Chrysalis: 1987

-Drawing by Andi Larison

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Chrysalis

Just Once Just once I noticed As I looked Into your eyes Two tiny animated Portraits Of myself And I wondered If you've ever Used my eyes As mirrors To feed your Conceit.

-Rebecca Harvey

Your Eyes Sometimes when I look into your eyes, I see the past, the pain, and the future. I realize that you aren't always sure of how you feel. Although you don't let me in all the way, I see through your eyes. Sometimes it's hard for me to understand because I love you so much ... It's hard for me to say goodbye, but when you leave I remember your eyes. I smile and look forward to the next time, whenever it may be.

-Oliver Kofoid

1987

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Speck Rising Floating Endlessly wandering The journey is the life Of one so small.

Moving with the shifting currents Offlow Of heat To be so small Yet Absorb one so large.

Why has destiny caused Our meeting?

Know not from where you ¡rise; See not where you fall.

There is so much destiny In the journey Of one so small.

-John Clifton

,rn

1•

A Thousand Words The sun glistened warmly as the mallards began their descent towards the fixed brethren The eyes beckoned them closer and closer trained and within range Shots

rang out breaking the eerie stillness

Splashing Lashing Crashing the mallards turned as the last shots were heard.

1987

The erupting bellows echoed became listless almost placid The shutters summoned them back reloading aiming hoping The eerie stillness again halted as the brethren slipped away Now,

high above mallards Flying Floating Following as the sun fades away.

-David Harris

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Cat in the Window What are you thinking When your whiskers twitch And those golden eyes Glisten Like twin autumn moons?

Do you think man's Obsession With the rat-race Is mere Jolly?

It's simple for you­ You just kill the rats But man can't do that, Because he lives in a Civilized And sophisticated world Wishing all the time That he could Sun himself And lap milk from Your saucer.

-Rebecca Harvey

-Airbrushed Painting by Lee Buchner Page 5

Chrysalis

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-Photo by Wendy Ward Page 7

Chrysalis

Ferrum Atmosphere

Damp evening air penetrates my clothes chilling my bones.

Mist shrouds the mountains an eerie gray gold and red splatter dull trees with new color.

The chapel bells hang motionless dripping with steel cold sweat keeping vigil until the sun rises again.

Two ducks pull at the earth in search of dinner while students scramble to shelter and a warm cup of cocoa.

-Ellen M. Homann

1987

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ďż˝---

La Rose Blanche Tu viens a moi ma dix-septieme annee et tu me donnes une rose blanche d'une blanche creme.use comme ma peau sz pure, si fra?che si innocente

,1 ¡I

Et tu me disais que tu m 'aimais et tu me tenais dans tes bras et nous avians !'amour, cette ,wit vive d'automne sous le reverbere Mais !es choses changeaient, comme !es choses le font toujours et nous nous sommes separes mais dans nos coeurs la rose restait frazche innocente pure comme notre amour

-JoAnne Howard -Drawing by Heidi Stutts Page 9

Chrysalis

White Rose You came to me in my seventeenth year and gave to me one white rose a rose creamy white like my skin so pure so fresh so innocent And you told me that you loved me and you held me in your arms and we had love, that crisp night under the streetlight But things changed, as they always do and we went our separate ways but in our hearts the rose remained fresh innocent pure like our love -JoAnne Howard

1987

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Road Test Chill Loire chateaus in our heads, We broil in Greencastle, PA, Fuel pump spent, Waiting for "Hicks's Chevrolet" To drag us fifteen miles Or so Closer to France.

The kid in blue jeans jacks us up, Boosts you onto his torn front seat, Chocking your skirt. ''Damn sure run out of punch, today, Didn't we?"

He says.

Pops you a wink.

Keeping eyes peeled for the tow, We parrot practice phrases back, Passing the time.

Passons une tres bonne soiree Au theatre You tease, Waving my shirt.

Overnight layover. Through my dreams teem Swarms of fuel-line bubbles burst In sweat-sopped sleep.

Rising we gird ourselves To driveWarm faith Chasing cool champagne.

-Dan Gribbin

-Airbrushed Painting by Lee Buchner Page 11

Chrysalis

-Oil Painting by Steve Williams Page 13

Ch rysalis

Whose World?

Whose world is this for us to destroy?

Should we allow all the hate-kill all the joy?

Why each morning do we wake in fear, And wonder if the end is really near?

After people, what will come next?

Will the next creation create such a mess?

Will peace come only when all is dead, And after the deadly leaders have led?

Last night, I had a dream about THE war.

All the children, animals, andflowers were no more.

It has been that dreams come true.

If this is right, what are we to do?

-Robbie Ramsey

1987

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Gravesong

by Joe Osefchen "But it happened," Charlie insisted. "I heard it just as clearly as I hear you now."

Paul crushed out his cigarette and frowned.

"O.K., maybe you heard something, but it wasn't what you thought. It was a joke or some kind of promotional gimmick."

"I know what I heard, man, and I told you what it was."

"Charlie, what you told me was that dead people are singing over your radio."

Charlie brushed his long black hair back with one hand. Paul, with his tailored wool suit and Italian shoes, had become too stiff to understand.

There was no way to convey the excitement he felt, had felt, in fact, from the moment he first heard the music.

He'd been fooling around with the tuner of his stereo, just moving the counter up and down, trying to lock in on something good. It was between 103 and 104 FM that he picked up the station; the station that Paul didn't believe in.

An old Jim Morrison song was playing when he first tuned in. He'd never noticed a station on that frequency before, but he figured that new radio stations must be popping up all the time. "People Are Strange," the song they were playing, was about twenty years old. So he took it for granted that the station's format was classic rock and roll.

He listened because he'd always liked Jim

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Morrison, in spite of what people said about him.

He was a poet, after all, and poets were all supposed to be a little crazy.

The Morrison tune had given way to Janis Joplin, and that was fine with him, too. ''.Kosmic Blues" was the song she sang, a song that took Charlie back to his college days. He decided to stick with this station for a while; at least until he grew tired of wallowing in the past.

The next song in the line-up threw him a little.

Janis' "Kosmic Blues" was followed by some real blues, sung by some guy named T-Bone Walker.

Charlie decided it was some kind of a joke.

Somebody had slipped the song into the play list to see if the D.J. was on his toes.

It was when the blues song gave way to the brassy sound of a big band playing that Charlie went from amused to puzzled. They just don't play forties dance music and Jim Morrison on the same station, not even as a joke.

The big band song ended. Now we'll hear an explanation, Charlie thought. The explanation, however, did not come. There was only the briefest of pauses, and then Hank Williams, Sr. started belting out "Your Cheating Heart."

Incredible, he thought. Country music in there with everything else. The station manager must be some kind of a nut. How could they hope to make any money playing such a mish-mash of music. He

Chrysalis

was listening, now, not for enjoyment, but to satisfy his curiosity. What would they play next?

Some disco, perhaps? Maybe some good old fashioned elevator music?

Hank Williams, Sr. faded away and was replaced by the distinctive sound of Jimmy Hendrix singing "The Watch-tower." In college, this song had been his favorite. Janis Joplin was fine and Jim Morrison had a certain style to him, but nobody could do it like Jimmy. Charlie listened, forgetting his vexation for a moment.

When the song drew to a close, however, Charlie was more confused than ever. He wanted to know more about this station that was run by people who didn't know one type of music from another. At the same time, he was a little nervous about hearing more. There was something unsettling about this particular array of artists, the ones he recognized anyway. They all had some­ thing in common, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was.

"That was another five in a row," the D. J . said.

It was the first announcer he'd heard since he began listening. "We started off with Jim Morrison, then we had Janis Joplin, T-Bone Walker, Glen Miller, Hank Williams, Sr., and finally "The Watch-tower" by Jimmy Hendrix, going out by request from Benny to Charlie."

Charlie had sat very still, then, trying to understand what was happening.

Now he sat in his friend Paul's living room, a half-empty bottle of imported beer in one hand.

"About five seconds after hearing that dedica­ tion, it hit me," Charlie said. "They're all dead, man.That's what they have in common. Every one of those singers is dead."

Paul lit up another cigarette. "Look, Charlie, I'm ready to believe that you heard something.

Maybe there is somebody out there who only plays songs by dead people. There are some very

1987

strange people in this city. But that part about Benny sending you a dedication .... I mean, that's loony tunes."

"I "heard the dedication, man."

"Benny Hoffman is dead. What you heard was some other Benny making a dedication to another Charlie."

Charlie shook his head. "This morning, when I listened, I heard an opera solo by somebody named Giovanni Rubini."

"So?" Paul demanded.

"I'd never heard of him before, so I looked him up in the encyclopedia. Giovanni Rubini was a singer who died in Italy in the year 1854."

"That's impossible. Phonographs hadn't been invented yet."

Charlie nodded and smiled. "I know. Can't you see it, man. They've made contact. They're trying to talk to us."

"Listen carefully, Charlie. Dead people do not talk on the radio, yours or anybody else's.They don't sing opera, and they don't make dedications.

Either you misunderstood what you heard or somebody is playing a very sick joke on you.

Whatever the case may be, there's a sensible explanation for all of this."

Sensible, Charlie thought. That's the problem with Paul the businessman: he's just too sensible.

Look at the way he's dressed now. And his hair. It looked as if he'd joined the marines.

"But it was my favorite song," Charlie said.

"The one I always played at school, the one on the album that Benny gave me for my birthday."

"Anybody could have found out what your favorite song is."

"But who would want to do something like this?"

Paul shrugged. "Who knows? Some of your friends in college weren't the most stable people in the world. Maybe one of them flipped out and

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I

decided this would be funny."

You were one of my friends in college, Charlie felt like reminding him. But he didn't. It would only make him more obstinate. Reason was the only way to reach him-the new Paul.

"On my radio, man. How could they get on my radio?" He took a sip of the beer and made a face. "I called the FCC and there's not supposed to be a station on that frequency."

Paul's eyebrows raised for an instant. "Then someone was using a portable transmitter. You can buy one in any hobby shop. They could've broadcast the whole show from across the street."

It seemed like a lot of trouble to go through for a joke. And how could they have known exactly when he'd turn his radio on? Or that he'd tune in to that particular station?

No, it had not been a prank, and he had not been hearing things. He knew what had happened, and it excited him tremendously. Somehow, he'd tuned in to a broadcast from the other side. The show had been a beacon, a message to the living that there was something beyond death. No one would ever have to fear death again.

It would be just like Benny to do this. It was his way of saying: "Don't worry, man, it's not the end. We even have your favorite song over here."

Of course Paul, the mature, sturdy Paul, would never be convinced of any of this. Not unless he heard it for himself.

That's it, Charlie thought. "Let's go over to my place, " he said, "and you can listen to the thing for yourself."

Paul looked skeptical, but he agreed. "I'll go," he said, "but not because I think Benny Hoffman is going to send me a mail-gram from the great beyond. I'll go because I've known you for a long time and I believe that you heard something."

In the car, Charlie felt his anticipation building.

It would happen again, he was sure of it. If Benny

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had sent him a message, why wouldn't he send one to Paul as well?

Paul might have changed a little over the years, become somethign of a cynic, but Charlie knew that deep down he was still the same old Paul. Just one word from Benny and Paul'd.be a twenty-year­ old kid again, all wide-eyed and excited about this new discovery.

As Charlie turned the big Oldsmobile onto the bypass, a thought struck him. Could Benny use the car radio, or did it have to be his stereo at home?

He clicked on the radio and spun the dial to where he'd heard the station at home. At first, there was only static; but after a second or so, he began to hear music. It was Elvis singing "Heartbreak Hotel." The sound wasn't as clear as it had been in his apartment, but that was to be expected. After all, he'd just installed a new antenna at home.

"There," he cried, "do you hear that?"

Paul looked puzzled. "I don't hear anything but interference."

"It's Elvis!"

"It's static."

Charlie reached over to adjust the volume knob and the car momentarily swerved into the passing lane.

"For Christ's sake," Paul yelled. "Keep your eyes on the road."

"You can't hear that? What's the matter, are you deaf?"

"That was Elvis," said the D.J. "wrapping up another six in a row. Next up, we have a message going out to Charlie from Benny: 'There's nothing to be scared of, man.' " The sound of Jimmy Hendrix singing "The Watch-tower" filled the car. "I'm not afraid," Charlie said. "Not anymore. No one has to be afraid anymore."

He took his hands off the wheel and tried to tune

Chrysalis

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the station in more clearly.

"Damn it," Paul screamed. "Have you lost your mind?"

The right wheels of the car slid off the shoulder of the road. Paul made a grab for the steering wheel, but Charlie was in his way.

Both men looked up in time to see the big Olds smash through the guard-rail. As the car careened down the embankment, Paul screamed. His head whipped forward and struck the dashboard. He did not move. Charlie felt an icy pain in his chest as he was thrown against the steering wheel. His world dissolved into blackness.

The week after Charlie's funeral, Paul was sitting at home, waiting for his doctor's O.K. to go to work. He had just popped a frozen pizza into the oven and was waiting in the kitchen for it to cook.

He looked down at the cast on his left arm.

Damn Charlie Anderson for getting him into this, he thought. He knew it wasn't good to speak ill of the dead, but after what he'd been through, he didn't care.

Charlie's problem was that he'd never grown up. He'd been almost thirty-seven years old, and he'd still walked around looking like some leftover from Woodstock. He'd wanted there to be some mystery to life and when he couldn't find it, he'd just invented it. He'd given himself up to a fantasy, and look what had happened.

It just proved that if you tilted at windmills long enough, you cracked up. There was no doubt in his mind that Charlie had been completely cracked.

He should have seen it the minute he finished telling that story of his.

When he thought of how close he'd come to dying, he felt a sudden tightening deep inside his stomach. He could still picture the scene when the paramedics first revived him. Charlie's body was thrown up onto the steering wheel and blood was everywhere. The worst thing was the static

1987

crackling in his ears. The crash hadn't hurt the damned radio one bit. It was then, in that one terrible instant between consciousness and un­ consciousness, that he thought he heard Elvis Presley's singing mixed in with the static. It had only been a hallucination, of course, but the effect had been unsettling. He'd passed out again right after that and didn't wake up until they got to the hospital.

His injuries turned out to be relatively minor, at least when compared to Charlie's. A concussion, a few cuts, and a broken arm. He had not, as they say, walked away without a scratch; but it could have been much worse.

After a week at home, eating too much and watching endless hours of television, he was anxious to get back to the office. There would be some things he couldn't do yet, but at least he would be out in the world again.

He opened the oven door with his good arm and peeked in at the pizza. Five more minutes, he figured.

He flipped on the portable radio, thinking he would catch tomorrow's weather report. Even if his doctor didn't call and give him the O.K. to go to work, he would still try to get out of the house.

Maybe he'd just walk around the neighborhood.

The sound he heard, however, was not the sound of 106 All-News and Weather. Instead, he was listening to a cut by Buddy Holly.

"Damn," Paul said. "Why do they always have to be changing things around?"

Before he could change the station, the D.J.'s voice came through the speaker. "Just finishing another six in a row," he said. "Next up, we have a dedication going out to Paul from Charlie.

"Imagine" by John Lennon."

"No!" Paul screamed, but his voice trailed off as the music filled the room.

D

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-Photo by Sherri Winkler

1987

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Icicles Through the top of its glistening sphere Rays were bent, twisted and broken, worn away at first from an endless thirst.

It melts away, a little every day only to lose composure.

I thought, should I leave it for fate or break it off?

-David Eichelbaum

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The Record Falls February stuck like a needle our phonograph of days played end less - ly

0vertures of snow snow snow. !J

-Dan Gribbin Chrysalis ·�----------L._

-Photo by Sherri Winkler

1987

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Early As the fie,y red hand reaches From the shadows Towards a light Unsuspecting Through the colors of the spectrum Thin beams move Towards a brighter light The scratch of the raven's voice First light Peers through Dawn is revealed once again.

Sunrise Dark clouds outlined in crimson parted

-John Clifton Revealing the tip of the great bright dome I saw it rise over dark blue mountains Answering the beckoning pastel-painted skies Obliterating the cold darkness of night.

-Sherri Winkler

Chrysalis

-Photo by Jeff Hutchinson 1987

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Chrysalis

I Know It's Hard I know it's hard To say good-bye He's leaving now And you start to cry.

I know it's hard When he's not there Someone to have Someone to care.

I know it's hard To let him go Especially when you Believed in him so.

I know it's hard You gave so much You've lost his love And his special touch.

I know it's hard It seems like a game He's out of your life As fast as he came.

-Lisa Reep

-Photo by Heidi Stutts

1987

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-Drawing by Lee Buchner

Rain Crystal droplets multiply into dark sheets falling through clean fragrant air leaving nothing untouched.

I run. but one by one raindrops drench my skin streaming down my face wetting my lips quenching my thirst.

-Sherri Winkler

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Chrysalis

-Photo

1987

by

Steve Williams

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The Cherub's Cantata The faithful of God sit still, as they are force-fed saccharin visions of Heaven.

And one may ask: Do they really wish to spend forever inside stained glass?

With burnished halos and gilded harps, An immortal choir frozen in song.

The eons uncounted, eternal now.

Static angels, world without end.

-Joe Osefchen

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Chrysalis

-Photo by Heidi Stutts

1987

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Chrysalis

The approaching waves come like a dragon.

Forge ahead, readying for battle U1Zarmed, alol!e.

Heart pounds the beat of the wave, Each wave.

They pou1Zd the shore as a drum.

Walkillg into the ocean waves.

Feeling the stillg of the salty water, Crashing waves.

Feet sink into the sandy bottom, Crush shells.

And water life formillg irons around the ankles.

Each mammoth waveforms walls infront.

Sea foam and debris on top as if barb wire.

Break through Another quickly formed in front to knock everything back.

Endless cycle They come ill stronger and meaner.

Not nearly strong enough Physically or mentally.

Give up Letting the waves dictate the body's path.

Thrown on shore Like a discarded shoe or broken toy.

The wave laughs at the feeble attempts Displays its strength with every pounding roll.

Memories unmatched.

Of the fight with the mighty waves To conquer the sea.

-Mary Mackin

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1987

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We Speak in Different Tongues We speak in different tongues although our tones denote the same language.

I do not understand how it could be so difficult to communicate with someone so closely related when it is so easy to talk to a perfect stranger.

Why can't I even say hello to you for it is you that I want so desperately to be close to?

Why is it so hardfor me to give in to you? For me to listen?

I'm always so defensive toward your phrases - I sit perched to devour any syllable uttered against me which might slip uncautiously from your tightly clenched lips.

And whenfinally I attempt to communicate with you, you turn your back to me - very completely very deliberately. As ifto show me that you, too, can destroy the thin line ofcommunication.

What are we trying to prove?

How very noble ofus . .. we both win our childish game - and we lose each other and a very special love.

-JoAnne Howard 1987

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Soul of¡ the Poet

by Joe Osej'chen Anderson gazed out his window at the grounds of St. Cecilia's State Hospital. The huge treeless lawn surrounded by a high electric fence. The sign over the gate with the name in faded letters. The white-clad figure of Nurse Williams coming out of the distant infirmary, her small breasts bouncing in rhythm as she walked. He watched all of these things, an expression of concern coming on his face as he stared.

He worried about the damage whitecoats like Williams might do to the artists that lived in this place. Some of them were truly worth preserving.

Men like old Simon, the celebrity of the facility, who back in the forties had enjoyed considerable fame as the Hudson Slasher. Like Spivey, who said that voices on the radio had told him to kill his mother and sister. And what about Armond, who had killed his wife and two children because he thought they were possessed .by demons? The white-coats couldn't see the art in these men, only the illness.

Granted, some of these men were ill, but that did not stop them from being great artists. The greatest masters of every art form have always been a little mad. Hadn't Van Gogh cut off his ear? And what about poor, insane Edgar Allen Poe? Or schizophrenic Jim Morrison? Hadn't all of these men been slightly touched? Yet no one could deny that each was a genius in his own way.

The masters in this place also showed genius in

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their art, only they worked in the human medium.

People always say that great art comes from suffering. The masters of St. Cecilia's simply carried suffering to its highest degree. Their art was creating pain and death. Anderson saw nothing morally wrong with this, as some did. If millions could be sacrificed in the name of politics, what were a few sacrificed in the name of art?

Out in the hall, he heard a familiar voice. Young Doctor Elridge beginning his shift. He always spoke in that loud voice, as if volume could make up for content. Anderson hated him. Elridge symbolized everything that was wrong in this place. Cot no creativity? Cot no skills? Don't let it bother you. Become a psychologist! Just follow the charts and talk at the top of your lungs.

He recalled how Simon laughed every time Elridge came into the room. "Hard o'hearing, Doc?" Simon would say, and then break off into that giggle of his. Anderson got the point, even if Elridge did not. Simon wasn't just telling him not to shout, he was telling him that his work was worthless. He was saying that nobody ever got cured in this place, so why did Elridge bother?

Elridge always smiled in a patronizing way at this joke, and Simon would stop giggling and glare at him. Seventy-five years old or not, Anderson thought, if you slipped a knife into Simon's hand then, Elridge would be dead before the orderlies figured out what was happening.

Chrysalis

Elridge and his kind could never understand the work of an artist like Simon. To them, it was sickness. They pranced around like witchdoctors, shaking their charts and graphs, trying to drive out the demons.

When Anderson first came here, he'd had faith in the science of the whitecoats. He'd read their theories and marveled at how orderly they were.

He hadn't learned, yet, that creativity can never be explained in an orderly fashion.

Now, he knew that madness couldn't be plotted on a graph or explained by a paper; it must be experienced firsthand. Like a fine wine, it must be savored to be appreciated. Now, Anderson's only faith was in art.

He wondered what it would be like to be a real part of this forbidden art, to take a human life?

He'd never done it, for all his daydreaming.

Would the victim beg before he died? Or would he remain stubbornly silent?

To stalk his prey through the night and then strike. To feel the quickening of his pulse as he closed in for the kill. To see the shock in the victim's eyes when he realized that he was going to die. These things would surely thrill him beyond anything imaginable.

Anderson was aware that the call of the art was becoming stronger. He was no longer satisfied with being a mere patron of the art: he wanted to be an artist. He longed to turn his daydreams into reality. Soon, he knew, the urge to create would overpower him.

When that happened, he would hunt. He wouldn't use a knife when he hunted, as Simon had. He would use his hands. He wouldn't hunt only women, either. He would strike at random, or in patterns, as the mood struck him. The freest of free verse, bound by no conventions.

What poems he and his victims would make.

Together, they would portray the whole scope of human emotions. Joy and terror, satisfaction and

1987

regret, hopelessness and hope, pain and ecstasy.

The poem would not last, however. That would be the problem with working in the human medium. When death came to the victim, his wonderful poem would be transformed into a rigid sculpture. New works would have to be created constantly.

How thrilling it would be to see accounts of his exploits at the newsstand. He would brush against people on the street, and none of them would ever guess that a great artist was in their midst. He would be the reaper surveying his trusting crop before harvest. A smiling, silent wolf passing unseen through the fold.

The best part would be the reaction of the whitecoats. "Anderson? Why, we never thought him capable of such a thing." It would almost be worth getting caught just to see the looks on their faces. He would not let himself be caught, however. When one served art, one could not give in to selfish pleasure.

Perhaps he would come after the whitecoats one at a time. How helpless Nurse Williams would look as he fitted his hands around her slender neck.

Would Elridge shout even as his tongue swelled and turned black? Would they analyze him even as they died? He would make a beautiful poem out of each of them.

His door was opening. Young Dr. Elridge was coming in, clipboard in hand. He was followed closely by Nurse Williams.

Could they see it on his face? Would they call for the guard?

They saw nothing, the same as always.

"Are you ready to make the rounds, Dr. Anderson?"

"Sure, Jim," he said, slipping on his white coat.

"I'm afraid I was wool-gathering."

Nurse Williams flashed him a friendly smile.

D Poetry, sheer poetry.

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.. .

··:-:t:..::•_:·.'._.::i:•:-:"./}.i�

. . ·. : : ...

-Drawing by Janine Martin 41

Chrysalis

1987

Alone at Night It moved, the chair moved.

It ¡s really only a chair, it could not move.

You saw it.

Did not.

Whispers, whispers in your closet.

Clothes in the closet, nothing more.

You heard them.

Did not.

A chill, feel the chill.

The heat is on, the air is warm.

Youfelt it.

Did not.

Ghosts, ghosts all around.

(Light comes on) (Silence) Are not.

-Joe Osefchen

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-Drawing by Tris Lipscomb

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Chrysalis

The Staff of

Chrysalis sincerely thanks Joan Bowman Alan Weltzien John Hardt Bev Thornton Jane Stogner for their contributions of time and effort.

Thanks also to The Iron Blade and to Jim Flanagan of Copenhaver Publishers, Inc.