Upcountry Spring 2022

upcountry 2022

upcountry university of maine at presque isle spring 2022 poetry issue

Editor: Professor Richard Lee Zuras Student Editor: Callie Rogers Upcountry reads submissions from all current University of Maine at Presque Isle students for the annual Spring issue. For specific submission information, contact Professor Zuras at richard.zuras@maine.edu. Upcountry is a publication of the University of Maine at Presque Isle’s English Program. A literary journal dedicated to showcasing poems, short stories, and visual art from students, the journal is published annually during the spring term. The views expressed in Upcountry are not necessarily those of the University of Maine at Presque Isle or its English Program. The University of Maine System does not discriminate on the grounds of race, color, religion, sex, sexual orientation, including transgender status and gender expression, nation origin, citizenship status, age, disability, genetic information or veteran’s status in employment, education, and all other programs and activities. Please contact the Office of Equal Opportunity: 207-5811226.

Poetry Marissa Brouette A Bottle A Day

Stephen Cochrane Home Room

6 7

Margaret Dickinson Weekend Waffles

Stanley Grierson Details from the Tropics Indecisive

9 10

Claire Hemphill Mindless Doll

Jax Knight City of Light

Mackenzie Lee A Winter Way of Life

Callie Rogers Moving Truck

Bethany Tabb Summer of 2017

Belle Thibault Empty Hate

Chelsey Trombley My Bio Assignment

Reoccurring Dream

What I Didn’t Know About Motherhood

Liz Ward The First Sip

The Paper

Cover Photo Richard Lee Zuras Winterswept

A Bottle A Day By Marissa Bruette You grasp the neck of the bottle— No need to grab a glass. You plopped down in your Lazy Boy recliner, although it should be called Lazy Man, because I rarely saw you get up. I keep telling you, that reminisce of that bottle, won’t solve all your problems. But you can’t lead a horse to water, and make him drink it too. Or in this case, you probably could make the horse drink too.

Home By Stephen Cochrane I often adventured outside with my brothers, in a yard encompassing all my imagination. The rocks, the grass, the dirt, all combined to create the landscape of my dreams. And in this landscape, a bush, so wild and expansive, breathing life into even the most dull and dreary of days. It was the home to all of the events that were part of every boy’s childhood, the glue holding together memories of simpler times.

Room By Stephen Cochrane I had just come into the house when something jumped out at me, an empty room. On the door the sorry state of the room was all too evident, the buildup of dust on the handle becoming a towering sight. On the inside, even more sadness filled the space. A single bed, chair, and table illuminated by the wavering flame of a candle, ever somber. I could feel the emotions of the room itself, sad and desolate, empty and alone, just waiting for someone to embrace it with happiness.

Weekend Waffles By Margaret Dickinson Sunday morning sunrise douses the room in warm golden glow. Wrapped in the comforting scent of a hand stitched quilt, I roll over, Singsong call of the robin gently easing me awake. A cartoon stream of wafting steam Carries the comforting coffee bean Scent, signifying the start of my grandfather’s day. It beckons me to begin my own. I shuffle to the kitchen, tiny pink socks padding Past my grandmother, donning silk nightgown, Squinting through lenses at the funnies. Baking ingredients neatly scattered across the counter, a stool set up, allowing me to reach the whisk as my Grandmother pours Flour, sugar, water, egg into the bowl While whistling a tune from long ago. His calloused hand wraps around my soft fist Guiding the tiny wire ball around the dish Until all ingredients evenly mix. Perfecting The concoction with a dash of vanilla. A quick cook in the iron, golden to the eye, Aromatic smell of spices tickles my nose, The anticipation waters in my mouth. Drenched in sweet Maine maple syrup, Weekend waffles are my favorite treat, But only when made with my grandfather.

Details from the Tropics By Stanley Grierson I am writing this from a cocoon of string and mesh, strung between two towering mahoganies. My clothes aren’t for capturing warmth, but expelling buzzing blood suckers. The pests bouncing off my hanging shield, as sweat beads down my face, even in the shade of the magnificent canopy. I wake early to only catch the cool dawn daylight before baking like a cake in the oven of the jungle. My feet covered for the villainous snakes, and the poisonous leaves, unlike home. Any step could be your last, but this boisterous alien world is beautiful and pristine.

Indecisive By Stanley Grierson The sky, dark and cool. Below, silent and still. Eruption of wind and thunder fills the senses. Two bright orbs appear. Day has come. Mistaken. Something is attacking. The brown fluff hastily zigs. The thunder is deafening, lights blinding. The brown streak zags. Zig. Zag. Paralyzed. Senses overloaded. Fear. The storm strikes, overhead it screams. The roar suddenly gone. The storm has passed. Fear not. Black returns, all is quiet once more. The streak scurries, jumps, and disappears into safety. Home. The frightened soul will never know, it was almost a pancake.

Mindless Doll By Claire Hemphill At war with my mind, The voices won’t cease. I can’t make a choice. This chore is too much. What’s freedom to you Are shackles to me. But giving up choice? The key to these locks. My head is at ease. The whispers have stopped. A marionette, A shell of myself? Maybe that’s so, Since a doll needs no mind. But that’s comfort to me. I’ll take a step back, Play my part in this dance. Let you take the lead In this rondo of life.

City of Light By Jax Knight The room is still developing; metal piping and wood planks scattered all around. Shades of darkness blanket every wall and corner; Artificial light graces the windows. A hooded figure dangles his feet outside, His sneakers and jeans mixing with the dancing and fluttering snow. His figure gripped by the dark. His eyes reflecting the neon light. Every other aspect covered in black. His gaze locked by city; A city forged in artificial fire. Rows of building stretched to every horizon; Streets consumed in artificial fire; Light rummaging and crashing all about. Distant towers illuminate the sky, as if the sun born before dawn. City’s veins restless with noise and life. A city bright at night as it is At daybreak.

A Winter Way of Life By Mackenzie Lee Piercing air whipping through my helmet Going deeper into the Maine woods Along the beaten trail, no destination Losing track of time, viewing the sun as a clock Following behind, my father and brother In control, the vibration running through my hands Creating a memory, lasting a lifetime To reminisce when we have matured The white snow, unpigmented But sparkling bright, almost blinding Blocking my vision from the towering tree lines Feeling of loneliness shadowing behind

Moving Truck By Callie Rogers We drive down backroads, wet with melted snow and rainwater: a stream carrying worms down street gutters. I wonder, do they know where they’re going? The fields are brown and muddy and not yet manicured by the farmers who sit at the window drinking weak coffee, lacing up their work boots. Our moving truck clutters and clanks past— the water, the worms, the farmers, the fields. The gas station with the canned goods and the firewood and the scratch tickets that never amount to anything. As we pull up to the house with the chipped paint and the wildflowers, I wonder who we will be here, in this place where all the stars are aglow at night. Me, finally reading all those books, always baking something to satisfy your sweet tooth and writing poetry I won’t crumple up and throw away. You, sweeping paint across canvas in your flannel shirt, never worn, never worrying about senseless things like whether or not I love you. When the sun goes down we’ll sit on the porch and let insects land on our skin. We’ll be the sort of people who don’t mind it at all, don’t even bother to swat them away.

Summer of 2017 By Bethany Tabb The grass was as green as a shining emerald, gleaming slightly from the morning dew. The trees rustled with the moving wind, giving a break from the scorching sun in the sky high above their heads, clouds passing over. The young couple walked through the park. Screaming children were nearby in the playground, enjoying the warm weather before break ends. The sweet smell of flowers flew through the air, along with small pesky bugs looking for food. They stopped their walk on a hill, hiding behind tall oak and pine trees. Their spot. Safe from the worries of the world but knowing soon they would go back to school. But, for now, they enjoyed their time in the shade. She longed to know what he thought of when he looked at her with eyes blue like sapphire, her new favorite color. She loved the color blue, always; but never knew how much she could love one color. A warm feeling created by the sun spread through the park, making them sleepy. They talked for hours about everything and absolutely nothing at all. They just wanted to enjoy time together. She will always remember that summer, thinking of it during dark and bleak winter days that seem to never end. Remembering a boy she loved, who just like summer, left her side too soon. 15

Empty Hate By Belle Thibault I woke up to discover it had snowed outside. I hate when it snows after March, when the snow has already begun to melt. In the dark of the first hours of dawn, I stubbed my toe on my bedframe. I hate the immediate pain of it, and the dull ache that remains later. This is the tolerable kind of hate, without feuds, without wars, or clenched jaws, without fists, or yelled insults thrown to another. The hate of loud neighbors, of wet socks and a missing shoe. No violence, no shots of a gun— the hate of waiting in a line, of losing, of being wrong, of not being able to find something to wear. No discrimination, no blood, no grief— just the chill of a snowy morning.

My Bio Assignment By Chelsey Trombley Tediously plucking the small rodents’ bones from the regurgitated pellet and carefully lining them up next to one another, I try to guess how many field mice this hungry owl devoured in a month. I’ve spent hours hunched over my kitchen counter, tearing this nauseating clump of death apart. As I’m separating skulls from femurs and ribs, I think of the journey these mice have been on. Hunted and snatched into the night sky by a flying beast, flesh eaten and bones rejected back into the grass, and packed into a college student’s biology lab. I finish separating the bone fragments and counting the jaws, eagerly awaiting sleep. I scoop up my completed lab and toss it in the trash, sending what remains of the carcasses on their next journey.

Reoccurring Dream By Chelsey Trombley A young girl, opening the violet front door to my grandmother’s familiar and cozy home. Greeted by the smell of coffee and a warm bowl of freshly popped popcorn on the table, suggesting my grandmother is close by. I climb the steep spiral staircase aligning windows that appear to be fifty feet tall. Transparent, white curtains fluttering with a gentle breeze. I reach the door and it’s nothing but old scrappy boards loosely nailed together, revealing the basement on the other side. The dark, cold dampness is uninviting and the furnace begins growling at my presence. I am frightened and escape through the heavy back door when I am grabbed by an unknown entity. I wake up.

What I Didn’t Know About Motherhood By Chelsey Trombley I am awakened from a peaceful sleep, not by cute giggles and warm hugs, but a squeal of glee as you jump elbow first into my ribs. Sighing as the well-balanced breakfast I have so thoughtfully prepared scatters and sticks to the floor as you ask for a cookie instead. My new coffee table, now covered in Paw Patrol stickers and sticky substances, reminds me I’m not the person I once was. I don’t mind the vomit on my sleeve, the permanent marker wall drawings, or even the tired tears falling down my exhausted cheeks. When you finally close your eyes, this house feels eerie, and empty and I anticipate your chaos once more.

The First Sip By Liz Ward It’s a Friday night at dinner Home cooked food, the family at the table Dad opens a drink, something adult Dark and potent He offers you a taste Of course the tainted liquid is enticing It whispers its sins to you The bottle is dark and cold You’re careful as to not drop it on the ground As the whole world lays in this beer Against your lips you feel the bubbles dance on your lips Then it hits your tongue The bitter taste covers your entire tongue The awful sensation has wafted into your nose and your eyes water What if I start crying this awful liquid? Laughter comes quietly from all the adults who watch your malaise The wrinkles that have formed on your face has aged your youthful face As they remember their first sip of adulthood as well

The Paper By Liz Ward Staring at the blank page I am reminded of the late nights Rushing to finish a paper for the next class Exhilarated but stressed, distracted by Loud friends Trying to find passion on the topic of DNA replication I remember the rainy day in middle school Hoping it clears up so we may go outside But no chance of that happening for us So MASH it was Giggling at the thought of marrying some boy And having 12 children and an alligator The unadulterated joy of the wildly unknown How the paper has possessed the aimless drawings The tireless studying and the thought provoking anecdotes And the untamable feelings of many The versatility of paper holds us all

Contributors Marissa Brouette is a senior majoring in psychology. Marissa enjoys teaching at Loring Job Corps Center and being a mom. She plans to use her degree to further educate young lives in Aroostook County. Stephen Cochrane is a senior majoring in biology with a minor in environmental science, who enjoys playing sports, and has played on the UMPI Men’s Soccer Team for four years. After graduation, Stephen plans to work as a marine biologist. Margaret Dickinson is from Libson Falls, Maine. She graduated from the elementary education program at UMPI with a concentration in special education in fall 2021. Margaret is now working in a kindergarten classroom in MSAD75. She loves coffee and cuddling with her cat, Jemma. Stanley Grierson is a senior majoring in business administration. Stanley likes to hike, jam on the guitar, and is a diehard Red Sox fan. After college, he hopes to travel to cool places around the world. Claire Hemphill is a senior at UMPI majoring in English. Claire enjoys writing in her free time as well as playing music, videogames, and mobile rhythm games Jackson Knight is a junior majoring in English with a concentration in creative writing. “Jax” enjoys writing and reading and plans on being an independent writer after graduation. Mackenzie Lee graduated (fall 2021) with a degree in elementary education. She is currently residing in Lincoln, ME, working as a substitute teacher. She likes to spend time with family and friends and enjoys traveling, especially to Florida. In the new school year, she is planning to become a full-time teacher in a K-5th grade classroom.

Callie Rogers is a senior majoring in English and has been the editor of Upcountry for two years. Callie is currently a tutor at the UMPI Writing Center and in her free time she enjoys reading, writing, traveling, and attending Zumba classes. Bethany Tabb is a senior in English with a concentration in creative writing. She has been writing fiction since middle school and branching out to poetry and nonfiction at UMPI. She enjoys writing horror and paranormal stories but will dabble in other areas as well. Belle Thibault is a senior majoring in social work. She is an avid reader, cat lover, and a family-centered individual. She hopes to make a difference in her community through volunteerism and work that focuses on helping others in difficult situations. Chelsey Trombley is a junior majoring in social work. Chelsey enjoys archery and playing the piano and plans to be a caseworker for families after graduation. Liz Ward is a senior majoring in biology, and a graduate of the MLT program. Liz enjoys writing and is a member of the UMPI Women’s Track and Field Team, and plans on working as a lab tech after graduation. Richard Lee Zuras is a professor of creative writing at UMPI. The painting on the front cover is one Richard painted of his neighbor’s house. Though his main art form is writing, Richard has been painting, drawing, designing, and photographing since the 1980s.