The Shawnee Silhouette is published quarterly by the editorial staff at Shawnee State University in Portsmouth, Ohio. Subscriptions are available for $2.00 a copy or . $5.00 a year. The three issues will be published during Fall, Winter, and Spring Quarters. Submissions are invited in the areas of prose, poetry, art, and photography.
Staff
Teresa Lodwick, Editor-in-Chief
Henry C. Mason, Poetry Editor
Tamela Carmichael, Fiction Editor
Janet Nesler, Photography Editor
Jan Stein, Art Editor
With special thanks to Rebecca Isaac whose knowledge and patience helped make this publication possible. Cover design by Helen R. Scott
Printed by Shawnee State Print Shop Director, Kenneth Powell
CopyrightMarchl988
All rights revert back to the authors upon publication.
Table of Contents
2. Guest Editorial
4. Sunburst/ Such a Line
5. Party Poem 1 / Enigma
6. Back on the Land
7. Colours / Gentle Friend
9. Silence Is Not Always Golden
10. The Promontory
13. Weaponry /Death
14. Unfinished Heart
16. Hope-Chest Country
18. Athens Revisited
20. Seasons for David
21. Worrying about the Weather
26. I Want/ untitled
27. slush of winter song
30. Painting# 1 (on a bus)/ In Memory of General Forrest
32. Lovers Make Changes/ Blue Jeans
34. Season's Change
36. Lunar Climbing the Autumn Mountain
37. Placement in Time / untitled
Good Advice Is Not Easily Followed
What am I doing since I am no longer publishing a magazine, no longer serving on the board of a regional press, no longer going to work in an office, no longer teaching? Sometimes I answer that question by mentioning that I keep house, that our house is often full almost to the point of overflowing, that I help take care of grandchildren. However, I know that when writers ask me what I am doing, they aren't thinking of such "ordinary" factors, but are asking if I am writing.
I write sometimes, enter contests occasionally, and during the past year I kept approximately twenty manuscripts, most of them old, in circulation; of those, twenty - one have been published. An editor in Chicago is holding a poem "for further consideration." During the year, I won one prize and received an honorable mention. So, yes, I am doing a little writing.
The important fact is that I managed to get a few "new" words on paper. Writing is so satisfying, in my opinion, that the effort and the result are well worth the time spent, even if publication doesn't occur--provided, of course, that we don't neglect important necessary tasks. (Sometimes I let the dishes soak.)
Publication is nice, but we can live without it If we submit our efforts for consideration, the fact that someone else will read what we have written helps us to look at the work more objectivelr. and this is an aid to revision. Perhaps a rejection will be a spur to greater creativity.
My strongest advice to beginning writers is to try to avoid being so fond of your creation that you become indignant and resentful of criticism or suggestions. There is a possibility that your critic may be wrong. What you have written may be innovative, emotionally apt, and your words may fit your aim exactly. Try, however, to listen to criticism, to think about it. Often it helps to let your work cool a while. Put it aside to look at later. Editors often find that writers with greatest skill, with publication credit, are grateful for suggestions because they realize it is difficult to be objective about one's own work.
"If you want to write, write" is good advice, but good advice is not always easily followed. I have "put off" for
months working on a play which is not quite dramatic enough. I have avoided "getting around to" a novel which has a character I don't understand well enough. It is much easier to talk about writin; and to think about writing than to sit down and work at wnting, but perhaps Shawnee writers are determined enough, and persistent enough, to avoid becoming "writers" who think wistfully, or even bitterly, about "what they might have written, if only--- ." I wish you well.
-Shi.rley Young Campbell
Editor Emerita, Hill and Valley
Sunburst
Mother presented my cousin, age three, with a fried egg and toast on a plate. He fisted his fork straight through the yolk with a wild shout.
She wondered aloud: ''Why do kids always want to do that"
She can't see herself controlling the times that violate the heart of the sun, can't feel the power of its body bleeding yellow rivers through a solar sy stem planeted with flecks of pepper and starred with salt.
She cannot collect that energy into the solar cells of white bread and cram the universe into her mouth.
-Glynda R eynolds
Such A Line
Do muses visit ?
I ask because some unmusuel things have occurred. In the night , as I wrote I encountered some slight distubances , then and again. For example, my muse helped me pursue an especially difficult piece. But, what I soon discovered, were secrets uncovered: My muse had a visitor this day ! Now, you don't have to tell me that eavesdro~ing's rude; but I think you d have done the same thing. For to miss such a line would have been a henious crime. "Come over to my pad, " he said.
Party Poem I
He sits alone
At a table in the comer, A stranger
In the midst of a swirling room He listens to the conversations As they eddy around him, His presence here white-water Shoals in the current of talk, A space filled with shadow And the echo of desire.
Enigma
Men tum to the sky's brightness
Asking,"Why do we hear laughter among the stars?"
Women tum to the earth's fullness
Listening, "Why do we hear growth among the grass?"
Together amazed in their enigma
Believing, "Why do we hear psalms among the secrets?"
Children know though that hope's Singing, ''Why do we hear music among the dreams?"
-Ken Stone
Back on the Land
I am back on the land, my father's land, and his father's land, and before them, just land.
Andi stand surefooted in the deep black soil where men, greater than I, stood singing of mules, and of corn, and of struggle.
Yet they wrote no lines, these poets, none save rows of corn, poor green plants in crabgrass pushing up through stones of the past.
Wild gooseneck hoes and turning plows tearing love from the newground wilderness and pale women with sudden sunbursts burning flesh red into their faces, wiping back a stream of blond hair from eyes staring deeply into the land.
And a child, blanket rolled, in the shade of giant white oaks standing like guards at the end of the field.
This was their land, made by calloused bands, made by bleeding sounds and weeping and near still laughter and a handful of pride strong as steel, and I, weak and silly from too much town, am their poetry, their child, their line, written on a hillside page, my father's land, his father's land, and before them, just land.
-Lee Pennington
Poet Laurea1e of Kentucky
Colours
He spoke of colours dancmg in the air washing over everything flowing from the seams. He was almost there.
He said i would appreciate them the rapture and the glow unraveling the fabric to a single burning thread. He said he had to go.
i search for colours to bind us tight and free from ourselves. All i see is amethyst and a silver strand of light.
-David R. Glass
Gentle Friend
Let me call you to peace gentle friend and know that in this voyage of life
I am willing to drift with you through amber Sunday afternoons or hold my hand to your wounds in your moments of challenge.
-William C. Burns
Val Nesler
Silence Is Not Always Golden
The house is quiet now perhaps quieter than it's ever been. Oxygen tanks no longer blow bubbles against the darkness, intricate mazes of wires and hoses no longer wind around table legs or disappear beneath closed doors.
Death's aroma no longer threatens to suffocate the sweet scent of Sunday dinner. Raspy breathing no longer looms above children's laughter. All is quiet except the loneliness that goddamned loneliness that pierces and pulls at my brain like a hundred needles trying to stitch the memories back together again ...
-Teresa Lodwick
The Promo~tory
the salt
a tang on my tongue. not once does the water come to envelope my body, pull me into its fluid and final emlnce. but i can feel it, taste the air froth borne, just as the seasonal mist begs me damp. the foggy tufts brush my skin; a gauze of blind coolness... sweet haunting.
a crash of waves close by... the flush of tingling ozone felt through to my bones, and breathed deeply all the way home.
Jamaican drumbeats trickle cries into a cloocUess wugbt. Space junk flies out of the dark blue am, asphere OYel' the beaches closed Cinzano umbrellas.
Two golden glasses of champagne spill OYCI' • telephone lines.
Red salt is poured on a wounded soul and an unfinished heart will never beat again.
A dark-skinned lady spins dances in the cool desert shade. Weak minds drown deeper and deeper in laad cpc:lsand. Uncaring bastards ignore bliss and an; draped with its same love.Stawbeery icecream dnowa my shoe and it melts there while I again become a fool.
Christian children play at recess and a few are left to stand and watch.
Second generation Einsteins hide in their pr,-.g:mnt mother's womb, afraid of what will be done to their discoveries.
Spiked heels do the twist on somebody's face and police arrest a kid for throwing a rock dllough a window.
Ou ba ba da da dum.
Ou ba ba da da dum. It hurts to take away the pain.
Unfinished heart.
Chess game pieces play for the grand piano prize. Poison explodes from tidal waves awakened mcalm lakes. Scientists with grey-green hats look at cbarooalc:d bodies and scratch their heads why.
Angel guitars play love songs under your window and whisper my name in your subconscious sleep. Men build houses and marry wives, and all ihe while the clouds begin to blacken and it starts to rain.
Yellow taxis get flat tires and their meters read a million dollars .
A farmer kills himself with his own pitchfmk and the Whitehouse pays him to do so.
Clark Gable spits in the wind and gets slapped in the face. Roads made of gold are cleaned with acid_ and lead is found underneath.
Bad dreams rule your sleep and cold sweaty hands hold your mouth and nose until your heart exp1odes. It hurts to take the away the pain.
Unfinished heart.
-Jeanpaul Ferro
Val Nesler
Hope-Chest C ountry
A tall, thin man, in black coat, top hat tums to audience . It is Abraham Lincoln . Thoe is a~ as he stares, as if tottering on his feet. Then he bqilu.
ABRAHAM LINCOLN From the moment I stepped out into the southern day, in the angry beat like the throat of a lion, ...that dream of a sun... iD1o my tired eyes, so that I could "feel" my ey~ di1aring actna1Jy feel them shrinking like lobster eggs....as if they might even be melting like hot ice down my face .. I knew I was broken, long before they would annoucc it. 4liebt pause) I went and I stood before the white flag pole like a huge whale bone gesturing to the blonde sty_ I was in this very same black suit, this same hat. ..very much this same expression .... an expression I received from lisaeoine to mad Mary Tcx:ld....or rather the lack of one. and I looked up at it .. the flag ...red for "my" boys' blood like an ointment to heal us all...blue for the vast void in the sky ... white for the scythe of the bonelike bands ex our farm boys, cutting down the decaying wheat in their father's field, their hair, a milky paint, pouring over their seashell eyes, ... (slight pause). And as I stared up at old glory, a flag ultimately of light, I could hear a ~g sound, as if a heartbeat walked the dark ground bebmd me... As an American, I dared not look back, - and the "thumping" grew stronger so that it joined with the one in my chest, and I could see in the comers of my eyes, a patch of gray... a young man ... a child really...in the gray uniform. .. and there was a leg missing, - he bad a crutch ... his eyes, looking as if on fire in their sockets,and what's more, - the fire was for me, - and be came up to me, - "thumped" up to me, - and "stood" right near to my presence and his cold blue eyes penetrated me, like steel needles, - surely, I thought, this boy was reading the map of my soul, and I could take no more. .l turned away...very formally ... and looked back up at the flag .... and !.. .. saluted it .. very rigid. .. with great dignity ... and I then started to walk away ...back to the "house" ... As I walked, I could hear him whispering... little tiry-like echoes.. . "Nigger lover, Nigger Lover" ... gasping for breath between each syllable...and I stopped, stood still, finally turned to look
in those sad eyes ... and we both stood silent until I could stand no more of him. ..l continued raising my head higher, higher, back, until I could see only the blue sky, and my hat fell off my head, making a pathetic sound on the ground, like a woman's pistol popping, -I could see little rags of clouds, and felt an uncontrollable urge to weep, ... But I did not I just stood like that .. my head held high towards the little rags of clouds in the sky. (slight pause)
And when I finally looked down, - brought my head down, - to look for this man-child with the blazing eyes like canons ... he was right in front of my face, - he had gotten forward somehow silently, - or I did not hear his thumping, - he had a dazzingly beautiful face, -that was looking into me, - past me, - to another point in history perhaps, - then he spoke... he said, "My leg," and then "Your blue boys ... your... blue ... boys," - and began weeping ... heavy broken sobs.... I just stood watching him, - I felt like a statue had slipped into my clothes of skin ... he finally stopped, pulling his little grey cap off,said, "Sir," - saluted, and "walked" off, - (slight pause) He took with him, my soul.
( Pause.)
A light comes, stage left, on a skeleton, seated in a chair. It is wearing a shroud, which gently blows as if in a wind. He looks over at it, turning rigidly. Slight pause. Slowly, he goes to it. Bends over it, removing his top hat, placing a hand on its jaw. A terrible cracking sound is heard, as he forces open the skeleton's jaw.
ABRAHAM LINCOLN (quietly) .... for the South. (He kisses the skeleton, long, and hard on its boney white mouth.) ( Long Pause.)
( Black out.)
-Richard P. Schmonsees
Athens Revisited
I wish I could have talked to Plato and Aristotle on the plaza in Athens, sat on the sun-wanned, hand-hewn stone at their feet under the blue Greek sky, drunk absinthe with the fresh salt breeze on my face. " Plato , Oh Plato ". Is it all a matter of conjecture, and is it not possible that I did?
-H. C.Mason
Previously published in Thirteen,Portlandville,NY.
Seasons for David
It's a day to remember and so, out of his eyes I went sailing like the first dandeloin of summer on a warm breeze
In the richness of fall's colors
I pause, as if in sleep a child half-tranced by the shadow of his bcxly cast upon the ground
In the gentleness of falling snow the nights get longer but that's what winter is for to remember love
There is a secret I have and have lived Spring, and the seeds of my love for him, may have sprouted a little too late
-Elizabeth Z.ibas
Worrying about the Weather
The time is 6:02, folks, and this is your friendy weatherman, brought to you by Pedunk Olds, tightest little old Olds ship in the Midwest, none finer, got any model you need, you betcha those miles are certified, lowest financing in the region, don't wait, come one down, come on down to Flitt Street, get your Olds now, sixty in stock, all checked out and ready to roll, can't be beat, not a dealer in the U. S. of A. can beat our price, so come on down.
Yep, this is your friendly weatherman, and now for the weather, the satellite :picture shows clouds forming over the Rockies, clouds fomnng in the Bermuda triangle, clouds forming over Hawaii, clouds forming over the Gulf of Mexico, and, yes, folks, I believe what I see here is clouds forming all over everyplace, you see that line right there, it's a break in the clouds from the west and the clouds from the east, and I believe, yep, it's also from the clouds in the north and in the south, so I think you can safely plan on a cloudy day today here in Kankersville.
Well, folks, we11 continue the weather forecast for today right after this message from Gurner's Cow Balm, been manufactured hereabouts for one hundred thirty-eight years, and never lost a cow from it, in all that time, nor a cow's teat, and been used by hard-working farmers for rough, chapped hands, nothing finer for a cracked, bleeding knuckle that Gurner's Cow Balm, so you run right out, you hear, and get yourself and your loved one a 2allon jug of Gumer's Cow Balm, on sale this month at the fowest price in its history, one hundred and thirty-eight pennies, translated into real money, a dollar and 38 cents, tax not included, shipping extra, or call 1-800-COW BALM, dial now for the greatest bargin in udder ease today.
Yev, folks, if you're planning a picnic today, you11 be doing 1t under cloudy skies and, as you can see from this band of raindrops here, scattered showers, over a wide area of the Midwest, and over a narrow area of the South, extending back up into Canada and down into Mexico through the Sonora Desert, and across Michigan into Maine, also down the tip of Florida to Key West, and looking at this band of sprinkles here, into the Pacific to 21
Tokyo; and possibly heavier showers in Nova Scotia and Newfoundland and the Caribbean, so take your umbrellas if you're going out, folks, there may be precipitation here in Kankersville today.
Now, after this little public service message, we11 be right back with the conunuation of your local weather scene, don't forget to get out and vote today on your choice for mayor and sheriff and county assessor and circuit j udge and county clerk, the whole shebang, and the followin g polling places have been changed since last year: Precinct 11 has moved to Polk Street, Precinct 9 has been moved to Harrison Street, Precinct 6 has moved to Bean Street, Prcinct 5 has changed to Polk Strret, Precinct 2 is now located at Bean Street, and Precinct 3 has moved to Harrison Street, good luck, folks, be sure to get out there and vote, and get your neighbors out, too, you bear.
The time is now 6:16 a.m. and the temperature in Kankersville is a balmy 78 degrees Fahrenhcit, the low this morning was 70, the high today is expected to be 90, with the possibility of cooling before then, 78, or it could be, as you can see here on the map, the same as in San Antonio, about 102, in Toronto 63, the Big Apple 69, Miami 80, Honolulu 75, London 57, Barbados 73, Caracas 74, and Research Station Cold-2.one, Antarctica 46 below, so you see the temperature here in Kankersville isn't so hard to take, it's nice to be wann and not have to worry about all those big heating bills we get in the wintel', isn't it?
In addition to cloudy skies, warm temperature, possible precipitation, and a light southeasterly breeze, folks , note this jagged line across the area, a warning from the American Seismological--didn't think I could pronounce that, did you?--Society, maybe an earthquake somewhere in the neighborhood here of the lower Midwest, seems they've had some mighty turbulent readings on their scopes the last couple of days and a real good rumble is just around the corner, and you can see from this chart it's centered in the courthouse square here in Kankersville, now, isn't that exciting? makes for one whale of a day to think us in this small town in the middle of the Midwest with only a shoe factory and a string of silos are right on the brink of history.
So, folks, this is your friendly weatherman wishing you and everyone in and around the vicinity of Kankersville a 22
very pleasant day, get out and enjoy it now, you hear.
-J. A. Nash
Thad Blizzard
I want to write a poem that will rattle your soul :like Che Guevara on a crucifix. :or the Virgin Mary needing a heroin fix.
I want to bleed the words that set your soul on fire.
I Want
-Ray Gofonh 3rd
Untitled
The energy that once was full and high with life is now on its last journey's end. The color that once filled her cheeks with red from embarrassment of something I said now lies on her shoulders where my head once did. One look in her eyes could bring a strong man to his knees, lying closed, shut tight like a lock without a key. Then when I am on my bed, ready to give in, you will stand there ready with the key.
-Keith Keys
slush of winter song
render unto ceasar // ceasar's calm every mail slot of this century has been sealed epileptic narcissus
your ability bothered you... as your body had bothered you since your sweat began to stink your poverty held you back and shamed you you'd sit in the sun and women would give you money for coffee but you might never drink coffee again what continues in a thrust through all this ? the centaur continues in his stable like a christ with horseshoes
we all take turns being one wandering jew who absurdly remembers the boy jesus put to bed without his passover
-jonathan levant
Janet Nesler
Jan Stein
~ainting # 1 ( on a bus )
So little pain can be assuaged: the poem stretches, drugged, across my lap while :a young woman stares through the last reflection her face c:an offer
-Paul Adldns
In Memory of General Fo"est
In :a dusty volume of geography, we see map pmple-hued :and intricate. Between the parallels, we c:an locate the tombstones of ni~htmarish history. To Mississippi , to discovery, with sense of deja vu we gravitate down asphalt belt, toward Magnolia state we chauffeur limousine aggressively. The highway to Beavoir which we explore traverses deeply bloodstained battleground near Tupelo, where generations died. Collective echoes, shadows of war epitomize a sacrifice profound.
Through Mississippi latitudes we ride.
-Delta ZAhner
Lovers Make Changes
In love, lam the climber on the Matterhorn who forgets the contest and begins to feel part of the mountain, or the artist who finishes the portrait and then is seduced by its twinkling blue eyes, or the child fascinated with the humming of birds in thick forest and imagines wings growing from his thighs.
lam born into something that is not quite as I left it I believe change has more to do with me now than reaction to change.
-John Grey
Blue Jeans
Fashion designers played a joke on women again. The mini-skirt echoes the sixties. T.V. features a group of young girls-Marilyn Monroe legs, Dolly Parton bosom-waltzing in these scanties, a beautiful, colorful picture. The bustle. They dipped back to the 18&>'s for that discomfort. Most girls thank God for bluejeans.
-Lena Nevison
HtltnR· ��cott
Season's Change
Warm in each other, under warm blue skies, we curve into the country, where cold fire has blazed across the hills,a pent desire made manifest in nature's autumn guise. Our love, so long withheld in press of pain, now finds its sweet expression where oaks hide an irate squirrel's nest, where Jays deride outsiders from birches' gentle domain, and shimmering lakes speak changes of the moon. But hasty words turn clouds to shrouds of grey, to end a season beautiful, but brief, a wintry chill descends, and very soon we take our leave. Each goes a separate way. the Aspens wave goodbye with every leaf.
-Elizabeth Marion
Robert Blau
Lunar Climbing the Autumn Mountain
seemingly rushing from some awesome cave, hidden within the bowels of the earth, the night wind pours with all its fury upon the ebonized stronghold of this mountain, echoing its banshee wails on my numbed and deafened ears
the freezing whipping air muffles my laboring breath while slapping at my body attempting by sheer force to snatch me from this rocky cliff... fling me into the abyss of eternal darkness
fingers search and cling to the jagged protruding rocks the rough and scraping teeth of my ascent as i look above my clinging fingers the whole of the universe dances freely on the luminescent white and purple of the summit's peak
the fatigue i feel begins to fade as celestial sequins momentarily distract me from the weanness of myself... they sparkle and shimmer in clear delight opening themselves up to my humble scrutiny as i near the crown
the moon glows its iridescent pallor on my frosted eyelashes creating innumerable crystalline rainbows that flash and gleam upon my vision as my body pulls its way to the top
as i near the end of my climb, i think aloud: " mv God, how easy it will be to witness the birth of a new dayf,
-William James Kovanda
Placement in Time
I question the lines of age when I contemplate the energy within the castle of me: not knowing whether I am merely structure or a traveling stream.
But for now, I need only breath to assume placement in time to walk among the pines swimming in mist,
to understand how the sun tears into me, lifts me into myself, and sends me back, skipping across a rippled lake.
-Michael Spring
Fmemusic spun from a violin's mouth leans on the back of ap~ while tenors praise the moon in Debussy's unearthly voice
-Martin Burwell
New Voices
ROBERT BLAU, a prize-winning photographer, contributes from Chicago. WILLIAM C. BURNS writes from Taylors, SC. One of om Rhode Island contributors is JEANPAUL FERRO. DAVID R GLASS is an art major at SSU. RAY GOFORIB 3rd edits Bad Haircut Quarterly. Our other Rhode Island contributor is JOHN GREY. KEIIB KEYS was elected president of Shawnee State University Student Senate last fall. GLEN McKEE appears in the Fall '87 issue of Appalachian H,;ritage. A recent recipient of the New England Prize, awarded by The Lyric, is ELIZABEIB MARION. J. A. NASH is a first-time contributor. GLYNDA REYNOLDS is an Arlington, TX contributor. S. H. RICE is a teacher education major at Shawnee State. Fair Oaks, CA sends greetings from MICHAEL SPRING. KEN STONE, editor of Thineen, contributes from Portlandville, NY.
DELTA ZAHNER writes from Trinidad, CA.
ELIZABEIB ZEBAS contributes from Alexandria, VA.
Familiar Voices
PAUL ADKINS is an Atlanta, GA contributor. TIIAD BLIZZARD has appeared among these pages before. MARTIN BURWELL appeared in the Winter issue of the Silhouette. One of the Silhouette's most ardent fans, from California, is WILLIAM JAMES KOV ANDA.
JONATIIAN LEVANT is another frequent contributor. TERESA LODWICK formerly edited the poetry for this journal. R C. MASON is a humanities/fine arts major at Shawnee State. JANET NESLER is a staff photographer for the Ponsmotlth Daily Times. Her daughter, VAL NESLER, is a budding local photographer. LENA NEVISON is a retired teacher living in South Shore, KY. LEE PENNINGTON teaches writing at Jeffers.on Community College in Louisville, KY. RICHARD P. SCHMONSEES, a short story artist as well as a poet, writes from Brooklyn, NY. HELEN R. SCOTI is a member of the Portsmouth Art League. JAN STEIN is art editor for the Silhouette . DEXTER WOLFE, formerly of Scioto County, resides in Columbus, OH.
