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON Like a square peg in a round hole That is my life; Like a bird cought in quicksand struggle through each day; Tm born either too early, Or maybe too late; So the world passes me by Without even a glance. I write my poems by day, And I sing my songs at night In the cellar surrounded by shadows; But the shadows drink their coffee And pretend that I’m not there. And in the play of life, I speak my part with ease; But I’m always in the wrong scene And the audience has gone. Or if I find my fellows In earnest conversation And try to add my bit. They just talk on As if I wasn’t even there. So I wonder as I gaze Through the window wet with rain. Do I really exist? Linda Karl THE EARTH’S A FUNNY BALL Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Humorous Writing The earth’s a funny ball as long as it is tall It rolls around in a dizzy spin without a thought of the fix it’s in The earth whirls ’round incessantly as though it is trying to empty the sea It doesn’t pause to rest or stop and when we’re on bottom it seems like the top The earth is very, very old but not so very wise, Tm told It sommersaults quite merrily without a thought of you and me. Virginia DeWitt
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
H20 Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Humorous Writing
O
Translucently chromatic layer on layer
stacked
s T A L A C T I T E I
(minus CaC03)
Plunging through the innncllemmmennt void toward MaNiFeSt d e
(an icicle falls) Charles Dyer
Fifty
KNIT TALE Click, click, kiss of creation Knitting, purling her aspiration, goddess of the needles sits on her throne rocking Rocking and knitting the colors she chose, rich brown, light green, and dusty rose Click, click, the needles kiss; the goddess smiles as she knits Musing, she remembers an hour that day when her attention invaded her children’s play; she recalls their uninhibited laughter and the tension on her yarn loosens As her thoughts progress she remembers a thing a secret memory; it evokes a sting of regret; and she pulls the yarn taut. On she knits entwining the rose with the green, and her work grows, click, kiss, till the end of the yarn; she records the history of her life. Virginia DeWitt
CYNICISM Years ago my mind was young; Its days uncounted; Its soul unsung. Now my mind remorse within; Its memory sadness Tolls of sin. Allan Strauss
Fifty-One
judgement and who can say but me what was done or won i alone know the battle i alone will know the victor. g. 1. judice
MUSING When we were introduced, we talked about The polarization of light. The Missouri Synod, And The Bald Soprano. A year later, we discussed My eyebrow. His beard. And our respective guilt feelings. The third year, we discovered that maybe We had never really been able To communicate. And so we began to try. ... Why haven’t I seen him since? Rachel Cring
from UNTITLED god! your hand’s so/ so masterful/ so strong like the bough of the winter pine/ twisted round my hand/ tight bringing sweet/ sharp pierce of pain. Cheryl Ann Goeliner
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
WITHOUT EXPLANATION Out of the bleak winter dreariness of Dripping cold, Cement floors, and grey metal bunk beds. Came the warmth of Jane Jane Was a yellow daffodil And crooked teeth in an angelic smile. She was the fresh smell of late February rain On pebbles, and the free, breath-catching taste Of cold, newly-washed air. She was a special excitement That meant the art gallery, and its Maroon-velvet-lined room with the bench In the center and skylight overhead, Louis XIV in one shaded corner Leering softly; Or the open Roman courtyard with its Huge plants and static figures. She was a whimsical mood, like a Glass worm with two eyes and feelers. Made from a piece of tubing, with a Bunsen burner. In the physics lab. Where the physics teacher stayed. Jane was a single yellow rose and Voltaire’s Candide And a black and white dress made from a Simplicity pattern For a special confrontation with — the Other Woman. Sophistication, Sitting on a bed at the Youth Center dorm, Smoking, Using a small spraycan top for the ashes; Or putting black high heels into small jersey bags So the other clothes in the suitcase wouldn’t get dirty. Rachel Cring
Fifty-Four
PUBLIC AUCTION First Award, Quiz and Quill Humorous Writing Like ants milling ’round from miles each way; They sniff at the carcass and they tote it away, Bit... By... Bit. Bob Harmelink IT’S TOO LATE It is late and bicycles with trainers and shiny roller skates with buckles are traded in for noisy greasy motor scooters and red convertibles it is late and juicy rainbow lollipops and grab bags of animal crackers, candy kisses are left behind because there are filters and non filters and whiskey sours and purple passions it is late and flying angels near sand castles with moats and little plastic buckets with matching shovels are hurried beneath tribes of imported sun tan lotion with imported names and loud transistor radios and mary-janes and shirley temple curls are discarded in days of high heels and hair straighteners and there is not return for it is too late Karen Anderegg
Fifty-Five
FROM
THE NINE THOUGHTS
GEOFFREY VON KAPPEL O J^su Christ^ I love thee so, but my poor taste is known by all.
Fifty-Six
OF
CALENDARS The days pass while mortals wish that months would pass while seraphs wish that years would pass while God mourns the centuries. To be wise is to have heard the sound of one hand clapping.
Alone sits Gabriel shunned by the crowd. Life is mine and my thoughts slide on the wind thought Gabriel as he slit the old man’s throat. The call girl sadly
left with the dollar and the plump man in the black suit. 0 Sex you have died but in whose name and for what cause.
Fifty-Seven
A life is not lived until it is dead. A good-bye is only a hello said too late to matter, a.a.
Fifty-Eight