Coraddi

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Digitized by the Internet Archive

in 2010 with funding from

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N2C CO

CORADDI

Spring 1977

the university oj north Carolina at greensboro

^Credits

Editor: Deborah Ann Troutman
Associate Editor: Martha A. New
Business Manager: Kurt Beron
Art Editor: Claudia Green

Editorial Board: David Hall, Head

With a little help from our friends:

Nancy Foster
Gary Lilley
Craig Miller
John B. Riley
Robin Starolitz
Diana Wilder

Bruce Clapper
Peter Rutledge
Renee Littleton
Roger Swift
The Media Board
Randy Sides
Tine' Johnson

Coraddi is the fine arts magazine of the University of North Carolina at
Greensboro.

"Admission to, employment by, and promotion in the University of
North CaroHna and all of its constituent institutions shall be on the basis of
merit, and there shall be no discrimination on the basis of race, color, creed,
religion, sex, or national origin."

Submissions are now being accepted for the next issue of Coraddi.
Students of UNC-G and members of the Greensboro community washing to
join the staff should drop by the Coraddi offices. Room 205 Elliott Hall
UNC-G. Undergraduates not interested in working for the magazine but
wishing to meet and talk with other writers may contact the Undergraduate
Writers Meeting through the Coraddi office.

PRINTED BY GREENSBORO PRINTING COMPANY

Copyright 1977, Coraddi.

.Contents

literature

The Sexes

Mornings

"Lady Sweet..."

I Believe

Southern News "1977"

Take Me There

"Masquerade..."

"Night guards settle back..."

Black Poem

I Got Lost

The Hobbyist

Untitled

The Reason Trees Go Down to the Ground . . . .

The Visit

The Secret

"Seawalk..."

She Had a Dirty Advantage Over the Rest of Them

Azul

La Belle

Beautiful Friend

"awake..."

"the snake charmer..."

"The Wail"

"i bought the..."

"Yesterday you were near..."

FLA/6 July, '77

Portrait

On Learning

Elegy

Collaboration

Shadows

.Jeff Melvin 5
.F.W. Smith 6
. . . S.K.F. 6

. Anna Renee Greene 7

F.W. Smith 8

. Diane Witherspoon 10
. . . .Emma Adams 10
. . . Gary D. Lilley 1 1
. . . Gary D. Lilley 11

Jeff Melvin 12

. . Marilynn Byerly 14
.... Rudy Martin 15
. .Lawrence Bullock 17
. .Lawrence Bullock 17
. .Lawrence Bullock 17
. Clarice Zdanski 18, 19
. .Lawrence Bullock 23

J.S. 24

Patti Morel 24

.... Nancy Foster 24
.... Ric Marshall 25

Brian Lsing 28

. .Lawrence Bullock 28

Brian Lsing 28

Anonymous 29

. . . .John B. Riley 30
.... Nancy Foster 31
.... Don Sheffield 31
. Clarice Zdanski 32, 33
.... Nancy Foster 35
Marilynn Byerly 37—40

art

Mike Van Hout

Lithograph

9

Mike Van Hout

Woodcut

12, 13

Pat Thompson

Pen & Ink

16

Jeff Kinard

Pencil

22

Mike Van Hout

Linoleum

26

Jeff Kinard

Pencil

27

Jeff Kinard

Oil

36

photography

William J. Frogg 4

Keith Kolischak 19, 20, 21

David Reavis Cover, 32, 33, 34, 36

Editor's Note: All material ivithi)i the Black Arts Festival Section of this
issue o/ Coraddi ivere chosen by the NeoBlack Society. Coraddi was glad to
provide a place for their artistic expression and we encourage all students to
submit.

As an extension of the Black Ai^ts Festival, the NeoBlack Society in
conjunction with the Coraddi Staff decided to publish a special collection of
the poetic works of Black students. Our hope is that through the words of
these individuals one will receive a more unique awareness and appreciation
of our culture.

We wish to express sincere gratitude to Cynthia Crenshaw, Gary Lilley,
Angie Jones, Wane McNair, Sherry Meachum, Sammy Parsons, and other
individuals who devoted themselves to making this expression of art possible.
We wish to thank Clarence Moore for his support of our endeavors. To
Debbie Troutman and the Coraddi Staff, we give you a very special thanks
for all your support, encouragement and guidance in making this publication
a success.

Sincerely,
Michelle L. Linster

o

1977

<§>

v^

The Sexes

All your men wear English leather
or they wear nothing at all

As the World Turns the Young and the Restless
Search for Tomorrow by the Guiding Light
the things you know about love and life
you owe to CBS, ABC, or NBC, the networks
and what is the net result — shallowness.

You are so shallow, looking into your soul

is like looking into a drained pool, blue-green emptiness

what of the battle of the sexes

we read of women's lib, and changing women's roles,

but prime time never stops sending the messages

that have plagued us all since the fall from the garden

Everyone knows how a man treats a woman
but can you tell me why he treats her that way.

No, I won't neglect the other side

You don't know satisfaction

always looking for a piece of action

you expect her to be a cover girl

a Noxzema beauty, her attractions store bought

and her conversation and movements TV taught

veiled sentiments, hooded eyes, shadowed smiles

you're as real as the Six Million Dollar Man

what's the end result — you're mechanical also.

-Jeff Melvin

Mornings

Must I be getting old
seems romance
no longer pleases me
it only friglitens me
nightly, when we love
for while we love-
exploring
relishly caressing
one another's anatomy,
our souls project
further onto infinity
fading with
the dust of dawn,
listening as birds
serenade enchantment
into our ears-
then to want your touch
in need of your love
i loom for love,
an ecstasy we knew,
a love we'd have
if only you were near.

-F. W. Smith

Lady Sweet,

Siveet as a glass of
Chocolate milk

Skin so well threaded

with ole black strings of silk

Lady — sweet black lady
Sweet are you

But of course Lady
I ahvays knew
So do you.

-S. K. F.

I Believe

If feelings of joy and happiness are most desired by
man, why is it that I, a human being, constantly torture
myself with thoughts of past sadnesses and tears? It is that
I believe in the past and present pain that adheres to
creating that which lam. For it is truth, it is the non-hesitance
of unpeeling my petals that creats within me a sense of freedom
and true being. A man does not really come to appreciate the heals
of life until he experiences the wounds. I can speak for no one
but myself, therefore, I relate to no experience but my own.

In attempt to be the best that I can be

My roots emerge and feign anxiety

Yet times that seemed so hard and full of woe

Make clear the lessened steps I have to go

For no one soul stays heaved with darkened strife

The sad makes silent, succumbs to sparkled life.

One 's journey through life must begin from one side of
a rainbow to the other. A rainbow that is filled with
raindrops together with sunshine. The appearance of the
rain and sun interchanges and it is this interchange that
forms the true individual.

Yes . . . I believe in pain because it has created that
which I am. And that which I am ... is me.

—Anna Renee Greene

Southern News "1977'

No more pork for me sir.

Yes-I'm gittin' tired

Of them grits too—

Along with those other

High blood-pressure chops

Spiced in gravy sops

Which you've giv'n me

Over these past-Two Hundred Years.

More steaks please sir-
Indeed that Caviar there
Looks fine. Just the way
It is— just the way
It should be.

Come on. Dammit with my
Education. I'm gittin' tired
Waiting for you.
Because you finally want
To change history—
And confess the truth.
But that's the way
It should be— sir.
Since cowboys were wrong
While Indians?

For these days-I'm too

Busy. Listening to Neeme Yarvi

Conduct the Leningrad Symphony

As you stand in dismay— asking

Who's Andrew Young? Then

Bob Dylan informs me! About

Those innocent niggers

Shot in southern towns—

Where white folks

Pulled their triggers

In the comer of dark alleys.

Yes-I am BLACK. But not
As militant as my brother
Was ten years ago before
They shot him to death.

They excuse your wisdom— I
Try too. But I realize
Tomorrow it will
Still be the same.

For you smile at me
With your Davidson diploma
As you leave the restroom
In private conversation.
And I smile back. Because
My boss you are. Even though
I can't excuse your statement—
That you knew— she was
Living with a coloured man.

And I didn't know
Who she was. Nor
do I really care.

But the poor child

Won't be at work

Tomorrow Nor

Thereafter—

Since she's been

Fired by her

Equal opportunity employer.

-F. W. Smith

Take Me There

I want you to take me to that place where the air is clean

and always clear.

Where the sweet sunshine is always near

Where crystals of sugar run in rivers that flow
Where happiness is the only crop that grows

Where broken hearts are mended just like new
Where the sky above is the only thing that's blue

Where wearing a smile comes easier than wearing a frown
Where looking ahead is the thing to do instead of looking down

Where you're molded into a winner, proud, and free
Where such things as losers could never be.

You hold the key to unlock yours
Just think of all the open doors

To these never before traveled roads of chance.
Listen to the music, it's our time to dance.

There's no miracle that love can't create

And now that love has captured us why try to escape?

So take my hand and let's go to that land which is a work of

our own art

A place that we already have right inside our own hearts.

-Diane Witherspoon

Masquerade...

Hide yourself behind your thoughts.

Give only to me what seems

easy to explain

easy to believe

Give to me this.
Fool me wdth your false lies that

stem from your love for me
That somehow became

tangled and twisted
When you were debating in your heart
Whether or not to love

and when

and to whom

and how and why and
Give to me
Give to me...
Your love.

The only true part ot yourself that
Seems special and genuine, unrehearsed
And lies secretly hidden behind your
Masquerade.
This love expresses a part of yourself.

A part that is afraid to be

touched, to be hurt, to be held,

to be kissed...
Give to me this.

-Emma Adams

10

Night guards settle back
Waiting for shift change
Wives' soft thighs and kissing
Their kids off to school.

A white-haired trustie,

Face furrowed by minutes

Stretching into days into years

Of forced smiles

At warden's jokes about how

He screws his wife

When she wants it,

Sings out his frayed

Good morning.

Day guard tallies

A measure of the strength

Of the bars.

The voice

of his spit shine boots

Rings off the walls

Pulling thoughts from afar

Like a glimpse

At the knife scar

That crosses the face

Of the prison preacher.

Coffee in the kitchen

Floats through the block

Shaking long-timers

Into cold water showers.

Spry young cons

Rush to morning chow talking

About swaps of fatback for toast.

—Gary D. Lilley

Black Poem

When I sat in back

Of Miss Ninth— grade Teacher's

Suppose to be remedial class

Courting Backrow Debbie

(Who I loved more than anything)

Ole teacher wanted us

To write poems on how we loves

And feels being black.

Now I ain't ever seen

No black poem before

Because the books never say

Just what shade the thoughts were

And you never know what color

The poem-writer is

Unless they say so.

But my hand roam

All over Backrow Debbie,

Across her behind as soft

As the dandelions we picked

In the eveing Summer rains,

And I thought black

Must be something nice

To lay down in at night

And forget just how hard the day was.

-Gary D. Lilley

11

I Got Lost

/ used to sign my letters

with Peace Power and Liberation
At the age of twelve
I was a manchild in the promised land
Free Che free Angola free Huey P
those were the cries that freed me
My sister would call me her young warrior
I was proud, arrogant, bitter, black
I got the news from my black brothers
At a tender age,

I read Cleaver, Brown, Carmichael, Fanon
I knew who the wretched of the earth were
the devils never tricked me.
Not for one moment

I was happiest during the struggle
I cried for my sisters
I planned to die for my children
but there weren 't enough of us

the bravest died at the hands of the Federal Bureau of Instigation
the sorriest lied
the youngest like me cried
and I slowly lost my revolutionary mind
I traded my liberation shirts for Nik-Niks
My 'fro has given way to a ducktail
I make my sisters suffer

and even my friends think me to be a pretty boy
at the ripe age of 22
Fm a disaffected veteran
sister I never sold out
I simply got lost
waiting for the shit to hit the fan.

—Jeff Melvin

12

The Hobbyist

Marilynn Byerly

The young girl grabbed the Comet and with
wild abandon doused the sink, pressing the corners
with the brush she hummed an out-of-tune tune,
did a behind the back shot with the water gun
spattering the window above the sink, and walked
from the kitchen.

This was the ordinary kitchen that the creature
beheld as it stuck its head above the hole in the
sink. Intelligently it raised what would roughly be
called a hand and wiped the detergent from its eye.
Advancing to the edge of the sink, it began walking
up the slippery sides with the suckers on its feet.

The entire expanse of the room amazed the
creature, and all the many wonders frightened him.
He longed for something familiar, and his eyes
lingered on an odd object which reminded him of
his own house with its small cubicles.

"E-g— g c— a— r-t~o--n, I wonder what that
means? Maybe there are others here like us on this
planet." He pondered sadly when he thought of
home. It had been a long journey from the planet
Zane. They had hoped for colonization and

inter-marriage wath these people, but until now
there had been no hope. The Zanes were a dying
race for all the female Zanes had suddenly died of
a mysterious disease. This last scout ship had been
sent to look at this planet in search of women.
Zak, the Zane, sighed.

Suddenly, Zak saw the most beautiful female
Zane of his entire life. She had her limbs retracted
and was asleep in a basket-type thing among red
boulders. Impassioned and hopeful, he ran to her,
threw his arms around her curved body and kissed
her fiercely. It was definitely love or frustration at
first sight on his part.

Before he could waken the female, however, he
heard the Earth-creature coming. Reluctantly he
hid, hoping not to be seen.

The girl grabbed a knife and split the female in
two squeezing her blood into a glass. She then
threw the lovely orange body into a bag.

Zak of the planet Zane took one last look at the
planet Earth as he scampered down the drainpipe
to his ship. This planet did not seem friendly to the
poor outcast Zanes.

14

Untitled

Rudy Martin

The shuttle slammed! into the frame.

Herman stood beside the loom staring at the
pattern. Then the shuttle slammed! into the frame.
A weaver in the next isle was blowing lint otf his
machine. The cotton floated around Herman, then
settled behind him. Then it slammed! into the
frame. The sweeper ten minutes till smoke break
came by with his broom and gathered up the
cotton.

"His name?" asked the insurance adjuster.

"Herman Stultz," answered the foreman.

"Let me see. 'Cause of death — accident. How
old was he?"

"'bout 30."

"About 30?"

The foreman shuffled some papers in the file
and answered, "33. 34 in March."

Then it slammed! into the frame no lunch five
minutes to smoke break slammed! into the frame
she didn't fix me no lunch shuttle slammed! into
the frame babies up all night slammed! into the
frame.

"Was he working on the machine?"

"Yea, I think so. He's been watching it all
morning."

"Why," asked the man, "didn't he cut it off
before he started to work on it?"

"Don't know. He never done nothing like this
before. He was always a safe worker."

It slammed! into the frame come on i need a
cigarette slammed! into the frame \im's out of the
booth i can go now slammed! into the frame.

"Your turn, Herman," yelled Jim, trying to be
heard above the machines.

"Thanks! Watch the isle for me, will ya, Jim?"

He went into the booth and shut the door
closing out some of the noise. He watched the
shuttle retreat to the bobbins and then speed to
the other side of the loom and slam against the
[frame. He took out a Pall Mall and lit it. The

shuttle came back then sped away and slammed
against the frame.

The fan in the small booth pulled the smoke
out and gave him a little fresh air. The shuttle went
down and slammed against the frame. He reached in
the chest pocket of his overalls and took out his
pocketbook. He held a picture of his children
emily, mary, jo, jack, sue who were standing randy,
larry, lizanne, in stairstep fashion reggie and either
sammy or debbie beside his wife Gladys who was
pregnant again.

"Why did he have to get down so close to the
cloth, I wonder?"

"Well, sometimes if you get real close you can
see if the shuttle is lop-sided. Guess he got too
close."

"Yea. Made quite a mess," answered the man as
he signed the claim. "I noticed a cigarette butt
laying over there on that tool bench. Your men
don't smoke outside that booth do they?"

"Oh no! No sir they don't! They know better."

"Well, watch and make sure."

It slammed into his frame He put the
pocketbook back in his pocket. Then he spit in his
hand and ground out the cigarette. It slammed!
either sammy or debbie into the frame.

"Eighteen years on the job and then a careless
mistake kills him."

He opened the door and walked straight to the
work bench and laid the butt down slammed! Then
he took off his tool belt and laid it dovsoi.

"Thing I can't figure is why he didn't have his
tools. Man can't fix a shuttle vwthout tools, can
he?"

"Nope. Sure can't. Let's get back to work."

He marched to the loom.

"Thanks for watching 'em Jim."

"Sure thing."

The shuttle went back and then sped toward
him and slammed into the frame. Then it repeated
the same motion again. And again. Herman bent
over and laid his head on the frame.

15

The Reason Trees

Go Down to the Ground

she looked at the sky

saw through branches, a night

three times its original length, attributable

to a god's desire.

Trees, attached as they must be, still

she saw them move,

spring at

the moon, and bruise the firmament.

They held there, roots

suspended, mute with want.

They grew longer, pushed back into the barren
earth. Not without noise and impossible
moaning, limbs released their hold. All night
they did this, as she watched, as she watched.

—Lawrence Bullock

The Secret

A branch scrapes, reiterative
in some measure, a message,
unrecognized, or

recognized. The skin
bruised, pulled back
on the hands, bluish

The Visit

against the overall

pale white, white, quite.

And beside the hands

I got up. I walked around.

I walked through a room. I

had not wanted to write this

down but you insisted.

Color of glass, it hangs there

in the light. Are

you alright? I'll bring you something

if you tell me what it

is you want. There

are trees here, sweet gum and

crab apple. They sway ever so slightly

in the light breeze.

—Lawrence Bullock

the apothecaries in
varied jars and the
fruit also bruised

in the indifferent light.
Allowing for rhythm,
a tranquil scene, seeming-
ly saying love,
and in any event live
in whatever time

there may be.

-Lawrence Bullock

17

Sea-walk.
Sandpiper-like I want

(walking on hot sand hot feet parched lips)
To be wet, refreshed
Lapped-against by sea water.

These waves present a problem
Knock me toandfro forth
And back.

they

I must be ready for these waves.

I must watch them.

I must make splashes and

Judge by the size of the splash

(my feet hke big drops of water
make impact explosion
spread of surrounding drops)

Bigger

Bigger as I get deeper.

I stop.

I face an open sea

(I become rotted piling 1

feel years of unsteadiness years

with each wave wave wave stronger.

If I walk side ways

(if I am always ahead of the

wave,

the force less strong

the water not deep

and lukewarm

and dead-fishy-feeling)
If I go deeper

(if I stay behind the break,

knee-deep

I must drag my feet

judge my progress by the line

my feet make in the sand)
The waves puU.

I will set my sight on those sand dunes;
Push and pull and grunt

Struggle

Get there?

(I pull

the water

pulls—

I get nowhere.)

I stop.

Confront wave
Full force.

I de-form 1,

Undone, washed

(stringy and jellyfish

and somewhat shriveled)
Shoretoward.

Shells.

They have theirs

(ruins—

so many dead and long-dead

things even longer.)
They crumble
Ground by watery teeth
Buried undersand
Layers

(how many waves how much sand pulled

over today's shells?)

I make a lone funeral procession

Feet chant.

Mourn a shifting grave.

who puts them there

These waves?

( want to dance on their edges,

audacious walker,

right on their swell-breaks

the edge, that translucence,

queasy blue shimmering.)
They foam and grind and spew,
Roll and churn and bubble-
A bumpy ride.

They take their death loudly

Biting sand
Spitting foam
Chewing shells.

To see the wave coming,

To have it hit you

And you STILL HOLD YOUR GROUND

(not anchored,

not BURIED or

rooted...)
Do you
Watch it coming from way back there?

(anxious,

if you follow it in,

lose the one right here,

trip on small washed out washed waves.)

Do you

Go knee- or deeper.
Watch the one right here?
(know its swelling,

be that bursting

the edge takes years.)

—Clarice Zdanski

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V

She Had a Dirty Advantage Over the Rest of Them

I'm not saying she taught me self-respect.

I wouldn't say that.

She was just more articulate about it than most, she

painted the picture, I bought it and I

hung it and goddamn enjoy the thing.

People have their edges, she said, I know

I've got mine, or something like that, she

said, and I'll make their life just miserable

if they make mine miserable. Don't I have enough

problems, she said, Bullock, she said don't

give me any shit. The fierce fire of the wronged one

sprang like red water from a rock in the

middle of a huge and nebulous arena.

I just do the best I can. There's love,
there's food and water, there's literature,
there are all kinds of

diversions and conversations, and love is the
hardest to get. Fall into it— bullshit-
sneak up behind it and give it a goose in the ass.

Let it know how we can be, or are.

—Lawrence Bullock

23

Azul

tonight i tried to write a poem for you
in Spanish

to what ends will i not go to please a woman?
one woman

writing poetry in a language i can't even speak

it was to be a classic poem

using classic images

blood

the sun and sea

time

and love

i love you

is a phrase i have tried hard not to use.

-J.S.

La Belle

The canvas barren
Insinuates creation;
Likewise the frame.
Solidly empty.

-Patti Morel

Beautiful Friend

We weaved between grey /brown buildings,
Like narrow sidestreets, through cool nights
Of waving, black silk; your mesmerizing voice
Sounded velour in the supple twilights.
Your exquisite hand guided me through the daze,
In hushed cafes, I forgot my appetite,
I read your face, filled with cold fire.
Each line, conttour, and sleeping desire.
We uttered away each hour,
In cars and bars and dives.
With searching eyes-never understanding.
Now moments are movies with no end,
I playback the guile and your smile-
never understanding, beautiful friend.

—Nancy Foster

24

awake

it is snowing

there is no piano in this house

no music to kindle the fireplace

no song to stir this desolate bed

they have taken the lock-key, they bring fresh bandages

only

no feeling

bare, even naked, dare i sing in this bed?

cling tightly to these bedsheets, cling tightly to this

blanket this

frozen, no feeling

no piano in this house

sing? no!

speak?

i beg presence of counsel, i seek witness

i hide

not even so hopeful as to

pray

no patience with screaming, i am

frozen

hear? believe?

one so glib? so certain?

seek refuge, no revelry

i cannot speak to you

cannot feel you

cannot remember you

the blood is so thick i cannot lie down to sleep for fear

of drowning

they have not come for weeks

how is there so much blood?

where is my wound?

there is blood enough for two

— Ric Marshall

25

— N /.

./

.^

the snake charmer

stands by a green stream

at the edge of the jungle

with the echoes of drums and dreams

as persistant as a heartbeat

as the serpents sJiift and sway

to a snake rhythm

and a grace of water

slow and steady

the snake charmer blows the air

thru the flu te

of reed

and sways with the snakes

in the warm jtniglc night.

—Brian Lsing

The Wail

Old, old and forever
lamenting. Oh must
I relearn everything

today, mayn't I have

one day off, is it

so very important that

I turn on the gas turn
on the electricity learn
the new tax codes when

so glorious, glorious
is the construction in
silk across the juniper

bush?

—Lawrence Bullock

i bought the

tiger lilies

on a market street in paris

and held them like kittens

on the streets of paris and the metro

for all to see

and for the first time

felt unleashed

stalking the afternoon

with the grace of a tiger

hunting the dream

hidden in montparnasse

reflected in a glass of pernod.

—Brian Lsing

28

Yesterday you were near.

Today you are far away,
you cared.

I don't know,
you were gentle.

you are harsh,
you were kind.

you are cruel,
you had time for me.

you won't make the time,
you listened without impatience.

you have to check your appointments,
you wondered how I felt inside.

you don't even take the time to ask.
you were honest.

you turn away and hide,
you were full of courage.

you run in fear,
you were involved with people.

you turn away, you've grown too close,
you were happy.

you are bitter.
Yesterday is memories.

Today is yesterday.

—Anonymous

29

FLA/6 July,'77

slowly I rise, tall to watch the morning burn black on the

hairline horizon,
Singing summer seagulls, ocean rolling westward,
feet trailing, indenting in the sand, chilled and wet.
Heat trom within, frost fires of the night
I shake in the vibrating musical air, stumbling before I
Fall, lifting myself heavenward with passing glory;
Suddenly I see, standing still
A faceless man.

"O' great planet of the nine-eyed night
What wonders, gasses, are in my sight?
And what does this visitor, messenger of light,
Winged feet perhaps to save him strife
Desire from me, the one that fights?"

He spoke not, or she, who knows in this sad paradise,
Bending palms, beautiful power, crashing waves unheeded unheard,
I walk on to never reach, never see, life surge lifted
I groped, powerless I wallowed in the sand, vibrating, full
of life.

-John B. Riley

30

Portrait

You walk like a soldier

or should I say prince?

You are your own chef d'oeuvre

painting a dark microcosm

peopled with creatures

of stone sans eyes.

I want to portray you:

beauty among ugliness

perfection in a maimed world.

You walk like a soldier,

a blonde Arian prince

in a trench coat—

the portrait I try to

capture with vain words.

I surrender my eyes

Reich says it's right

or wear dark glasses

to shut out the light for you.

Your blue/green eyes

My green/blue eyes collaborate,

but I sense your dormant hate

behind your brilliant smile—

a paradox that haunts me.

—Nancy Foster

On Learning

Wlien one must learn of another,

let him not forget himself

for it is he who learns,

not they:

He must still be himself

if not outwardly then inwardly.

He must still lead the type of life

that was meant for him;

He must never try to lead a life

meant for those he learns by.

If he makes new friends and changes

in the process,
let him learn to live with the friends,
both old and new,
but more important, let him learn
to live without,

those friends he has lost in the process.
This is my hope,
this is my prayer.

-Don Sheffield

31

Elegy

My great-grandmother has died.
She was an immigrant from Poland.
She had ten children.
Six lived. Six.

She has thirty-three great-grandchildren.

I am one.

We are different from each other;

Our parents we are different from.

They are from theirs. ,

She prayed,

She prayed all day long.

She loved Jesus.

We, she said, should love Jesus.

She was Catholic.

She prayed the rosary.

She prayed from prayer books I could not understand.

They were Polish.

Her children know Polish;

They speak it. They have taught it to their children.

We do not know Polish —

The great-grandchilren.

The children bought her a dress to be buried in.

It was purple.

She had picked out a blue nightgown (it was old) for a shroud.

A shroud, she said, when i die.

Promised things, when I die, she said,

In a Polish accent.

32

When I die...

When I die...

Did she know her children and their children and

Their children

Would give her to Walter?

Walter would wash her and wax her,
Make her white.

Comb her hair and shut her eyes,
He even put her glasses on.

Alice says.

You done a good job, Walter

You done a good job.

See how small she looks in the purple gown...

She combed my hair when I was smaller.

She braided my hair and made me look Polish.

She would kiss me with mushy, old lips.

She smelled old.

I never saw my great-grandfather.

She said he was a good husband;

She said she loved him;

She said he was stern. She said he loved her.

She got lost in my hair as she braided it.

She sang.

She sang in Polish.

She sang in a voice half-gone.

She was lost in my hair as she braided it.

I thought it was funny, but I cried.

See how small she looks in the purple shroud.

Walter drives the children in a black limousine

To the graveyard we bring up the rear—

The children and their children and their children.

They put her in the mortuary,

I guess,

Because it is cold, so we didn't freeze.

We do not bury our dead.
We did not bury Anna.
My great-grandmother,
We did not bury her.

They put her in the mortuary,

I guess,

Because it was cold

Outside.

-Clarice Zdanski

33

Collaboration

We walked downstairs

into the theatre,

in Chien Andalou—

together/alone

I didn 't recognize Buntiel

walking up with a razon

But you came back again

I went home alone

I have my own movies to direct

And there 's a part for you—

an artistic collaboration

poetry -painting

design desire

2.D 3-D

ultra violence in red/black/white
Forget sfumato, if you like
I'll turn down the light
Snatch out my eyes—
an exhibition on your bureau
only fifty cents...
Two Expressionists at work/play
Chip away at whatever you detest
I'll be your masterstroke,
even a memento mori
in puzzle pieces.

—Nancy Foster

35

Shadows

Marilynn Byerly

The room clung to a sense of emptiness which
seemed fed by the fire gnawing within the belly ot
the fireplace. Scent of smoke and the crackle of
burning logs hovered above towering dark
furniture, book cases and oil paintings which
covered the walls like the eyes of Argos. Light
from the fire flickered in the darkened room. The
flame remained constant, lapping at the profile of
the woman standing before the huge stones of the
fireplace framed by the massive stones and the
flame which painted the room with its light. She
studied an empty glass still marked by moisture in
her hand. The man stood before a full-length
portrait of a woman of twenty-five.

"Your mother?"

"Yes," the woman brushed a lock of hair
nervously from her face. "It was painted by
Bayford— Father before she died."

"A beautiful and compelling woman. When?"

She strove to concentrate for the accustomed
answer. "Thirty-five years ago in the Tarlon
Gallery fire. His best paintings burnt with her. She
and his masterpieces. The other, lesser paintings
remaining after the fire are here in this house. This
whole place is a gallery. Ford always said, 'What's
the use of having paintings hang in every major
gallery in the world if you can't have them in your
own home?'"

"And now he's dead too."

"And now he's dead too," Mint continued, "I
always thought it strange that Father could join
two such disparate careers together— painting and
law. 'Beauty and the brain' he called it." She

laughed hollowly. "Beauty and the brain— now that
would be a good mock title for you and me. His
daughter and his law partner."

"I wasn't a law partner— just a very junior grade
associate. Ford kindly offered me a spot in his law
office because of my father. Father was one of the
best lawyers in the country— I wished to follow in
the old man's footsteps, but he died before Massey
and Massey could become a reality. Your father
held great respect for my father, so he offered me a
position as a junior partner. I fear Bayford always
regretted that. He was a 'great lawyer.' A great
lawyer, a great painter, a great man— a full life. All
that is left is what he wished for us, and that is
what we are." Garret turned to face the fire. "I
don't believe it was an accident that sent Ford's car
off the road— mechanical or otherwise."

"You've been saying that all night, but you
haven't proven anything."

"But I feel it."

"I've told you what happened. Ford sent for
Alan Loewe to come her, then they drove together
to town for another one of his tyrannical changes
of his will." Mint laughed, "God knows that
happens enough."

Garret smiled into the fire, his face washed out
by the flames. "What an irony it would be if I were
able to find out who killed him. Ford never
believed that I could ever handle the detective
work necessary to be a great lawyer. I know law,
but I've never proven my skill at sleuthing. He
spoke of it often enough, 'A lawyer must be a good
detective,' he would say, 'and frankly, my boy,
you aren't. You don't use the brains you have. You

37

are like some pathetic allegorical figure— all
thought and no action caught in some stupid pose.
All legal jargon without the saving grace ot purpose
and the passion to act. Being a good detective is to
feel, think, and act. I'm afraid you don't, like me,

like your lather why I remember once . . . '" He

closed his eyes and laughed. "Perhaps I can prove
him wrong in this room tonight."

"Perhaps you can."

He laughed, "Yes, perhaps I r<»!." He lilted his
liquor glass in a salute and toast to some unknown
entity. "You've had my life story. You've heard it
often enough before. As fellow forgeries of the
gieat man's wishes we have commiserated before.
Our lives have been one long commiseration in this
gallery of another man's making. 'I'll listen to your
problems if you'll listen to mine.' Tonight is
different, however, the "great man" is dead.
Tonight our life stories can continue with our own
endings if we wish. Not the endings vwshed upon us
by another. And once again, my dear, how about
your life story?"

"That is funny. Let's see. I was born. Mother
died soon after. I grew up, the daughter of a
famous painter. Ford always said I was one of his
minor pieces done in his younger, less talented
years, 'but what's the use ot having paintings in
every major gallery in the world if you can't have
them in your home.' I went to the schools chosen
by Ford, saw the people he wished me to see and
totally tailed at who he wanted me to be. I met
men, none my father approved of. He thought they
were all after my money. But I was beautiful, then,
and they loved me," she said dreamily, "but that
was a long time ago." She touched her cheek
nervously. Her own face painted by her father
looked down mockingly. A plaque on the frame
read, "Mint, age 21." She pushed a stray hair from
her brow and shivered, her back arching closer to
the fire. "This mausoleum never gets warm. It feels
like snow. Snow. I remember once we were at a ski
lodge— a friend's weekend party, I believe. I met
the most charming young man, let me tell
you— handsome— six feet tall, curly brown hair and
green eyes . . . skiing, sleigh rides, and evenings by
the fire with hot-buttered rum." The firelight
played across her face and closed eyes making her
almost beautiful. "We behaved absolutely
scandalously—" she laughed, "but it was such fun.
Ford was quite embarrassed by that weekend." Her
forgotten glass splashed as she giggled. "Later he

made it more and more difficult for me. I no
longer had as many visitors, and none stayed for
long; then none came. Time passed and I began to
notice men and I would say to myself, 'There is
someone I could care about. There is someone I
could love.' I'd begin to dream what it would be
like to be loved by him. I could create a whole
courtship. I could even tell you what we would eat
on the first date. Now when I see such a man," she
gave a gentle shake of her head and smiled, "I
don't even care." The fire spattered impatiently.
"Don't get me wrong. I've been loved. There was

once a man. Handsome, talented he was an

artist, and he loved me. We met at one of Ford's
showings. He wanted to marry me. Ford was sure
he just wanted my money. Said he was nothing but
a golddigger, I wouldn't believe so he decided to
prove it. Changed his will so all would go to charity
if I married the artist." She refilled her glass. "He
married a soap heiress. But I know it wasn't the
money that made him leave. He loved me, I know
that." Lifting her glass, Mint spoke, "To Bayford
Tarrington, a great painter, my father." After
pouring a libation to the fire she gulped the rest
and shattered the glass on the stonework behind
the flame. She closed her eyes, lowered her head,
and sighed. Her back was first defiant then slowly
it bowed before the fire.

"You have a good imagination. Could you, say,
create a courtship for us? At this moment."

"I could try." She closed her eyes and smiled.
"We are in a small ballroom lighted by thousands
of candles. You are handsome in a tuxedo and I am
in a long ball gown." She held out her imaginary
skirts. "How do you like it?"

"You are beautiful." He smiled mockingly.

"Now a soft Strauss waltz begins to play."

"Would you care to dance?"

"I'd love to."

Garret held Mint in his arms and slowly began
to dance. Paintings, furniture, and fire rocked by
to the waltz she hummed. The cradle of her voice
held the tenor of violins. Paintings, furniture, and
fire rocked by to the waltz she hummed. A scent
of roses clung to the heavy air. Paintings, furniture
and fire rocked into darkness to the waltz that
played. The scent of wax and perfume filled their
senses. Pattern after pattern ot candles whirled past
as they dances. Patter after pattern appeared and
dissolved as he held the woman in his arms. Her
eyes held his as the music slowed. Garret leaned

down to kiss his lovely partner.

Log shifted log and the fire popped angrily. He
straightened.

Mint bit her lip and lowered her eyes. "You
should have kissed me. But now we are ourselves
again." Flames swayed silently mesmerized by its
own light playing cat and mouse with a draft. "See
my shadow here on the floor beside yours, that's
me. What you see standing here," she touched her
heart, "Isn't real, it's something to be used by the
flame-the part left after a paper doll has been cut.
There lying on the floor she changes only in the
perspective of the fire. All our dreams and hopes
can not change it. 'We are but shadows; images to
play at, cast by flickering flames.'" She laughed, "I
read that somewhere."

Mint walked to her mother's portrait, and gazed
into the other's eyes. "We are so different. She is
painted in spring shades surrounded by warm air
and music and stands serenely looking into infinity
with her hand on a white baby grand." Mint lifted
her hand toward her own portrait above the
fireplace without turning. "I am in winter shades.
Dark and empty in this room standing before the
fireplace." She moved her hand to trace her
mother's face. "How horrible it is to be trapped
like that. Unable to change the outside that
someone else has created though the soul cries out
against it and weeps behind the carefully tailored
stance."

Garret looked at his ovm portrait and spoke as
much to himself as to Mint, "It is terrible when
someone has to look at himself and truly see what
he is without the saving grace of a forgetful
imagination but through the eyes of someone else.
We could leave this room if we really wished to, we
could live in a real world like our dreams. But it is
far too simple to live in this world of another's
creation— we play at the passions and beliefs
projected by others— others who are strong enough
to feel and think of things we, ourselves, are too
cowardly to. Our shadow dreams of our shadow
lives are faint within those shadows of true flame.
Not caring enough to ultimately feel we are
engulfed and die. I can only think, you can only
feel. Neither of us have had the life it takes to
consummate what we are. Even our waltz dreams
have returned us to this room filled with the
passion and action of another man till we are no
more than the paintings on the wall— or perhaps
even less— they speak the truth— we only do so

when forced by the sheer evidence of that truth.
But all that is past now." He waved his hand
impatiently. "Tonight is different, tonight the
great man and his truths are gone. Tonight we
create our ends, and if we do not, we will remain
here forever."

"That is why you are so interested in the car
crash that killed Ford. You want to prove that the
accident was intentional. Nicely ironic, too, prove
Ford wrong by finding his killer. I approve of your
attempt."

"You want your freedom just as badly as I want
mine. Admit it. Attempt it."

Mint smiled, "I don't know if I could find
anyone I could love now. But even waltz dreams
can come true. What is love anyway? Sacrifice,
giving a small allowance of happiness? Maybe even
I can give this."

"Maybe we both can gain what we seek tonight.
All I have ever wanted is to prove that I could be
something other than what Ford Tarrington
believed me to be."

"You want that as much as I— to be more than a
shadow cast by fire in this empty room."

"Yes."

Mint paused as log covered log extinguishing
flame and the light ebbed. "I can help you. I might
be a winter figure as my father imagined, but even
winter hopes for spring— I can help you. I have held
the answer all the time. It is really very simple. I
killed him; I killed him to free myself— and you."
The triumph of her eyes lit the room.

"I knew it. I knew it all the time."

"Are you happy now?"

A telephone bell rang viciously. After Mint
replaced the receiver she laughed softly, "That was
the police. The drunk who ran Ford's car off the
road just turned himself in." The fire leaped and
grew brighter.

Garret laughed as well, "At least we made an
attempt even if we finally did lose."

"Do we really lose?" Mint said candelight
reflecting in her eyes. The room clung to a sense of
emptiness which seemed fed by fire gnawing vwthin
the belly of the fireplace. Light from the fire
flickered in the darkened room. The fire remained
constant, lapping at the profile of the woman
standing before the huge stones and the flame
which painted the room with its light. The man
stood before a full-length portrait of a woman of
twenty-five.

40

N ^^ CO UNIVERSITY

A , • , „ ARCHIVES