Coraddi

coraddi • special

edition

Volume 1 A Tabloid Of Poetry

(^■il

J-^SUC^'J Wiff, AjoV£Ma£fi J9j/9?l

CortMl Special Edition. Paga 2

Coraddl Special Edition

Coraddl is pleased to present a tabloid of poetry— an
Idea that has been in the making for two years, and has
finally been realized. In this special edition, we offer
you not only some of the best student poetry at UNC-G,
but some of the best faculty poetry as well.

We would like to give special thanks to The
Carolinian, and Its Editor, Kendra Smith, for assistance
with this publication.

Editor

Associate Editor
Art Director
Business Manager
Advertising Manager
Advertising Salesperson
Cover Design

Mary Acosta
Vicki Bosch
Chuck Newman

Elizabeth F. House

Gene Hayworth

Fred Pierce

Mary Jane Maxwell

Lori Pfeffer

Lisa Powell

Stan McCulloch

Amy Stapleton
Mark Wallace
Molly Winner

CONTRIBUTORS

Student

Victoria Bosch Beth Pollock

Karen Hitchcock Carol Saunders
Chuck Newman Kathy Scherff
Bruce Plephoff

Clyde F.Smith
Teresa Taylor
Mark Wallace
Molly Winner

Faculty

Fred Chappell

Charles P.P. Tisdale David Rigsbee

It was odd
drinking wrne
from the little
globed glass you once
kept your goldfish in.

a year ago she swam
round and round
this miniature bowl
never touching the sides
and never getting anywhere
just a pretty piece
of live gold
barely existing
on your dresser
by the mirror

Beth Pollock

Drought

Carol Saunders

The flowers shed

Their petals on

the cracked

Earth.

laying in

sunlight

where Rivers

run low

the Animal's thirst

^oesunquenched.

Everything

depends on

the Rain.

Last Chapter

Karen Hitchcock

And Dorothy grew old. older than rags
Heaped and drooping and covered in sags.
The country grew dimmer and dust filled the air.
And Dorothy pulled at her old matted hair.

Wind hugged around corners, moaning a song
Of frightening fingers feeling along
Cracks between boards that were bending with pain,
Creaking and drying and waiting for rain-

And Dorothy lay in her usual place,
Her eyes of old marble burnishing space.
With their gleam of a candle, remembering years
And the wax of her memory running like tears.

So Dorothy remembered and twisting her smiles,
She crept through her stories and placed them in piles
With the yellowing quilts, useless and (hin.
That she drew to herself in a crumbling skin.

But she turned from her time, hushing its speech.
Letting go of her covers and opening her reach,
She sank back in pillows, feathers ancient and broken,
And listened and waited for something unspoken.

The rain fled its maker, hurriedly seeking
The earth's creviced warmth, amber and reeking.
And Dorothy flew from the tangles and pain.
Leaving behind Kansas' dust once again.

Friday's
Restaurant

New Menu!!
Speedy Delivery Service

Best Quality And Widest
Variety On Tate Street

Hear The Best
In Modern Music Nightly

407 South Tate Street
274-0569

2

Happiness is a Pastry

at

FRIAR'S
CELLAR

Candies • Wines • Cheeses • Coffees • Teas

Groceries for the Single Person

334 Tate Steet 272-0411

oiTsinnrsTTnnrfTinrtnrrirTnrinnnnr^

Channel 7

Condtff Special EdiKon. Page 3

Tenaya Canyon

Clyde F. Smith

I hear a constricted release of breath from the kitchen.

I look at my journal,

close it, put it away.

My pen had made only vague scratches.

I open my mail.

A cat enters the room and jumps into the shadow of my lap.

I toss it to the shadows beneath the desk.

It is not my cat.

It is not my house.

I understand the refugee.

I understand the hostage.

I hear the dishes clanking together,

the whine of hot water,

the scratching of a brillo pad

on my favorite chipped cup.

I turn the radio on and gulp warm water from the dull glass.

Ice cubes long gone.

I read the mail and listen to the cat

playing with the electric cords.

He has a skin disease and is restless.

My wisdom teeth are coming in and i have thick calluses

on my hands and feet.

I write a tetter to Heidi.

I call her a bitch, a slut, a whore.

I crv and mark up the letter,

then remember a postcard,

the postcard of Tenaya Canyon.

I find it and write:

Dear Heidi,

I wrote you a strange letter.

I decided not to send it.

I hope you have sweet dreams.

««*ft«ft*ft«*« «*«««***««*«**«««*#««***«««««

Molly Winner

don/t get me hysterical

i ain/t no baby doll to squeeze

to cry out

little squeals of pleasure.

tie a scarf around my neck/ tight

it was so cold but you kept me warm

you kept me silent

but i wanted to cry out.

i didn/t coz you had that look on your face.

you paid me well for free but i gave it to you

don/t you ever stop dreaming.

the lime we were on that wet grass

i w/ my petticoat peeping overmy thighs

&you laughing.

you wanted to dance make me free

i wanted to twist but you made me cry

you saw my white legs then you burst them open

open

open wider it won/t hurt

you said

i believed you.

i saw right then you had a way w/ words.

words you made them jump

fire at me

sting mc

burn bad

drop Ihem off your tongue bitter

hot sin

tongue of love

takeit outon me.

you knew i was your

jewel eyed

green eyed

princess

blonde hair

it was blonde on blonde just like the pictures

those pictures

you saw.

didn/t know they were me til now

well now you know

now you don/t need pictures anymore.

you took my blonde hair right up your lane

right up my alley

cat

almost but i/m kitten

kitten playful wanna make me purr.

rumble throat i try to catch it back-

can/t appear too eager.

til you saw i was not untouched

but you only made me purr

w/ your fire words & my blonde hair

so silky you put it in your mouth

to see if it would melt,

umm— does it taste good?

1 linew you/d like it

that/swhy i keep It

fine for you

can you plop my little ju ju bead

The dead
are led
by their
beds
Restless,
to sleep.
An insomniac

lies

(down).

KathyScherff

Beautiful Clothes, Jewelry

and Gifts from

Around the World

OPEN: 10-5 Monday-Saturday
275-2974

^vV^//^

new era boutique

1003 Spring Garden at Tate Street

«»»<^»4j»^Hj»^>l^,j^,j^^^^^^^^^^^^^j^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^J

Coratfd' Special Edillon, Page i

The Death of a Poet

Honor's hostage, the poet, is dead,

the viclim of careless and deceitful talk.

D'Anthes drilled out his heart with lead

and felled him like a clover stalk.

His soul had never any room to spare

for dishonor, shame, embarrassment, or spleen.

But when the world had an opinion to air

he revolted (as usual!). Now death intervenes,

for he was murdered. So what use

are these crocodile tears? These fatuous eulogies?

This gross retching up of lame excuses?

Death was Fate's unalterable decree.

When you first knew him didn't you

run after, a pack of syncophantic liars,

and just for fun pucker up and blow

the kindling of his barely lighted fires?

So what now? You should rejoice —

the last tortures were ghastly! Death

consumed him as (ire to a stick: his voice

(his garland!) died out with his breath.

As his blase murderer took aim,

mercy figured as the least of his vices.

Though empty, his heart beat the same

as always, and his trigger-hand was ice.

Why should it tremble? Like them,

like all the kiss-ass flunkies who bank

on perquisites, money, favor, and rank,

he was tossed our way by fate's whim.

A foreigner, he loathed our country too

(our barbarous countrv!), its language and traits;

he was bored stiff by our national debates

and of the poet he raised his hand to.

A Respectable Man

(Tolstoy's notebook)

I didn't sleep well and got up
and wrote about bravery. And so 1 forgot
to sit and reflect on the muzhiks.
This morning I looked frequently

In the mirror (only a ludicrous thing _
can come of this!), but I was happy
nonetheless with the deception and so
snuggled back into bed with a book.

718 W. Market St.
919-273-1396
'Quality service is

our trademark, '*

He's dead now. the grave's done its part.
Just like the unknown singer whose curse
was thai cat-like jealousy chose him for its mouse.

his Lensky, sung in immortal verse,

proves how subtly life follows art.

Why did he exchange his true friends' trust
for the envy, hypocrisy, anxiety, and lust
of the suffocating haute monde?
Why did he offer slanderers his hand
and make hollow men his confidantes

who could, from youth, show wisdom on demand?
Once they snatched the old wreath from his head
they put on thorns disguised with laurel leaf.

The hidden needles made their poison spread

as they cut his forehead underneath.
So the dissembling and shabbiness persisted
until the final days were frantic with alarms
of his decline. His death consisted
of hope and revenge dying in each other's arms.

The music that moved us - it gave

us such delight ■ is gone, the air is still.

The singer's only refuge is his grave,

his lips clamped light with the Reaper's seal.

And you, so hypersensitive to your worth
(your only pedigree's the blood of brutes)
would wreck the few whose misfortune (besides birth)
was to cross the wide path of your dirty boots.
You who crawl and fester around the throne
are the antithesis of Freedom, Fame and Genius.
You hide behind the law's skirts and groan
in ecstasy when Justice shrivels from disuse.

David Rigsbee

From now on, in order to amend my affairs
I must dally inspect my stupidity
in person, so to speak; slop building castles
in the air and disdaining the forms

adopted by all other people but me.
Accordingly I made rules; Constantly force
your mind to act with all its possible strength.
That is Rule 1 . The second follows:

What you've decided to do, do well.
and do not matter what. And the corollaries:
Think over every order from the management
of the estate. No retreat from reality

Faculty

But God judges, you masters of irrelevance!

His justice is sure, though He bides His tiriie.

He reads your reptilian thoughts in advance
and counts your baksheesh a spiritual crime.
Your denunciations will be totally passe

at the Judgment; your wits will desert you
and even your black blood will not wash away

the good poet's blood, which comes from virtue!

(1837)

Mikhail Lermonlov (18 1 7- 184 1}

adapted from the Russian

Note: Alexander Pushkin, Russia 's foremost poet,
died in January of 1837, following a duel with a French
attache,

one Baron d'Anthes, concerning the whereabouts
ofl^adame Pushkin 's affections. Lermontov's
partisan outburst earned him arrest and exile from
the Tsar, but also conferred on him his first fame.
He was 22.

The Lensky mentioned in the poem 's third part Is
the melancholy poet in Pushkin's novel-in-verse
Eugene Onegin. Ironically, he too dies in a duel.

permitted! If need be, be cold and flat,
but only after close scrutiny
and dire necessity. At parties
dance with the most Important ladles.

Speak distinctly, but offer no Impressions
you will have to live up to next time
in society. Choose difficult positions
and be foresquare In front of onlookers.

Try both to begin and end the conversation
always, but without habitual arguing
and constant changing from Russian to French.
Act! And carry on despite confusion.

Seek out the company of people
higher than yourself, for they harmonize
with the sphere of the possible, and theirs
Is an ease that time strangely sweetens.

Thus the key will be to draw a map
in advance for a day, a month, a whole
life, and as many days as I can be true
to my resolve I will continue to set myself

in advance. I must always know
at rigid intersections of time and place
how long I will stay and with what
to concern myself. Doubtless most

of these resolutions will be aftered,
bui all alterations must be explained
In the notebook, whose useful goal Is
that t must rise after, and be something.

As for you, 1 know you'll never believe
that I can change. You'll say, "So,
still at zero!" No, this time I'll
change in an entirely different way.

Before, I would mumble to myself.
"Now, let's do something," and sink.
But this time, God willing, I will
change, and someday be a respectable man.

Fred Chappell

The Queen

"Sing to the blue mountain, my dear one.

Where do you wander?
The skies muffle over with cloud

And the seas founder."

No letter, Marco, has come as you promised.
The linnet has relreated as the zone of sun
Fell south, the corn is gathered all in,
And early snow embitters the mountainside.
Yet I receive no sign.

My fancy portrays you lying broken

By robbers or horrid beast, and all bloodstained

Your mangled harp. Still worse,

New love may possess your mind

And you forget me, plying verse

To music, tuning compliments

To bluer eyes and brighter hair.

How anxiously I pace the battlements

And pretend to keep my eyes on

The shriveled gardens below

While watching the horizon.

Perhaps tomorrow shall bring news of you,

I think, and lay me down to sleep.

But this tomorrow comes on as empty

As the sky is deep.

"How carefree the song you sang me
When the meadow overflowed with white clover,

How winsome the vow you made me
To be my true and pliant- hearted lover."

In Castle Tzlngal I sigh long sighs

And wish I were a silly child again,

Nestled beneath my father's stout roof

And never stolen away to be the wife

Of an iron and fruitless man.

All I'd unremembered I remembered when

You struck the harp and sang the old old ballad.

Unbearable sweetness overcame my head

And heart. I gnawed my inner lip,

Recalling the voice of my gentle mother

When your voice lifted up.

I am not suited for the intricate gloom

And thorny Intrigue of a blackguard time.

There is a child, a sunny child.

Who dances within my breast and combs

Her sunny hair and coddles a painted mammet.

In these bleak years i am defiled

By the drunken ambitions, the nightmare designs

Of a petty Mahomet.

E
o
O

o

o

ALL 7.98 LIST ALBUMS 4.99
ALL 7.98 LIST 8 TRACKS
AND CASSETTES 5.75
EVERYDAY PRICES AT
SCHOOL KIDSI

I shall not bide here ever.

The poppy chalice shall cease my sorrow.

Or the river.

"As the lone long wind unwinds

Her bobbin of white thread
She sings a song of rejoicing

That she never wed." *

I am a captive lullabye in a land
Of battlesong; no one here
Loves fair word or silken hand.
My mother had not fitted me to brave
The lurid terror of my dreams of knives
Or the labyrinthine whispers that assail.
Asterve my wits. Here no man walks;
But sneaks or stamps or stalks.
And no one tells a tale but the telltale.
And no one thrives here but the mad

CortdOi Special Edillon. PaQe S

Faculty

Or guilty, I dare not confess

In chapel to receive assoitment;

The priest is but a spy.

All this world hates the good.

And I'm afraid that I

Will come to be of these and lose

My soul, dishonor my noble blood.

"Sing sing the silver willow
That flourishes by the stream
Sing sing the pink mallow
Like a faint flame."

Charles P.R. Tisdale

Vapor Trail

Because it cannot be spoken of
That Is why the sky is blue.

Blue, now, beyond bedroom window,
The silver speck breathes its white cloud
Across this square of morning.

There in the cockpit of his dream
Sun glitters the goggled birdman
Climbing through his silent hour
Where heart feels its beat
Exceed the tongue to tell it with.

Dear, at the window

My breath is fog on the glass.

I am writing four words

With my finger. Even before

"Loving you" is done, "I am" evaporates.

Spaces

Through the peepholes in the spiderpiani
Your eyes play hide and seek with a daddy
Gone spooky over lunch. Peanut butter
Cheeks giggle at the teasing of a ghost
Hell-bent on lasting one more Halloween.
The centerpiece is a camouflage of green,
Unseasonal mask, no false face,
A dozen honest glimpses through the blades,

Outside the leaves are falling off the trees.
This morning you hid yourself In the pile
I gathered to a mountain with my rake,
Running the teeth gingerly through the grass,
Careful not to jerk the newest roots.
The tangles unkinked like your hair at daylight
Filtered through my comb the drops of flour paste
Which i;esterday missed your paper dolls
And in the nightfall of your pumpkin moon
Paved the broompalh that switch might ride.

Tomorrow I will wake to the spaces
Reaching out beyond the autumn's end.
You can see so much when the limbs are bare—
The neighbor's laundry flapping on the line,
Smoke curling from the chimneys on the hill,
The unobtruded sun flooding the window
With the chilly thought of another winter
Looking down and through the space
Between the branches of the trees. I will hunt
For your face buried in the sky and miss
The day we knew things too close to sec through.

^*'" JijEaioi' Of ^%E^-^ ^% _. .^ ^»f^ ^%aL#'^ ^^fs.

THE CORNER

• Moravian Stars •
• Moravian Cool<ies •

"After 31 Years, most of our
customers know this."

STOCKING STUFFERS: Christmas

Cards— Wrap— Candles— Stationary

Toys— DISCOUNT BOOKS

TATE STREET SHOPPING CENTER

Open 9 AM-5:30 PM 274-4866
Large shipment of plants 99$ and up

Cortflfl'S(WCl»iedillon.Pags6

Home Run

Bruce Piephoff

Here I am at last

What more could I ask

on my thirtieth birthday

Typer. Home Run cigarettes, Java, a job, low rent (35$/mo.)

Irash pile in the yard, take around fhe bend, six pack in the frig

mice in the cupboard, snake in the attic, stray dog under the house

wild deer to admire, glue, lemon oil, Cream of Wheat

for the mice to eat while I'm asleep

No symphony of flushing toilets, thorazine, LSD. christian publications

ECT. pre frontal lobotomy, TM or other psychedelic experiences

shit stains in my undenwear

thumbtacks, crayons, shoe polish, rat poison

and other harmless objects like

a dog who's easy to live with, stamps, paper, cassette recorder

guitars, chairs, warm weather coming, stolen pens and pencils

cashews, avocado, tuna,

a sharp knife, rope, books, scrapbook and other dangerous articles

including mirrors, memories, a telephone and a ladder where the

side porch steps should be, stars in the sky, noone to say goodbye to

No algebra, permutations, locus of points, tedious tax forms, loan payments

Ice to melt, then boil for coffee, backgammon board, naked lady poker cards

a small harmless wart on my butt

visine, wood to build a fire in the front yard with

a leak tn the roof, snow drifts in the living room, 2 oranges,

a dozen eggs, and 3 frozen dill pickles

no neighbors, no clothes, a hat and a hard on

No family to disappoint, no steel eyes like national fingerpicks to look at

A broken window pane and a slight breeze through that pane

No bloated wallet, $$$, platinum blondes or mercury marquis w/dlvorcc

No shaky knees, liver, heart ground or sky

fleas.flies and bees and nightmares about you

and other dreams from Debussy, Van Gogh, Rimbaud when i can sleep

a flute, a kerosene lamp, no Dylan or Elvis records, Groucho nose and

glasses w mustache, Jesus comic book, no barbells to lift or liver and whey...

windows to stare out of(or peek out of) and walls covered with watercolor

paintings, crayon scratching, postcards, calendars, poems, letters,

pictures, construction paper valentines, lipstick and grease; also to stare at

crickets, dogs, a space heater, mice and the frig to listen to...

Life's not so horrible, alone at 30

without tv, on a Monday night at 3:05 am in Stem, NC

! put Al Jarreau on the antique 2 cylinder Voice of America Hi-Fi

[one speaker blown) and get a low voltage shock treatment

from the armature; the usual (treatment for manic depression)

then light a Home Run (the cure)

and watch Ty Cobb steal second, third, home

through the smoke

THE COLLEGE SHOP

Needlepoint & Counted Cross-

Stitch • New Penguin & Nevita

Yarns • School Supplies •

Stationary

41 3 TATE STREET 272-5941

Yum-Yum

across from
Mossman Building

ice cream
hot dogs

open:Tues-Sat
lOarn-IOpm

2414 Spring Garden Street

292-7765

or
855-5707

Bring Us Your..

• Reports

• Term Papers

• Thesis

• Dissertations

CAROLINA

POPY

If^hen You Need "Purrrfect" Copies. ...Fast!.

• Manuscripts

• Flyers

• Printing

• And Just Plain Copies

For that extra impressive quality needed
for Resumes, Thesis, Dissertations

try our Kodak Copiers (2 av/ailable)
• Print, collate, staple your malerial in one step.

Tired of High Prices?
Try our Canon Copier

for3<:

(3 copiers available
for quick service)

Watch For

Coraddi

Magazine

Coming

November 23

DTnonNDinon
nKDRDonGnE

DRDDIDNDDAD
MDEnRDIDCnA

A film by Tommy Dorset!,
Herbert Cambili, Jr.
and Richard Hodges

Free Showing Tonight!

6:30 p.m. Thurs. Nov. 19

Forney 211

Paris Salon: An Exhibition

Victoria Bosch

Crowded. Stuffy.

Wfiose gnarled, calloused fiand

forced brealh into this rock?

Steamy sweat on smooth white marble.

Blood flows beneath its icy surface.

Flesh. Chisled out of stone.

Still life passion: tangible sensuality.

Museum walls, curator's stare,

no consolation.

I find myself naked,

my secrets displayed,

set in artist's stone.

Contemplating Hamlet

Mark Wallace

Only men of grandeur arc giv'n to seeing ghosts.
But once, when I was small, I took it in my head
to spot one on the steps. Trembling I ran to boast

to Dad, who half-asleep lay dreaming in his bed,
that I had seen a great white figger, walking just
outside our house, so graceful I knew he was dead.

Dad dismissed me. "All," he said, "who quit this earth must
in their graves remain. None are while, and none can walk,
and none their shapes retain. The dead arc loaves of dust."

Falher-the ghosts of leaves, they cover you and, rustling, talk

of shifting souls. Child again as I take the Host,

your throng I watch for — there! or there!; at the stone I balk.

surfside

Chuck Newman

we are riding in my car.
this is the week of rain,
the wet month come a week early,
it has cleared some in the last two days.
the water on the streets is receding--
we get tired of the water on the streets,
my friend beside me is looking at the
bright color paintings In his new magazine,
and when we get home we will try on
our new shirts.

rain at the beach.

we can sleep late,

and the band outside the hotel

won't play in the afternoon.

caught inside by the rain.

melanic tells us to realize our bodies,

to holdall lines straight.

all the girls put on boys' shoes

and dance around the room

in their undenA/ear.

sometimes we have to get out.
we go to the wet strand for walks,
it is a chance to wear our new shirts,
and we can look at people.

my girlfriend wears linen pants on the beach
with the hem rolled up.
she goes into the ocean up to her knees
then runs out.

Many have tried. NONE HAVE SUCCEEDED.
New York Pizza is still the best.

Carolina

Circle Mall

621-3394

337 Tate St.
272-8953

M-Sat. 11 a.m.- 1 a.m.
Sun. 1 p.m.-l a.m.

CoradOl Special Edlllon, Pige 7

Our Relationship

Teresa Taylor

I hear you on the other side

of the door as i prick

my ears to

hear your presence beyond

the wooden structure

the keys jiggle in your

hands 1 can Imagine you

fumbling for the right

one

as you fumbled for

the right word

or the right touch

to please me

only to fall.

try another key now as
I reach for the door
handle

anxious to turn It
and open the door
as i am always
so eager for what
1 think may be

but never Is.

ART SUPPLIES CENTER

COMPLETE LINE
FOR ALL ARTISTS

PROFESSIONAL OR AMATEUR

Southern

PHOTO PRINT AND SUPPLY COMPANY

1639 SPRING GARDEN ST.
GREENSBORO, N.C. 27402

274-1541

WINDSOR-NEWTON

BLOCKX

BAINBRIDGE

GRUMBACHER

CONTE

LIQUITEX

OIL PAINTS

BRUSHES

ACRYLICS

CANVAS

WATER COLORS

ACCESSORIES

When it comes

to freshy hot

PIZZA — P.TA.

comes to you!

$3.00 off any

large two item

pizza

$L00 off any

small two item

pizza

Expires 12/18/81 ONE Coupon Per Pizza

CALL NOW!!!

855-3780

NO CHARGE FOR WRITING CHECKS ^