LITERARY ART MAGAZINE
SPRING 1983
Reed Massengill
EDITOR Hallie Murrey
MANAGING EDITOR Holly Planells-Aqqad
ART EDITOR Susan Droppleman
FICTION EDITOR Tamara Renfro
NON-FICTION EDITOR Barbara Jaekel
PHOTOGRAPHY EDITOR Anne Stafford
POETRY EDITOR Cover photography by Don Parham
Mark Hanshaw Michaele Orlowski David Webb
SUPPORTING STAFF The poetry in this issue by Wendy Frandsen, Karen Ohnesorge, and Meg Woodruff was written as part of their College Scholars curriculum in the College of Liberal Arts .
We will consider unsolicited articles, manuscripts, art and photography at the beginning of each quarter. ~Copyright 1983 by The University of Tennessee. All rights retained by the individual contributors. Send contributions to Phoenix Literary Art Magazine, Suite 11 Communications Building, 1345 Circle Park Drive, Knoxville, TN 379960314
Betty Allen Faith Revell Paul Wright
PRODUCTION Marcia Goldenstein Byron McKeeby Brian Wells
ART FACULTY COMMITTEE Dr. Dr. Dr. Dr.
Edward Bratton Marilyn Kallett B.J. Leggett Jon M. White
ENGLISH FACULTY COMMITTEE Lynne Nennstiel
EOI-0271-013-83
ACTING DIRECTOR OF STUDENT PUBLICATIONS
SPRING 1983
LITERARY ART MAGAZINE
ART Haley Panzer Randy Payne Tim Massey Scott Troutman Melinda Tatum
6-7 11 16 17 27
FICTION Karen Shoemaker Chris Lamb
8-10 14-15
NON-FICTION Cathy Wurst Ed Ingle
24-25 30-31
PHOTOGRAPHY Phil Dixon Don Parham Wayne Helton David Hobart Carolyn Linville
3 13 , 22 20 30 32
POETRY David Dennie Karen Ohresorge Mike Mohrman Wendy Jean Frandsen Linda Parsons Burggraf Darryl Fannon Jeff Callahan Meg Woodruff Sammy Parker
2
4-5 12 18-19 21 23 26 28-29 33
Content s
Jl-
The Further Adventures Of Conan The Librarian When last we saw him Conan the librarian, master of the biblio files, slayer of the overdue, was engaged in strenuous libation. Blindness ensued. Meanwhile, the Mongol whores swept down, mis-shelving books, speaking much louder than is appropriate. With a mighty roar, Conan resigned his job and moved to a small commune in New Mexico, not far from Taos.
David Dennie
:! rlwcnix
Phil Dixon
f'h(l('ni\ .'
Poetry by Karen Ohnesorge
Light Bulb
Prayer Sunday the car swished over the twigs and leaves the wind threw down. You went to church for comfort. But the man with brass teeth spoke only of tithes, for he believes what the Bible says, despite the decay of wombs, the appeal of quick death. Outside the leaves click up and down in the grey wind like code-senders in a submarine. The morning breathes at my window sucking and blowing. On cool days the sun is bright , and the sky is blue even when it smells grey. Look closely. I see the earthworms and the doves of the columbine .
.J ['/wenl.'\
Clouded, it is a pear bought at a' market in the hospital basement, one from the rows of spilling wooden crates with the ropes untied. Under the lights the kerchiefed old women with cauliflower knees squeeze them for bruises.
I Fall
After post-hospital she is a de Kqoning woman torn by chaos paint except for eggshell eyes. her flesh is thinner like a rope looped over a high limb . it falls in threads to the air above the floor where it nurses the pulse at my ankles.
I fall through storm drains, run across the meadows, creep between the wall and the window to find you. There, not there. Your eyes split the skin of another's face . All is white as if light more deep than gulls shone from the inside out. The wall is pale and thick, and it stretches past my vision to the east and to the west and down. Smooth wall, soft wall, all smooth wall. I hang you ' for a counterweight on the other side . Our knuckles mesh across the top . Our bones do not wish to find the bottom for this would be a harsh end ' with pain and alone.
Movies Cost Four Dollars Now He should have been warned about financial independence and the fears of clinging vines, the strength of grape arbors and their roots, which crack the earth . He should have seen my winding-wish unfurl.
Phoenix 5
PORTFOLIO by Haley Panzer路
6 Phoenix
Ph oenix 7
Banana Flavored Butterfly Hearts by Karen Shoemaker When he entered her apartment he paused on the threshold, hesitating. Leaning back, he glanced up at the white on black numbers over the door . 209 . He shoved the key in his pocket and slammed the door behind him. It had been a while since he'd been 路 there; nervously he wiped his sweaty palms on his thighs . The room looked very lived-in. There were stacks of books, musty and rotten; newspapers and magazines heaped into chairs; manuscripts spread over the long sofa and the coffee table; records and tapes shelved in apple crates near the stereo, and most were not in their dust jackets. A glass of stale water, tiny air bubbles clinging to the bottom and sides, was perched precariously on a crate. It was strange of her to leave a glass that way, where it could be knocked over and spilled. The kitchen was worse .
8 Phoenix
She must not have washed the dishes since he'd been there nearly four months ago . Where the hell was she, anyway? Brown paper bags of garbage were piling up in the kitchen corner under the window. It smelled sour, rotten, as though something had died. A little fresh air would help, 'he thought. Where the hell is she this time of morning? She rarely rose or even came fully to life before noon. The kitchen was stifling. He tried the window , but it would not budge. Thinking it was locked, he played with the sliplocks. He strained himself. Then he saw the white putty on the bottom groove of the sash. The window was sealed shut. He didn't look in her bedroom; he expected it to be the same. Crossing the living room, he tripped, stubbing his exposed toes painfully on a solid, heavy object buried under papers. "Goddamn it!" He scattered the papers aside. Her old heavy green Royal looked bleakly up at him. There was a blank sheet of white paper rolled into the carriage. Holding his throbbing toes in his left hand, he typed out in small letters: hi, remember me? i am george. i know i am late, but i had something important to do.
Systematically he typed out a reply which would sound like her cynical attitude: sure, sorry i could not be here, but i got tired of waiting in this heat. so where are you then? i don't know.
The throbbing in his toes had subsided. He had been away for four months; he wondered if she had become impatient and left. George struggled to his feet, tipping a
stack of magazines. He watched the slick covers slide in a blur of color, scattering everywhere. A blunt hand raised jerkily as if to stop the slurring pictures and in doing so brushed a teetering stack of books. The heavier volumes rocked a moment on their unstable foundation of smaller books before crashing over, jarring the apple crates and spilling the stale water. He watched in a daze . Then he seemed to snap out of it , swearing . "Why the hell. .? Where are you Zelia?" As quickly as he could, he stumbled from the room and found the bathroom where it had been last time he was there. He peed, washed his hands, brushed his teeth, and looked around for a towel. Finding none, and with his face dripping, he stepped out into the hall and looked in the linen closet. There were no towels among the hodgepodge of blankets, yellowed newspapers, and boxes of unused china . Drying his face on his shirt front , he turned around to peer in the second bedroom . It was a tiny cubicle with purple butterflies of all sizes and shapes painted on the walls and ceiling . There were toys and blocks in the closet, spilling onto the floor. A grey milk crate was filled with tiny shirts and skirts and pants. A pair of child's shoes were set on the window sill; the window was also sealed shut with putty. ZelIa must have taken Fanny with her. He imagined their daughter's laughter in the butterfly room, but he hadn't seen her yellow locks and thin , child-wise face in four months. Closing the door softly, he went to the living room again . It was so unlike her to leave her place in such a mess. Usually she cleaned it up before he came home . It was so unlike her that he began to worry , pulling on the short, wirelike hairs of his mustache. Sweat soaked the lock of thick dark hair on his forehead. The apartment was sweltering . He cleared some manu scripts off the sofa , stacking them neatly aside as he did so . As his calloused hands shuffled the papers around, one caught his eye . It was the excessively long title across the top of the page which grabbed his attention. It was peculiar .
SEND 209 BUTTERFLY HEARTS AND REMEMBER, THREE BANANAS, PLEASE. Zella stayed with her mother a few days. On the third morning they went shopping together, stopping at the grocery to do some quick marketing before going home. Among the items were three bananas, still connected. The fat checker laughed nervously, saying, "Every person that has come through my line today with bananas has only bought three. Why?" Zella laughed without thinking, answering, "Trouble comes in threes!"
George glared at the single page. He didn't know why it irritated him, but it did. She wrote strange things at times, but this one did not please him. It put him on edge. She was quoting him when she said "Trouble comes in threes!" The phrase itself disturbed him greatly. Where was she? It was so unlike her to be away when he was coming home. Surely she must have gotten his letter. Feeling parched, he tossed the script aside and made his way to the kitchen. The smell nauseated him . He began by turning the faucet on and letting the tap water run. It fizzed, gurgled, then spurted out, yellowbrown. He allowed it to flow a long time, even after it had resumed a clear color, to make sure all the impurities were washed out. Searching for a clean glass, he opened the cupboard. On the shelf were three bananas, their dark brown slime oozing. George gagged, choking on the vomit which rose in his throat. He slammed the cupboard shut. He wondered about the possibilities of finding a cold soft drink in the refrigerator. Unwilling to drink the water and thirsty enough to risk it, he opened the door. It was bare . Empty. The opaque light gleamed on the shelves. He opened the freezer. Thick ice lined the aluminum box and it was half full of mail. Forgetting his thirst, he sorted through the letters which remained unopened. He recognized his own handwriting and the postage stamp he'd pasted upside down.
10 Phoenix
She had never opened his letter - never read it. His insides suddenly felt squeezed as in a vise . She didn't know he was coming. Half numb, he stepped without direction in the apartment. Everything was so closed in. So odd. It was as though the apartment had tilted and slid out of place. Without thinking, he walked back into the hallway and opened the door to her bedroom. At once, 209 monarch butt~rflies, painted purple, converged upon him like a wind. The window was opened. The sheer curtains fluttered , tattered and hopeless in a gentle b reeze. Except for the orange and purple winged butterflies, the room was empty of life, of objects. Even their bedstead was gone . "Zella?" George stared bleakly at the window and staggered to it. Butterflies floated about, landing on him like buzzards. "Daddy, do you like my friends? " Startled, he looked about. The voice was hollow, as though it were a mere thought. It was Fanny. A child of five. Not just any child. His child. There were three spoiled bananas in the cupboard. He glanced out the window to the street below. He thought he saw the old solid Dodge sputtering up the street. ZelIa was smiling, singing as she drove the faded blue vehicle. She never married him; she bore his daughter, but never married him. Fanny stood up on the seat beside her. How many times had he told ZelIa not to let Fanny stand up in the car? And did she heed him? As he remembered, a pick-up truck sped out of a parking lot. Tires squealed. Fanny smashed through the windshield. The sack of groceries burst open. Screams came from the stricken ZelIa. Three bananas landed on the hood of the car. ZelIa rolled quietly from her seat, spitting blood. She didn't cry or speak or scream. The sweet white pulp burst from the three skins. George closed his eyes, a froth of sweat shaking on his lips. Dizzily, George saw the emptiness of the apartment. Butterflies were everywhere. He saw the pavement and climbed from the opening of the tomb to the empty street below. He awoke in his bed with a start, drenching himself with pee. And ZelIa and Fanny were far, far away.
Randy Payne
Phol:'nix
II
My Daddy's Smile My daddy's smile came seldom for me, Even though he used to take me hiking And even though he used to rub his chin stickers On my cheeks. My daddy's smile When it came, Had to come from way back, From old calendars in barbershops With freckled boys in bare feet and straw hats Petting dogs by ponds. My daddy's smile When it came, Ha路d to come from way back, 路From Billy Rose's Aquacade And from Cleveland trainyards Where the grizzled engineers Charitably slopped coal Around the engine's furnaces. A crop of winter heat Grew beside those tracks. And my daddy's smile had trouble Filtering through the haze of that time When he stood in his tweed cap and knickers Clutching the angry tongue of his wagon On bitter November days. My daddy's smile When it came, Had to come from way back, From cool black mines In Idaho mountains, From mines where work was unaffected By six foot winter snows Or pine-stifled summer heat. My daddy's smile When it came, Came when he kicked my birthday football Clear over our stucco house And he saw me laugh delightedly As the brown teardrop disappeared Into the clear September sky.
Mike Mohrman
12 I'lwcnix
' ~.," , 1#
."
.. ' ,...., (ttl",. 4 ~ "J .. . ..
-
Phoenix 13
An Ode To
by Chris Lamb It was the stuff that dreams and old movies are made of. The passing of lost souls on a distant land. Then, as time goes by, they find each other again. One is usually desperate and distraught, running from something and trying to find something else. The other is a B-girl in Terre Haute. But this story is different. The first time we passed in the night had been in an earlier life. She was an organ vendor and I was a monkey. We had made beautiful music together. Then, earlier this year, Fate brought us together again. I was working at a motel and she was there on business. It either had something to do with the Shriners, a large cake and a parrot named Phil or a symposium on nuclear proliferation. I don't know for sure, and it doesn't really matter. Except neither explains why she
14 Phoenix
would crack eggs over my head. I guess it had something to do with that endearing spontaneity I came to love so much. Lady Luck had thumbed her nose at me. I was living near Paris, a small hamlet in western Tennessee. To get by, I worked as a night clerk in a mundane motel. "Yes we have hourly rates" flickered from a neon sign in the sepulchered fog in the early-morning darkness. It was in that romantic mood we came together, that she came into my life like the auspicious first winds of spring. It was as if everything I had waited for had walked through the door. Of all the motels in all the towns in all the world, why did she walk into mine? I was hungry for something, and there she was. If only she had brought a pizza, preferably sausage and cheese with no anchovies. In a phony Swedish accent, she asked for a room. Immediately, I became infatuated by her. She had an aura of mystery; yes, she was very mysterious. But what was it? The enigmatic smile, the Solidarity button or the Deely Bobbers? I didn't know. I only knew there was something anomalous about her. Could this be reality? That same sadistic beast I cursed daily: uncompromising, exposing, and far too candid, but still it was the only place around where you could find a decent sirloin. And it was open 24 hours a day. So we talked. She was on the lam, and I was a college graduate splashing in a sea of discontent, getting by on sips from a whiskey bottle filled with empty dreams. The next day she walked away without saying goodbye. I had to see her again. She had also left without paying for the room. I got her address from the registration book. And from that chance meeting blossomed an air mail involvement. Getting by in that melancholy wasteland I lovingly referred to as life became easier: the lonely days and the lonely nights, the fears and the doubts, going to bed by yourself and waking up speaking Yiddish. It all became tolerable. Time went by. The months passed. I left Paris for the dirt roads of the deep South, getting by on the paltry wages of a door-to-door Scotch tape salesman. And she was always with me, my elan vital. She was passing the time playing the piano in a marching band, and I was playing Willie Loman, getting by on a suitcase and a smile, and always dreaming of a better life. I dreamed of her, of the both of. us, and sometimes of a geisha girl I once knew in Cincinnati. But the geisha girl was yesterday and my elan vital was earlier today, about the same time as 'The Phil Donahue Show," I thought. .
Our correspondence intensified when I settled in Knox-' ville. She wrote with a buoyant prose. Every envelope had something special, something whimsical. Once the stamp was upside down, the crazy kid. Then one day, she called. She would be in Knoxville for an hour, only an hour, and then she would fly off again. Still, it was time enough for a satisfying rendezvous. We met at the airport and sat in a dimly lit bar. A pianist played dolefully in the background. It was the theme song from the old "Combat" television program. It became our song. Inside the bar were only the three of us and the bartender, and the rest of her marchiIJg band. It was intimate, yet had all the dash of a Macy's Parade. She asked the bartender to pour her a Manhattan. I didn't like Manhattans. They made me remember too much. Yet, I thought, if she could stand it, I could too. I lit a cigarette and looked at her. Then I puffed smoke in the bartender's face and said, "Pour it, pour it, Sam." He poured it for her but not for me, saying his name wasn't Sam. It was Biff Bravado. I began to tell him that I once knew a Biff Bravado from my days as an undergraduate at Wolfgang Mendlebaum's Bartending Academy, but didn't. The Biff Bravado I knew had a moustache and anyway, it was time for the plane. I pulled up the collar of my trenchcoat as we walked outside into the winter air. The stillness of the night was soon shattered by the roar of a single-engine propeller. The runway lights were slightly masked by the late-night fog. Something needed to be said. In the intimacy of our beseeching eyes, it was. "What did you say your name was," I said. "Ilsa," she said. "All Swedes are named Ilsa." I nodded slowly. "That's true," I said. "But you're not Swedish." She nodded slowly. "Yes, I know," she said, apologetically. "My folks wanted me to be." I knew her pain. I gave her a sympathizing smile and said, "I understand. My folks wanted me to be a toaster." We had so much to say but only time for goodbye. "Must you go?;' I said. "I must," she said, and started to walk away. Then she stopped and looked back, and in a strained voice said, "We will always have Paris." Yes, I thought as she boarded the plane, we would always have Paris. I turned my back and began to walk away when I heard "Combat" being played, first only by a piano and then by a full band .
Phoenix 15
Tim Massey
16 Ph oenix
Scott Troutman
Phoenix 17
Poetry by Wendy Jean Frandsen
Among Lean Men
January II, 2:15 a.m. "Food stamps don't come Till the 13th," he said Hours ago, and no one has answered yet. The four of us watch The late, late movie. I feel Out of place; I am Well-fed; and I know They can sense, see, smell My opulence . Tomorrow (well, really today) They will comb their hair and beards And reapply At the four remaining companies that "Might hire In the next six months." They stay up now So they can sleep at dawn, and not notice The empty day, The empty shelves; And I sit up with them, Too afraid to say, "I have to be at work At eight."
18 Phoenix
I Am An Answer That Never Happened
Dad Fifteen boys, aged 10 to 14. Sit down and get quiet, I say, It's circle time. Imagine there's a box In the middle of the circle. Inside is whatever you want For you. What is it? Cars . Motorcycles. Horses. Hawaii . Airplanes. Freedom. Fun . Now look again ; Inside the box Is whatever you want to give To Mom. What is it? Roses. Houses. Rings. Money . Vacations. Happiness. Love. Okay, now, What are you gonna give To Dad? Beer. Cigarettes. Uh . . . cigars? Uh . . . uh . . .I dunno; I can't think of nothin' That somebody else hasn 't already said.
What if Is the question With the answer That never happened , And But no Is the answer In its place . You know That I am the answer to Your What if And she is the But no In my place , The final 0 being The ring Around your finger.
Desire Donald's fingers Rub across my back, Tease my nerve endings, Stretch my muscles. His fingernails scratch my skin In patterns, and I hear His voice in my ear: Incoherent whispers, For hours . I ache to hold him, Touch him, love Him, he Who is a retarded Fourteen-year-old Child.
Phoenix 19
Wayne Helton
20 Phoenix
Your Diners All the tables you have set the finespun lace fields of silver points and Wedgewood the rites of noons and deep-winter feasts laid by organdy hands for late evening comers when more than once the holy Christmassweet of Port and buttered mushroom caps tasted far sweeter yet up one day and down the next Your sorrow ever-childless, towel-dried among the best linen seldom slights our hunger as like the steam split from hot Vermont chestnuts we flank the table cloth sipping at the warmest spring we know, swelling ourselves twice-removed, distantly in-bred interlopers with the mother of our hearts if not of our blood We have not told you so not have we shown you any younger faces so colored, so curved to rhyme yours as if in strange and perfect written verse. Your tabletop leaves us full , rarely empty, never wanting. Sit still tonight , let us clear away the plates. It's time your daughters washed.
Linda Parsons Burggraf
Phoenix 21
Don Parham
22 Ph oenix
Haibun I: Childhood Revisitation When I was a child, my uncle's woods served as my fortress. Inside my fort, nestled in the very center is a building where history often repeated itself. I was Napoleon, I was John Wayne, and I was me. Upon my return . . . corn crib rusty tin once covering summer's gold On the outskirts of my fort is an old oak. The lowest branch was too tall to grasp, but my reversion of the Babylon tower served as my medium. On another branch is my airplane where many a journey was made. Upon my return .. ". firestone swing. . . hanging by wire covered with bark A few yards in front of the oak is a pond. In summer, I spent endless hours fishing, knowing very well the nearest fish around was in mother's freezer. Winter served as my test of faith - walking the ice without cracking it and falling in. Luckily I could swim. Upon my return . . . muddy pond . . . the ripples in the water become wrinkles on my face
Darryl Fannon
Phoenix 23
DUJDbo and Salt Packs or . Ho"W": I Spent My
ChristJD.as Vacation IJ 'f
',~ "
by Cathy Wurst
24 Phoenix
I was only 18 years old. It was a year of discovery, my first year of college. I tasted the sweet wine of freedom, and drank deeply of it. The constant joy of life seemed endless - until the day my body turned on me. "It's tonsilitis," the university doctor said after taking my temperature, checking my throat and probing my glands. "Take these pills, gargle with salt water and corne back in ten days if you don't feel better." The diagnosis didn't worry me. Doctor Darvon, as he was sarcastically known, was famous for three things: his intolerable halitosis, his tonsilitis song-anddance and his liberal distribution of salt packets that nobody used. But I took the pills for ten days and bounced back to myoid self. However, three days after my medication ended, my tonsils swelled so much I could barely breathe, and my glands inflated my neck into football player proportions. Back at Dr. Darvon's, the diagnosis was the same . Armed w ith pills and enough salt to kill every slug in Ohio, I dragged m yself back to the dorm. The illness escalated. The pills helped only a little this time. Soon I could only sleep sitting up, as breathing in a prone position was impossible. My tonsils became coated with white scum . They looked like two snowballs firmly lodged at the back of my throat. Another disgusting consequence of my affliction greatly alienated me from my roommates. I started to snore at night - a full-blown, window-rattling snort. They teased me unmercifully and even brought their da tes to listen to me snore. The last straw was when they recorded me on tape and played it back to my boyfriend. It was then I decided to take action. I went horne and talked to my
own physician, Dr. Erwin, to find out what I had. "T onsilitis, and you have a chronic infection," he pronounced. "T onsils usually fight off disease. In your case, they've joined the other side. Surgery - as soon as possible." He handed me a salt packet and left the room. I cried. I was too old to have my tonsils out. Everyone else in the family still had tonsils. Why me? I went into the hospital on my nineteenth birthday. The orderlies took everything they could possibly get away with - my blood, my clothes, my jewelry and my mommie. They doped me up and pushed my bed into the hallway to await the knife. Up to this point I had been fairly reticent on the surface, even callous about the whole thing. But as I lay in the hall, drugged to the gills, I got angry . First, they stripped me of all my worldly possessions and then left me in a corner to die. I climbed off the bed to get the hell out of there. I fell on my face. Two orderlies appeared immediately and strapped me to the bed. "Damn it, orderlies, I've been here for days. How about some service?" I snapped viciously. They left without a word. Orderlies have no sense of humor. Finally I was wheeled into the operating room. It was green. The orderlies and nurses wore green smocks . A green doctor walked in. "Hey Kermit, how's it going?" I asked. "Knock her out, would you?" he said nastily. Someone advanced with a harpoon and stuck it in my arm. "You dirty son of a bi . . . . " I was dead to the world. The next thing I remember was looking at a picture of Dumbo the Elephant. He was plastered on the
wall of my room. As I was still under sedation, it took me awhile to realize where I was - in the children's ward. The humiliation was indescribable. I moved my head and waves of nausea washed over me. My throat was swollen so much it was impossible to swallow without an "intense bolt of pain running up and down my esophagus . I lay there in misery for hours. The nurse carne in to give me a pill for pain and a salt package for no apparent reason. Maliciously, I poured the salt into a planter and then watered the plant. It pleased me to see the plap t wither and die the next day. Let the whole world suffer, I thought. After a two-day stare-down with Dumbo, I was released from the hospital, again doped to the hilt with painkillers. These pills were the only relief from pain and were my passport to sleep each night. Under the influence of these drugs, I wrote my Christmas cards; "Wish you were Christmas, but Happy your New Year with Yuletide Greetings ." I was stoned. However, the pills ran out before the pain did. I still couldn't swallow, which made eating a harrowing experience. By Christmas, I had had it. My dinner was put into the blender, as usual, until it resembled a thick pasty mess. I sullenly ate my baby food while the rest of the family positively radiated good cheer as they feasted on recognizable food . At the end of the meal , tradition required we all propose a toast. "To our family 's good health, " my father said. Everyone cheered. "To the"Christmas spirit," my sister Ann said . A round of applause resounded. "T 0 infectious disease ," I hissed hoarsely, and threw a salt packet to everyone. Revenge is so sweet.
Phoenix 25
The Egypt Room Gestures Chased in circle Like tiny red dragon's tails The room its own Surrogate universe: Your jugular eyelids slit Open like jewels And in your one green eye The drained porcelain fix Of a corpse: open Intent Bleeding. Bend over : Connect with the in-tube Your hair in napalm filaments Your thighs locked in neon liquefaction My hand on your breast Is sediment ". Sediment on pulsing jellyfish On scarab On doorknob On the cool pink heart of a leopard. Light Like a skull broken open Sheets drift In nylon dunes Blood covered as if from battle And in my mouth the taste Of your speckled tongue Hatches like an egg filled-to-bursting With acid verbs Tupelo honey Soft angel breath. I want this pounding To go on and on Until the flesh begins To crumble like an ancient scroll Until teeth loosen and fly In twenty directions Until blood turns to pigment And images are cast upon the walls In the swelling room : The room where the spike is driven The room that is silence That is Egypt That is dust.
Jeff Callahan
26 Ph oenix
Melinda Tatum
Phoenix 27
Poetry by Meg Woodruff
the sound of rain I try to convince you of the sound of rain , the dark which I am sure di ssolves beyond our sight. I see you straining to hear what I hear, to capture the image of the river swollen with drops. what we find when the curtain is drawn back is a night unmistakably clear. you are so happy to be right that you have not noticed this : the dampness of my clothes, the sounds I make, shuddering .
letter from my sister she begins with the butter pears, the father who thinks he can make her eat them. she writes that they fall rotten and thick from the shelf, and she is almost afraid . "sister, I hate fruit. I hate all of it , the hunger which screams ; I wake knowing that nothing can fill me . her letter goes on to her plants , the new yellow mums, a new lover, she is careful to avoid her own chant . I imagine how she must have written thi s: her head on the paper, both hands on her belly.
28 Phoenix
white flies the swedish ivy first and still hungry, the begonia . beneath the leaves, a white spot too soft or pure. I find you smothering the new shoots, sifting into powder at my touch. you might have been the talc I use to dust my breasts, to freshen the inside of my thighs. now you dance before my eyes or settle in my mouth. my breathing is white and thick; these dry lips, the last flower to close. my house is out of control: pillows unstuffed, clouds seeping through windows, flecks of spit wheezing down imaginary chins. even the grey dust which comes again and again, even the long stems begin to whiten. my dreams are landscapes of white sand the body becoming a memory of its brightness, skin sifting into bone. and eyes open: the pupils would like to devour their lids in the soft, white disease of my sleep .
I' t
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Phoenix 29
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30 Phoenix
Like Beacon Shining Bright
by Ed Ingle Welcome home "beacon." It's good to have you back. Even though it took the World's Fair to do it, it's nice to see our old friend, Ayres Hall, shining again on "The H ill" at night. Since 1919, Ayres Hall has symbolized the University of Tennessee's nucleus of higher learning and its " beacon" of light. The first four lines of our Alma Mater say it best: On a hallowed hill in Tennessee Like beacon shining bright, The stately walls of old UT Rise glorious to the sight. ...
Then several years ago, due to rising electrical costs, the decision was made to turn off the spotlights that had illuminated the building at night. And until last spring, before the Fair opened, "The Hill," with Ayres Hall perched on its back, remained blended against a dark sky. The University of Tennessee's rich tradition began in 1794, two years before Tennessee attained statehood. Originally, the land grant institution was known as Blount College and was located on Gay Street. It was in 1826 that the university, East Tennessee College at the time, was moved to the present site on "The Hill." And in 1879, the state officially acknowledged the institution as the University of Tennessee - the state's university. Between 1800 and the early 1900s, the 40-acre university, which spread on "The Hill," consisted of only a tiny cluster of 10 to 13 buildings. The construction of a single building to adorn the summit was always a dream of Dr. Brown Ayres, who served as president of the university from 1904 until 1919. The towered structure which was named after him, along with several other additions to the campus, was made possible by a million dollar grant from the state. Dr. Ayres prepared
the original model, but died in January of 1919 before the building's actual completion. The following is from a statement released by the Board of Trustees shortly after his death: For more than fourteen years Dr. Ayres worked unceasingly, with single-minded devotion and great success in the task of administering and up-building the University. From the beginning he had before his eyes the vision of a great State University. Since its construction, Ayres Hall has seasoned with age. "The Hill" is now wreathed by trees which give the university definitive "spring" or "autumn." Splashes of scarlet, yellow, and UT orange appear postcard-like by mid-October. Joggers, bicyclists, and passersby stop to watch squirrels shuffle in the fallen leaves. "The Hill" has outlasted the concrete age of the westward expansion of the campus. In the winter, students flood to the snowy slopes that lie beneath Ayres Hall. Human chains slide and spin downhill with bobsled speed on the best sleds of all cafeteria trays. Far above, the tower of Ayres Hall houses rusted chimes that have sounded the hour for nearly fourscore years. However, last year, prior to the opening of The 1982 World's Fair, UT officials were asked to shut off the chimes because they clashed with the Sunsphere's carillon. The pipes are presently being restored and will soon ring across campus again. Through good times and bad, through depressions and recessions, Ayres Hall has remained proud and majestic. Outside, the trees grow higher and the city grows larger. And inside, the desks grow older and the paint chips away. But the tradition remains. And the spirit of "The Hill" that Brown Ayres discovered almost 80 years ago is still seen in the "beacon. "
Phoenix 31
Carolyn Linville
32 Ph oenix
In The Dachau Museum, Winter 1972 A tiny, tragic, wizened old man stares with many others from the silver picture frame. Outside, the leaden sky spits snow and fro zen rain, barely whitening the gravel paths and falling silently on the sparse, patchwork camp. the crinkled brown shoes, the worn muslin tacked on the walls - so few and so, so many to cover how curious Six million? Six million is the number of snowflakes falling on the Black Forest and the number of lines etched on this old man's face , silent , trapped here under glass, beneath the brittle Bavarian winter sky. What was he waiting for , this one old man - shorn of hair, eyes agog on that one day? (how could I have prepared to stand before this memory? Retrospect: Trafalgar Square on contentious Sunday afternoons; jagged cliffs near Monterey; a Confederate graveyard, slanting, filtered sunlight; novels by Hemingway, plays by Shakespeare . Ah yes, Old Jewish Man, I am awed by the stillness of this small town so near the beauty of your long forgotten towering Alps) I marvel at his rigid pose; I throw out my common line of humanity, wishing desperately to stand beside him, touch his stark face , stare hopelessly with him and my brothers into the tiny camera lens. But the cold, snowy rain and the crunching gravel beneath the tourists' feet remind me I can never join the six million.
Sammy Parker