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features EDITOR Leigh Hendry
10 AMALIO 20 rLlCKERING IMAGES by Wayne Wood
MANAGING EDITOR John Furlow
28 PHOENIX PROFILE-DR . JON WHI TE by Gina Pera
DESIGN EDITOR Frank Yates
ART EDITOR Jan Hoole
Roller FICTION EDITOR Angelyn Bales
NON-FICTION EDITOR Patricia Coe
POETRY EDITOR Cindy Sullivan
PHOTO EDITOR Bill Nation
EDITORIAL ASSISTANTS: Drew Noyes Paul Duning
John Perona Marc Edwards
John Rainey Evette Cobb
(c) Copyright 1978, by the University of Tennessee. Rights retained by the individual contributors. Send contributions to Phoenix, Room 5, Communications Bldg., 1340 Circle Park Drive, Knoxville, Tennessee 37916.
Trains
• poetry
art 5
LITHOGRAPH LITHOGRAPH
9 16 LITHOGRAPH 19 CHARCOAL
22 32
by Beverly White by Beverly White bv C<Hol Hayne"
WATERCOLOH
by Jerry Hester by Jeffery Ryerson
LITHOGRAPH
bv M<Hia Davi~
5 6 7 8
Eddie Franci'>co C<Hey Jobe 14 Carey Smith 1 5 J. Lyle and Beth Cohen
i8
24 26 27 30 J2
in My House
Ray Buchanan Gary Shockley
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Steve Brown Joyce Beverly Watson Lori J . Brown Carl Hill and Laurie Lam<H Ray Buchanan Laurie Lamar John Rush
fiction J
"DON'T YOU KNOW ANYTHING, BOY? by James Ashbrook Perkins
photography 2 4
6 7 15
24 25 28 30 31 33
Lithograph by Nancy Loemlein Becker
Hal Herzog David Dulaney Saeed Ghl)d'i Kathy Greer libby Jones libby Jones Wallace G. Hynds, III Bill Nation Karen Hull dnd Jeanne Pais Bruce Lustig and David Dulaney David Dulaney
Front and Back Cover Mixed Media Collage lJy Jeffrey
Ryer~on
Hal Herzog
2
DON'T YOU KNOW ANYTHING, BOY? "Why Son?"
"It's just too cold. I didn't want to." "Well. I told you to, didn't I?"
"Yes Sir."
"When I tell you to do something, I expect you to do it. Do you understand?" "Yes sir."
"Well. Just to impress it on your memory, I want you to come out to the garage with me."
"Yes sir."
"I want you to have those chickens done before he gets back. Don't forget the keys."
"Yes'm," I said again and grabbed my big hunting parka from its nail by the door. I slapped the right hand shell pocket and heard the keys rattle. by James Ashbrook Perkins
I stood on the back solarium looking through the frost lacework on the windows, tucking a heavy sweater into my pants. "Hurry, Lazybones. Your Father went to the barn nearly a half hour ago." "Yes'm." "You remember last Tuesday, don't you?" "Yes'm."
We had lots of chickens. "More chickens," as Daddy said, "than a sane man would want." We hatched out a couple of thousand every Spring. A few would drown in the brooderhouse. A few of the dumb ones would get carried off by owls and hawks. The rest we had to feed and look after till one day when the paper said the price was about right and Daddy announced that Armageddon was about to commence. Anyway, we had lots of chickens, and Daddy never minded the few that we lost to the hawks and owls. But when it appeared that the hawks and owls were opening the chickenhouse door and carrying off the hens in feed sacks, we got a lock.
3
It was cold. The snow crunched and squeeked under my boots as I walked through the yard to the chickenhouse. When I lifted the lock with my right hand, the cold knifed through the brown cotton palm of my Red Rider gloves. After several attempts, I realized that the lock was frozen. "Well. Did you get the chickens done?" "No sir. I couldn't. The lock's froze." "Well. Lick it. Don't you know anything, boy? Go on. I'll be there as soon as I get my boots back on." "Yes sir." It began as a very light green, like snow-banked ice on the creek with dark water trickling beneath it. It was cold and painful. I could not shut my mouth. It became lighter and lighter till it was a cry of white, and I could not tell whether it was cold or hot. I knew that I was sobbing and screaming, but all I could hear was the awful whiteness and through it a deeper sound.
"You damn fool. You damn little fool. Don't you know anything, boy? Stick your tongue on a frozen lock. Now this is going to hurt," he said as he swung his big leg and swept my feet out from under me. I fell. It was no longer white. It was red, a high-pitched, wailing red. The tip of my tongue whitened quickly on the swinging lock above me, and the snow beneath my face reddened. "You get to the house. I'll do the chickens." Finally the bleeding stopped, and I sat at the big blue table in the middle of the kitchen drinking warm milk through a straw. "Too bad you hurt your tongue, son. I fixed this sausage and mush special for you." "Hell," said my father pausing with a forkfull of mush halfway to his mouth, "the boy's got to learn not to do everything he's told."
David Dulaney
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Two Women Sarah. once a young girl with white dreams. content as long as Friday nights were filled with teenaged dates. now sits surrounded by hanging plants which embellish her three rooms and a bath. shared by Cora, angered by acne. Dylan, Rolling Stones, Unfair Ladies
Lithograph by Beverly White
and war. In an altered world that Momma could never know, Cora was blown by shifting winds, caught up in the storms of dominant males, unequal laws; a push and shove that shatter a cottage and picket fence; pressed roses saved, now crushed between pages of politics. Sarah, innocent and pretty, believed a boy, aborted a child, hit the streets in search of youth but found a pure white powder. Turbulence howled in her heart, a hurricane calmed only by nectar from a flower. flowing sweetly in her veins. Castled together, Sarah with her plants, Cora with her books, two women protecting and loving. Ray Buchanan
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The Little Faiths We have mastered the little faiths, All the harmless sophistries that Our scheduled leisure will allow. Yet, a taste remains for something golden. The lines grow long, waiting again, Waiting for Spring, for the third dawn's Final heresy against all We call real, all we call silver. Spring sings the mad prophet's promise, Dances with Lazarus, reborn To remind an easy people Just how easily silver turns to gray. Gary Shockley
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Lilith's Child For Melisha Gibson 1973-76 I had no voice before. But now Speaking with a pale tongue I tell of parents who give birth To tombstones. Parents whose faces hard and weatherbeaten As agony Stiffen with the venom of a kiss For one who trusted them As she trusted Breathing. Once Running on little pink feet I swam breezy upon the grass Under clouds whiter than milk Or the bathtub where I used to sit warmly Counting the wrinkles In my fingers held under water Until mother would come unplug the drain That swallowed all but me Left whitely bare and shivering Against the porcelain.
I had not meant to sleep so long But only wished to listen to the song Of the bird in the egg Outside my window. Whose ageless voice First rose then fell in measured echoes To the chorus of mourning neighbors Singing beside the grave.
And there Standing among the shadows I saw Shapes of long-forgotten power rise And heard there dreams In which only children cried And knew at last That with each ritual hand of dust, They sought to choke the final cryThe cry of Lilith's child. Eddie Francisco
How I dreaded the swift tug Of the brush through my hair Sweet and wild as fieldflowers. Yet not so much did I dread As when in the door He appeared, eyes glaring, marching Me over in the furious cadence Of his clenched heart Until taking my arm He would fling me breathless upon the bed That qUivered with my tender limbs' descent. Then He would clap my back in cruel applause For tricks performed by one Who only sought to please And so Nailed herself to every task, Ran up and down the stairs, Danced the cruel dance Until one night Hearing the ancient curse of winds Blow fiercely from the North I pulled the eternal blanket over shivering day And slept. Kathy Greer
7
SEVEN NOTES ON AN UNDISTINGUISHED QUARTER
1. Evening in Red The recurring imagery ... dense. rusty-orange sunset From Clement's eighth; below. bright ruby Neon and noise on the Strip; candy yellow Glares crimson. draining traffic clogs; Sidewalks. twin serpentines of body. Mingle at lights like network veillS; Indoors. the heartbeat drive of rock.
2. The Owl Buzzing blue streetlights. rows of order. Like lanterns held to cavern art. galvanize Synthetic morning with large. surreal Vegas . Owl. a lifted torch lights foolsday. Further out. night roams violent and vital But hides its life from comatose glaze. deforming Its forms in bizzarre, unwitnessed rituals. Mordant fascination and fear depict it. Cat's eyes glisten deep inside an alley.
3. Any Questions Though simmering moistly at the fingertips Or light and hovering against the palate. A bubble not yet word. it waits ... a gesture Rash. risky, wrong--but still an undertone. Not here inverted into action. Another turns the page. Another Age.
4. Scherzo The night was clouded. The highway, crowded . They couldn't move. Just pull and shove. It wasn't love. Powder was wetter. He could forget her; She studied better. Emotions were least After the feast.
5. Uses of Snow Montana's little lost snowstorm Came tap-tapping at windowpanes In Tennessee last night. Some heard the shrill. Inarticulate, childlike whining For pity and an open door. A fantasy. By morning look for piles of intricate crystal Orphaned by tons for inventiveness. Roughshod it basically into ice. Or hastily (a worthless treasure) crush it Between gloves. Test it and make enemies. Or cup it as though it gathered in your hands, Bring it up gently to lips and cheek-Fresh. downy flakes like kitten's fur. 6. Ten After Three At length , ears quit hearing. minds, to account Time spent. Some nod like indolent congressmen Attending, but not attending. Others Make fingers the loci of perception. These race the narrow blue-lined corridors, Pausing with the lecturer for breath. Weighty Or weary, Balzac, Burma, Bohr Amount to only a page or more, Summaries of what they were, When, at a tone, time-The present. Pens click, books shut. Awake To moment and movement, five hoodlum senses Mauraud the crowded hall. 7. Green, Lazy Afternoon By the un subtlety of their loading, leaving, One guesses how little it enticed them. Dorms block off the sky like huge cereal boxes Poured dry. Sidewalks, too, stretch nearly empty. A few unthreatening cars idle at the crosswalk. Though March and green, it's oddly autumnish To feel the quiet mustering like brown moths Underneath leaves. Bright clouds are looking stylish. So rummaging daydream toys with the familiar An hour or so till, like the rest, he leaves . Rushing air braces wits for interstate speed Where flashes of any former incarnation Dwindle to nearly inaudible commotion In the noise where Spring resumes.
Carey Jobe
8
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Ancient Ruins
Lithograph by Beverly White
9
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Amalio Monllor has been involved with photographs since 1971. He has spent most of his life in New York, where he has had several showings of his work, most notably with the Ben Fernandez film workshop in the Times Square Building. "I don't really think things out," he said. "I'm not an analytical person at all. I do my best work when I feel things out." Amalio said that his photographs express emotions that everyone feels. "If someone looks at my pictures and they generate some type of feeling in that person, then the picture has meaning related to some instance in that person's life." He said that many people helped him learn the art of good photography, but three in particular influenced him most. Ben Fernandez taught him to take a picture if he wanted it, not to waste time wondering whether to shoot it. Mellissa Shook, a coworker at Parsons School of Design in New York, helped to bring out his sensitive side. Dennis Simmonetti showed him that a little bit of humbleness can go a long way in getting good photos. Amalio said of his work, "If people want to know about me, tell them to look at my pictures. Words can change, but the essence of what is me remains in my pictures."
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12
The beautiful baby Who bounced blithely along never cried a sad song. She grew and grew-she could have been happy and was happy and. gay knew no misery or anything other than complete and total and absolute-yes-there are absolutes-HAPPINESS. The kid had it licked.
Readin, 'riting and 'rithmetic were easier than falling off of a house-but the kid never did that. Love, marriage and the baby carriage posed no problems either. As a matter of fact, the Wheels were greased as the deals were cut and the . primrose path was paved with gold as the kid grew old. Suddenly age hit. Age hit like a typewriter dropped on exposed toes. waiting for the kid like planes stacked up around la guardia during a bomb threat like roaches waiting til the ligQt is off " like cars in a long line waiting while the toll-booth person takes a leak Never having experienced sad or mad or anything butglad was bad.
out like a rat busting to be born or a snake, breaking out of its shell or a vampire creaking, crashing from a clap-trap closed coffin. wham tears didn't stop. the kid sits now, in a corner. Arms tied. behind the back to keep nails from eyes. sad is good, too. Carey Smith
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UbbyJones
FORT SANDERS (Wino's Lament) Another wasted-away Saturday Here in the Fort, Hunker down low Head full of snow And a belly full of cheap white port. J. Lyle
untitled the face I touched ten thousand years before, that flinched in all its tender youth, grows old. forced full with life, the eyes whose stares fall heavy like stone stars, extinguish their light as night evolves from silent lips, the breath of dreams stands still. Beth Cohen
15
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16
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Lithograph by Carol Haynes
17
THANKING THELONIOUS When Thelonious plays for me late at night, He takes me back to the days that gave birth to his own tunes. (And the faint aroma of ginger and whiskey drift by and through my face, As the high-hat keeps time to the Monk's lingering melodies). Why he's so fine, Notes never invented follow his fingertips! Up the scale, then down again, then around and back. His rhythm sweeps me away to musical places where even he's never before adventured. But we go together. And that's jazz. As I part the haze J can see the faces of these people Who live in places where the music comes from. Tonight its Lucille's place, Somewhere off West 117th. Play piano man, play! Tunes thumping in my "Round Midnight" head, blues lumping in my throat. People laughing, talking, gesturing, .. .wondering and drinking. living and listening, listening and living. Feeling that they're standing in the middle of A whirlwind - and that they belong nowhere else. And the jazzman lays it down, soft and sweet, Then jumps right back on a lurking upbeat. Why, he's so fine he can melt the keys, lift you up in the air, Put you down on your knees. steve brown
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Jerry Hester
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i=LI,Vl=rJINr IMACi=C
FLICKERING
by Wayne Wood
For almost a half-century, it had reigned. From its large, shining marquee on Gay Street it had proclaimed with flashing lights and giant letters the best motion pictures of its time. Its time is past. The bright lights are gone. The lifeless sign numbly stares onto the sidewalks below with its one word: "Closed." Downtown Knoxville at one time supported seven first run theatres. Even the names are holdovers from another time: the Rialto, the Roxy, the Crystal, the Strand, the Riveria, the Bijou. The lone survivor was the Tennessee. Those who cared could see it coming. The expansion of West Knoxville had drained the downtown economy. Businesses were closing, or heading west. The Tennessee was just following the trend. But even so, the Tennessee didn't just die; it was allowed to die. The theatre management refused to show very many high-quality releases there. It's hard to profitably operate a theatre showing features like Shaft Mows the Lawn or a martial arts festival with Kung Fu Bus Drivers and Bruce Lee: the Man, the Myth, the Guy Who Beats Up People for No Apparent
Reason.
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I~AGES
Where a good movie is showing, people will go. The
Tennessee no longer showed good movies. Just to step into the lobby always gave me a thrill. The elaborate chandeliers leading back to the carpeted balcony steps-now there was a theatre! The high domed ceiling, the intricate, ornate walls, the mighty Wurlitzer organ, the style of the place-that was its charm. So much so, in fact, that a film on the screen of the Tennessee became a part of the theatre. It seemed larger than itself, more grand than perhaps even the director could have imagined. And through all the rainy Saturday afternoons spent in the balcony with my brother and Walt Disney, I became attached. I don't know how to explain it. So last November, when the curtain slid silently shut for the last time, I was there. There was no need to get there early. The crowd wasn't large. And yet, there was a magic in the air, a special feeling that this small band of strangers shared. We sat down to watch the movie. It was A Piece of the Action, with Bill Cosby and Sidney Poitier. It was no Academy Award winner, but it was entertaining. People kept filing in right up until the end of the picture. The curtain closed, nobody moved. And then
slowly, majestically, proudly, the mighty Wurlitzer rose from the floor of the orchestra pit. A burst of applause welcomed it. The rich, full tone that I remembered was still there. It surrounded me. I looked around the interior of the theatre, then I closed my eyes and listened. Preston Spaulding, the organist, was called back for an encore. When he had played a couple more songs, the organ slowly slid back downward into the orchestra pit. The lights came up. For some reason, I didn't want to leave my popcorn box in the aisle. I picked it up. I walked down from the balcony and to the front where the organ was. People were crowding around to see it, marvelling at the many controls. We talked about the theatre and what was to become of it. Somebody made a joke about a truck waiting outside to take the Wurlitzer away. I didn't think it was funny.
An idea was mentioned about knocking out the back wall of the theatre and turning it into an office building. That would be about like knocking out the columns from the Lincoln Memorial and turning it into a VD clinic. But I didn't say that. I just stood around. After a last look around, I walked past the rows of empty seats, and into the lobby. People were standing there crying. I walked past them and through the front door. It was midnight. I turned around and looked up at the beautiful light fixtures in the lobby. They were blurry. I stepped out into rain-soaked Gay Street. The box office had been boarded up. It sets silently, waiting for another theatre chain (or person) to rent it. If not, it may be torn down or remodeled beyond recognition. It haunts Gay Street, reminding us all that there is precious little time. We're all older. The Saturday afternoons are gone.
Former UT film major Eric Lewald has organized several local businessmen, including economics professor Dr. Tony Spiva into a corporation to reopen and manage the Tennessee. The format of the theatre will be showing classic older films from the years 1915 to 1965, with emphasis on the "golden age" of movies from 1925 to 1955. The promoters plan to turn the theatre, once again, into a special place to go. Their plans include showing classic films such as
Casablanca, Meet Me in St. Louis. Singin' in the Rain. San Francisco. and Mutiny on the Bounty, among others, along with performances of the Wurlitzer organ after every show. Almost all shows will be double features, and the admission prices will be S2.00 for adults, S1.50 for students (including UT students), and S.75 for children. The Grand Re-opening is set for March 15 with a showing of Grand Hotel. to be followed Easter week with Ben Hur. By the time the Tennessee celebrates its 50th anniversary in October. it should be going strong. Perhaps for a new generation of young Knoxvillians, the Saturday afternoons will be back.
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Watercolor by Jeffery Ryerson
Ha-Ha, Hooray! "Upsy down, over and around," Chant the children of Play town. "Skip, skip, skipWe're going on a trip To Ha-ha Land, with the Hooray band. We'll ride the carousel, and then, We'll ride the carousel again." Joyce Beverly Watson
Libby Jones
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Wallace G. Hynds III
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NEPTUNE IS ALIVE AND WELL IN THE ATLANTIC Neptune'S incorporeal elders wept great salted stone tears as they watched him lunge upward splash/ lap fluid swells fell and rose between his thighs glistning with sea debris and green crystals They're pulling him outand leaving his soul to mortal corpses ~le¥J.:~ilr~~~:res of Ute kingdom
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Miss Mary Love De Lis Reawakening, she lay stark still. Her skin could feel the out-of-windows hum of budding. She heard, so far away, a mockingbird, a droning plane, and voices from another room which named her as the ripple in her own narcissus dream.
Hypnotist, State Fair (from a photograph by Eudora Welty)
Carl Hill
The Professor with the coochie show has missed a shave, but as he leans into the microphone and waves that dollar bill every eye is fixed upon him. Just a twirl of his gilded watch transformed the high-yellow gypsy girl into the lily among the thorns.
3UYNOW I'd like to unload these here items: I got assorted virgins rams goats prayers politicians works of art (see catalog) scented smoke musical notes corpses I'm being undersold.
Just a shimmy of her slim belly does more than the wings of the mesmerist's gown to beckon the farmers and truant boys beyond Mississippi in '31 to that Beulah Land whose gates proclaim: Mysterious Mysterious DANCING GIRLS . Carl Hill
Laurie Lamar
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by Gina Pera
Brightly-colored Spariish icons sit atop the shelves loaded with books, precisely organized according to size, author and subject matter. Two immense cups and saucers and tins containing various blends of British teas are arranged neatly around an African ebony statue. Tea is at four every afternoon. "An old British tradition," the ruddy-faced man sitting at his desk explains. Born in Cardiff, Wales in 1924, Jon Manchip White is a comparative newcomer to the United States, but he is even newer to Tennessee. As director of the newly-instituted Creative Writing Major in the English Department, White comes to UT after ten years at the University of Texas where he steered a similar program. White spoke eagerly about UTs potential with the project. "In the past, poetry and fiction composition courses have been the main thrusts of the English writing program. We are trying to expand and augment what is already offered. With courses in writing fantasy, science fiction, and screenplays for stage and television, we can offer a broader opportunity for students to see where their individual strengths lie." Having written in almost all of these genres, White's published works, numbering over twenty. include biographies, mysteries, detective stories, books of verse and anthropological texts.
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Although educated at Cambridge University where he received degrees in English literature, Archaeology, Anthropology and Egyptology, White partially attributes his literary interest to his Welsh heritage. The son of a Welsh shipowner from a long line of sea-farers, he published his first work, a book of poetry, at the age of sixteen. He stresses the pride and importance the Welsh place on their literary culture. As he speaks, his voice grows softer and highertoned-one obvious distinction between an Englishman and a Welshman, he explains. A comparison can be made between Southerners and the Welsh people, too, according to White. "In a sense, the Welsh are very much like Southerners here. Wales was truly smashed by England and subjugated like the Irish and Scots never were, mainly because Wales is not separated geographically. The Welsh people are known for their fierce 'stubbornness against England and pride in their own accomplishments. Great I iterature is our one unique possession." After serving in the Royal Navy and the Welsh Guards in World War II, White married and in 1950 became the first story editor for the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) in London. White describes this as a " great pioneering era in television-a very good period. We were doing things
Photos by Bill Nation
such as full-length plays-about three per year for six years, long before the Americans." A free-lance writer for a while, White also travelled extensively as a contract screenwriter working in Paris and Madrid. Altogether, he spent about fifteen years with [he cinema. The publisher's proof cover of his recent novel, The Garden Game, is propped on a shelf. To its left is a double frame containing photographs of Edgar Allen Poe and Robert Louis Stevenson, with whose work White draws a close parallel. "My writing has become very bizarre; the whole book is a study of a dream." Unlike those authors preferring a hermit-like existence, White, the father of two, likes contact with people while he writes and doesn't mind interruptions. "Yet I do find it important to keep to some sort of schedule," he said. "I get up early, write two pages in the morning and teach in the afternoon." Writing very slowly, but regularly he finishes a book in two to three months. "No, I never lack inspiration. In fact, I keep a notebook that right now contains about twenty ideas for future books." As he worked with a ruler and pen lettering an announcement of an upcoming literature competition, White outlined some plans implementing the Creative Writing Program.The "Evenings with Authors" series was instituted last fall. In November, Robert
Conquest, noted Sovietologist and science fiction writer, visited classes and gave a lecture. A three-day festival is planned for April that will explore surrealism in three art forms-literature, painting and the cinema. In this same vein, White said the English Department hopes to sponsor a future annual literary festival bringing in writers and publishers. By providing the right exposure and the basic technical skills, the art of writing can be taught "to a great degree," but "it's important to cultivate the tools for writing, namely industry and imagination," White said. White considers the latter quality to be inborn only to a certain extent. "Most people have imagination," he said, "yet they distrust it." White said he tries to encourage his students to have confidence in their own imagination and abilities. White also recommends writing courses to those not necessarily interested in a writing career. They serve as a reading aid, he explained, giving insight into how books are written, the problems of the writer and how he goes about facing them. After two quarters at UT, White regards the potential standards of writers here as "very high." "I hope this program will accomplish for UT what a similar program did at Vanderbilt earlier in the century. We hope to encourage and bring out some good Southern writers."
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Bar Room Cowboys Bar room cowboys, tapping time with scuffed boots, strum their lives into crowded tables filled with elbows and beer bottles. These sons of Guthrie sing of sunshine women and boxcar dreams rolling empty down some open track.
Karen Hull
And we sit passing pitchers, filling each mug as amplified rhymes send visions of hard men in faded jeans with freedom's dust in their hair. For moments we tap our shoes and hold their women while searching our heads for dusty proof which is never really there. Ray Buchanan
Jeanne Pais
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David Dulaney
Bruce Lustig
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Cicada Summer Lithograph by Maria Davis
VERY SELF contained I feel odd acrid musk warm odors emanating from orifices and hollow -sacroiliac? everywhere the skin curves in to form a hollow, the warm air settles. a microcosm, a microniche of higher water content. but the small life can tell. the warmth, the oils. lots of food. lots of spaces between the crusty flakes of my skin. they burrow down. they fall in my pores like chopped-up feathers before a sunny window, they' fall like a leaf rotting, fa lling fa lling. degeneration. the universe grows increasingly more disordered. with every breath wefall downhill. and the small life reaches resting state in buried skin-caves. no moving. no potential. all quiet it is highly unlikely that I can write at all statistically speaking the occurence of coherency is rare Laurie Lamar
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David Dulaney
Leid Tun While outside torrents of temper thunder And patience is too weighty for small minds to hold; While inside a radical blade tears asunder Conventions started and never so old; While about me is waged a small Armeggedon And thought beats upon words as sword upon shield; Somewhere a prisoner by Justice is fed on And repentence' seed brings forth a good yield; Somewhere a poor friar a paternoster weeps With hope of better fortunes to follow; Here in my own sanctuary silent prayers I keep, I'm in my own prison doing sorrow. John Rush