'Tfie Sfiawnee State 'University
Si{fiouette
JI Cefe6ration ofSliawnee Jlrtists
Portsmoutli, Oliio 'Winter 1990
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 issuees will be published during Fall, Winter, and Spring Quarters. Submissions are invited in the areas of prose, poetry, art, and photography.
Staff
Henry C. Mason, Poetry Editor
Tamela Carmichael, Fiction Editor
Janet Nesler, Photographry Editor
Jan Stein, Art Editor
Bob Wilson, Advisor
Proofreading by Betty Hodgden
Cover Art, Jan Stein
Printed by Shawnee State University Print Shop, Kenneth Powell, Director
All submissions should be mailed to:
The Shawnee Silhouette
940 Second Street
Shawnee State University 45662
All rights revert back to the authors on publication.
Copyright, January 1990
ISSN# 1047 - 2401
The Poetic Mind
India's illustrious poet Rabindrinath Tngore once obserued that contemporary man liues in 11 cage of materialism thnt has grown so rampnnt It chokes and obscures the renl ond original noture of human beings trapped in it. In todoy's mad materialistic scramble to accumulnte more ond more things, human beings haue become estronged from one another, and this alienation has broken the rhythm of peaceful interaction ond has led to isolation and malaise of spirit.
Daisaku Ikeda, president of the Buddhist orgnnization Sok a Gakki International, in on oddress deliuered at the 1988 World Congress of Poets in Bangkok, made a plea for the restorntion of the poetic mind as the means of restoring humanity to its intended wholeness. He says the rapid ndunnces in science and technology haue made for II mnterialistic ciuilization that has destroyed the bnlnnce between material needs and intuition-sensibility.
Mankind needs to be shown that all humnn beings are links in the greot circle of the unluerse, that each of us is acquainted with the nnguish nnd the pathos of others. Rnd the poet, whose gnze Is directed at the heart ond mind, can recognize the kinship of all things and con brenthe life into them, "seeing in the myriad chnnging phenomena of this world the unchanging principle of the uniuerse •.. he recognizes the bond that links 1111 humankind and intricacies of the inuisible web of life."
Ikeda calls the wellspring of this prolific spirit the "poetic mind." He belieues that on the eue of the twenty-first century the human roce stonds nt a critical crossroads, and that the source of sauing it from utter desolation is for poets to "shoulder the most onerous task of rousing in people the
poetic mind, of bringing humonity out of its recesses ond cnusing it to blossom," thus moking the coming oge "o century of humonity."
It Is slgnificont thot twenty yeors eorlier the Troppist monk of Gethsemoni, Thomos Merton, on the eve of his deoth, oddressed in the some city o similor internotionol convention on o similor theme. Rnd if we listen closely we con heor echoes of Merton's "poetic mind" in lkedo's oddress.
Merton soys thot humonity is lost in the reolms of unreolity ond must find its woy out of the moze ond discover its true identity. Merton found his way through his own poetic eHpression and through the writing of other great poets ond writers. The three writers he mentions most often are T.S. Eliot, Emily Dickinson, and Henry David Thoreau. One of his favorite quotations is from Eliot's Four Quartets:
We shall not cease from eHploratlon Rnd the end or our eHplorlng WIii be to arrlue where we started Rnd know the place for the first time.
Merton believed that the poet goes beyond the eHternal self to the real self to discover who s/he really is. "Not that we discover a new unity. We recover an older unity •.• and become what we are called to be."
The over fifty books authored by Merton and the scores of volumes that have been written about him give a picture of a remarkable thinker. Rlthough a Catholic monk of the strictest order, he mastered 2en as few other Westerners have done. His sympothies led him to protest actively against all forms of injustice. He protested against racism and war, ond his poems on the unspeakable horrors of war are among the strongest protests
euer written. He was a leading eHponent of social radicalism, and as a pacifist he sought deeper understanding between Western and Eastern worlds.
One of Merton's most interesting projects was Monks Pond, a little underground press magazine he compiled and edited in the late 196Os. The last issue was printed after his tragic death in Bangkok in 1968. Its four issues reflect the wide interests of his poetic mind--eHperimental writing, crosscultural awareness, communication among artists, and interreligious dialogue.
Contributors to Monks Pond ranged from such well-known writers as Jack Kerouac, Mark Uan Doren and Wendell Berry to the work of unknown students, and the poetry ranges from traditional to auant garde. Original issues are rare, but the Uniuersity Press of Kentucky is issuing a oneuolume facsimile that will appeal to "the poetic mind" of all writers, poets, and artists who are pilgrims in the onerous task of helping create "a century of humanity."
--Thelm11 Scott Kiser Presld ent, Kentuclcy St11te Poetry Society
On tfu (jarden's '£age
'We {ie 6e{{y-joined 6y Jl.pri{ wfure tfu tioves g{ufe in to nest. On pine-fined carpet, we taste of tongues grown ripe witli. spring. '1{s, tomorrows can erase tfu taste of ripenedfruit we sfiare out of season as it 6ursts in ripeness on tfu garden's edge.
-1-farding Stedler
New Beginning
Whip me with the wind; bruise my flesh. Leave my spirit tattered from the rainbow. When you place my flesh as carrion to rot in summer sun, lay me in some fallow field to swell ... and smell. Once the flesh is picked, and buzzards gone to roost, gather all my bones in plastic and make trinkets for the spirits. Trinkets to ward them off, scattered about the yard, beneath the bushes.
Rain will follow and one day wash the evidence away.
Bright suns will purify the land, winds take on a new course, westerly ... and warm.
- Harding Stedler
On Becoming a Man
Some things a man never fergits, like the year I wuz sixteen. We'd lived with Pap on his farm since Dad left, an ' it seemed natural-like fer me ta stay with Pap and Mamaw when Mom married again. Anyhow, Mom an' my stepdad wuz livin only a few hundred yards away in their new house.
Well, we had this ol' roan cow named Ruby. She wuz a mighty fine milk cow an' we got a calf outta her ever' year. She allus throwed good calves . She wuz purty, too, dark reddish-brown with splotches of black an' white an' brown scattered all over.
It wuz late Feb'uary, last charge of winter afore spring. They wuz still ice on the crick an' snow drifted waist deep in spots.
Now Ruby didn't show up fer feedin' one evenin' so me an' Pap went lookin' fer her. We heard her bawlin' when we got close to the crick. There she wuz, down, an' she coulldn't git up . Peered she'd slipped on the ice.
Pap looked her over good. I knowed it wuz real bad when he looked up at me an' shook his head.
"Leg's broke, boy, clean up in the shoulder. Ain1 no way on this earth you kin set it.. No way a'tall. He studied a little, then went on. "Now they's two things could happen here,· says Pap. "Either you git yer gun an' shoot that cow, or else she lays there hurtin' till she dies on her own. It's up ta you."
"Pap!" I wuz nigh onta tears by that time an' shamed ta shed 'em. "I cain1 shoot ol' Ruby. I helped ya git her born an' I've growed up with her. I just cain1 kill her.•
Reckon she'll hafta lay there sufferin' till she dies, then. Cold as the nights a' been lately, it mightn't take too awful long. I could do it myself, but I wont. It's all on yer head now. Grow up, boy."
An' Pap up an' left me there.
I went over ta Ruby, hunkered down, an' rubbed her forehead. She looked atime with those big trustin' eyes, misted over now with pain, an' made a soft, cryin;' sound. They suzn1 no way out.
I squalled an' hollered an' cussed all the way back to the house. I stormed inside, grabbed my gun an' stomped back out. Pap musta tol' Mamaw about Ruby 'cause she never said one word about my language, not then ner since.
I hollered an' cussed an' squalled all the way back ta the crick, thinkin' all the while about what a purty little calf Ruby had been, an' how I'd named her after a girl at school I wuz sweet on. I thought how Ruby allus trusted me ta help her when she wuz birthin'.
All too quick I got ta the crick an' Ruby. I patted her side an' said, "It won't hurt no more in a minute, ol' girl."
I raised my rifle an' aimed like Pap had taught me. I wanted ta close my eyes an' shoot, but then I might not kill her with the first shot. Loo n· straight into her pleadin' eyes, I clenched my teeth tight an' squeezed the trigger.
I waited just long enough ta make sure she wuz dead, then I high-tailed it home, cussin' an' squallin' an' hollerin' ever' step.
Late that night I wuz standin in the kitchen, starin' out the window, vacant like, when Pap come up behind me an' put his hand on my shouder.
"They's some purty rough patches in life, boy. Growin' up ain~ never easy, but it is needful."
Then, for the first time in my life, he offered me a chaw o' his Union Workman. I already knowed I hated the taste of tobacca, but I took a big bite anyhow. Then me an' Pap stood there chewin', starin' outta the window at a million stars in the clear night sky.
• R. J . Roberts
Barnyard Beauties
Valerie Nesler
From One Graduate To Another Subject: A Defo:cmed Calf
Ben was madder than fire. Cussin' as he carried a white-faced calf (its dead legs dangling) in his muscled arms.
The Agriculture office caught the heat.
"Little farm problem? Little far m prob e:n? Boys, there were no problems till lean cats went to town and got fat. Got so crowded they didn't have anywhere to dump their sweat and garbage till they remembered the solitary hills they came from.
"The water isn't any good ... what water there is folks are pumping it out of the gr ound faster than God can put it back. Now even the rain burns because the kind of fire that's chunked now .... doesn't cleanse . Once it gets going, there isn't any putting it out .... and they're dumping that fire here!
"There's blackleg in the water, fire in the rain, poison in the air. Now, if you agriculture boys can solve the problem I've got here in my arms, I'm obliged. If you can't, you've hoed a hard row of books for nothing and you'd better think twice about the next steak you eat!"
- Louise Potter Logan
A Living S p irit
Old didn't cause it.
Annie was always like that She wore men·s trousers rolled up around her ankles, slept in a pair of boxer shorts and a T-shirt that belonged to her late husband. Rolled her own cigarettes and carved whistles and whirling toys • with a case double X.
Raised the best corn and tomatoes in the valley.
She wasn ' t afraid of anything ... except hai nts
Said if she hadn't a firm belief that Jesus was alive and all around her she would have died of fright years ago "There ain't no evil spirit can whip the liVin' God," she'd say "And when I leave here, I'll be a livin' spirit, just like Him."
And the chidren believed.
She could charm kids the way a snake charms a bird, and they loved it, flocked to her door along with everybody else .
One day she spread warm amber biscuits and hickory ham for the tr ave 1in· reverend . He partook
Then he told Annie she was on her way to hell to the beat of a fast drummer because she wore britches, smoked cigarettes, didn't sit in the church pew and drop her silver in.
Her brilliant eyes lost luster.
In one God - awful moment a hear\ broke, let go of its fragile hOld on life.
T he grown - ups bu11t a casket for the husk that remained . Children cried rainbows. It was lonesome without her.
Rainbo w s that climbed up, up, up, for th e ch ild r en knew where Annie had gone.
- Louise Potter Logan
The Roof Must Wait
The roof is leaking and drops of rain fall on candle's flame; my work must wait. I press my face against the window glass to watch for morning, remembering other dismal dawns when dark clouds shadowed empty corners of my mind. The roof must wait another day. I push my mattress in the dry, beside the dying embers on the hearth and lay my body down.
- Mary Jane Wilburn
Portrait of Parched Thunder
The air still and stagnant lingered over parched grass as burnt brown cornfields lay dying under thunder.
I heard the call of a lone black crow in the distance and I, a dreamer of rippling streams and green grassed hills, bowed down and wept.
-Mary Jane Wilburn
Dream Coat
Her Dream, the Color of Wine
"Did you dream the dream again, Momma; did you have that same dream?" I asked. "Yes,· she whispered, placing her finger against her lips to silence me. Father hurried into the front room wearing his heavy mackinaw . He was ready to leave for the market place. The tobacco he had raised this year would be selling today.
He kissed us goodbye, then reached down and pulled my nose. "Keep your fingers crossed," he said. He turned and went out the door.
I followed him out on the porch, and stood there listening to the sound of his feet as they crunched against the frozen ground . I crossed my fingers and looked up. The morning sky was black . I looked around but couldn't see a single star . There wasn't any sign of light in the cold , dark sky above . The damp wind whipped my legs and I ran back into the house shivering
"Tell me your dream now, Momma, please; what were you doing in the dream? • I asked.
"I dreamed I was walking down Main Street,• she said, ·and I was wearing that coat, you know, the one we saw hanging in Rupert's department store last winter.·
"The same coat you have been dreaming about all this year? • I asked. •
"The very same one,· she said.
"Does that mean you're going to get the coat, Momma? •
"Saturday,· she said •
"You mean your dream is going to come true that quick? • I inquired, clapping my hands together. •
Yes," she said, with a smile.
There was a soft look in Momma's eyes, a look I hadn't seen before. I thought she looked real pretty.
"You'll get the coat, Momma, I know you will," I said. "Anyway, II couldn't imagine you without it now."
"You better go back to bed," she whispered; "it won't be daylight for another two hours."
I hurried up the stairs and crawled beneath the covers, keeping my fingers crossed for good luck. The coat Momma had been dreaming about was the color of wine, the material broad-cloth . Oh how she wanted that coat --wanted it more than anything, it seemed; and every time she told me her dream, the coat became more a part of her.
Late that night, Father returned from the tobacco market ; hi s fa ce looked pale and tired. ·we lost the crop,· he said "it didn't even bring enough money to cover the floor cost. ." One year of waiting, one look at my fa ther' s lace , and her wine- colored dream flickered and died died like the last ember on an almost cool hearth.
I ran out into the night sobbing, couldn't bear to see the pain in Momm a's eyes. I fell down on my knees on the frozen ground and looked up at the cold, dark sky. "I kept my fingers crossed," I cried. ·1 kept my fingers crossed: ·
-Mary Jane Wilburn
Such a Line
Do muses visit?
I ask because some unmusual things have occurred. In the night, as I write, I've encountered some slight disturbances, then and again. For example, my muse helped me peruse an especially difficult piece. But, when time came to choose a title, my muse simply stood up and exited the room. Well, not to feel bruised, I followed my muse, thinking, " I'll not be treated this way!" But what I soon discovered were secrets uncovered: My muse had a visitor this day! Now you don't have to tell me that eavesdropping's rude, but I think you'd have done the same thing. For to miss such a line would have been a heinous crime: "Come over to my pad," he said.
- S. H. Rice
Boom tQ Betrayal
I didn't think anything could stop the big mills from turning, churning out miles of strip steel everyday. The energy of a generation seemed locked behind their spin. Then they came on the tube and said that the economy was running away and raised interest rates until no one could buy our steel. They allowed foreigners to dump here driving prices down so low that our companies had to close down. Mill workers accepted their fate as graciously as possible on empty stomachs, always hoping someday to be back.
But no one ever really comes back . . . from betrayal.
- Taylor Pierce
Appalachia
Appalachia, cruel and gentle, just when I know you you turn another face. Your hickory wisdom has never failed me, but its price has kept me poor. You dangle life from coal and timber mountains; you dangle wealth to just above my arm's reach.
Applachia, deception's master, just when I dread you, you send soft spring; creek birds warbling in the alders. I could never enjoy your raw white whiskey; I could never keep pace with driving hounds.
Appalachia, unforgiving, I saw your best face first. you brought me breath and hid me in your glory. You own my life and spirit, Appalachia. You wrote no clause for quarter in your rushing. no good place to rest and wet the wounds.
-Taylor Pierce
Pigeon Forge
Janet Nesler
Old River
She's spreadin' out, boys. The meadow by the bridge is knee deep already. Old river feeds pastures and cornfields with rich silt; same time, she drowns us out.
Don't you fellers know why nature works like she does? You can read it in the Good Book, boys. " For every thing there is a season."
You young'uns want for patience! Stop jitterin'; one of these seasons has to be dry.
Homeless Children
I sec their blank, pinched faces staring at life from the outside. No home to rest in; no kitchen smelling of food cooked with Mother's love.
Living in shelters. Hoping without much hope for a brighter life: something to cling to when security is lost.
- Ida Kisor Bolen
Percussion Recital
He stood behind the drums long and still and listening for the music to begin someplace far inside of him-perhaps the spot behind his knee began the beat that rippled up his body like wind over wheat, til the sticks clicked a code to the drums.
And they talked to each other and to him with cymbals chiming in, while the rest of us chased a word or phrase, rhythmic words of love and rage, and sounds too secret to be said.
Our blood kept time as they roared and whispered and sang to him all they had to tell, helplessly obedient to one who knew them well.
- Susan Lonney
J.L. Stein
CattWuf{age
'Your voice was coftf {ik_f the pfastic it travefed tlirougfi never liinting it u.sedto gently call my name ....
-5tE6ra (jray
Are You Here, Jesse?
Do you roam quickening hill of Dogwood \Vint er? This will be the final spring for some dark hill. Grotesque metal monsters wait, poised for plunder, eager to descend on threatened woods bright with new green and birdsong . Your people fought hard, Jesse, like mountain people do, resisting encroachment of civilized greed. but they lost the battle in the courts. Now, garbage, caustic waste from other state s will find a home here in Kentucky land. Next April, certain sleeping hills will not awake, but remain forever dark.
- Pat Sowards
I Meant to Pie{( 'WiU :]lowers
Insteaa, I 6ring you songs of app[e 6wssom of vw{ets of retf6ua too aave to pie{( of new-green map[e spinners ana ancient mewaies sung anew
6y tft-is year's rea-wi.ngea 6fackpirtfs.
- PatSowartfs
Work Boots
David Riepenhoff
Green, and Some with Berries
The fog had lifted and the woods glistened with dew as the sun rose ouer the hill, shining on the old barn's rusty roof. Rs I stepped off the back porch, I smelled the brisk morning air as it chilled the tip of my nose.
Behind the wash house were our walking sticks which Grandpa had whittled smooth f r om bark and splinters. I took his walking stick as my companion and started up the hill couered with black-eyed Susans. With each footstep taken, I listened to the sound of the stick as it punctured the rich country earth.
The birds had been awake for hours; I paused to hear the raincrow's song. I looked up in time to see it fly to Grandpa's cherry tree.
Rt last, I reached the top of the hill and crawled through a barbed-wire fence beside the barn, then continued my way through a lonely grape arbor. Leaning up against the barn were old tomato stakes left from last summer's crop. The garden was now empty, but grown thick with weeds. Out in the midst of the field stood one lonely cornstalk.
I breathed the gentle morning air and smelled the sweet aroma of autumn's birth, which resembled in many ways
Grandpa's pipe tobacco. The sun was in preparation to do its day's work, drying up the wet grasses and fields, showering each thing with warmth and splendor. My eyes stared at the sight of an ancient oak whose top outer branches had been painted a delicate yellow by early frost. I approached the tree as I crossed through Lawrence's pasture. The peaceful rustling of its leaues played soft and free like the hymn that Grandpa often hummed as he puffed on his pipe. My feet shuffled ouer the ground couered with scattered leaues.
Once I reached the top of Mable ' s Hill, I walked through an ouergrown clouerfield to another fencerow. This was a great spot for looking ouer Carter Ualley. There, I saw a clearing through the tall pine groue. I stretched my eyes as I looked down upon Grandpa's farm, uiewing his fields of gold and brown that awaited haruest. No longer did cattle graze in dark green pastures. "Mail Pouch " was still faintly uisible on the side of the barn. Leaning feebly beside the barn remained the rusted steel skeleton of a once-white silo.
The sun felt warm as I climbed downhill to the enchanted shade where the briars and ground brush grew thick, entangling my legs and feet. Just below rested a huge rock. The sun
dropped spots of light through autumn's new leaues. Rt the edge of a brook stood Grandpa's treasure, green, and some with berries. The ginseng had grown a lot since last year, on both sides of the brook. Busily, I started picking the berries, replanting each with delicate care.
Fiue years haue passed now since Grandpa's death. Each year I come here, to the serenity of this planting ground, to replenish Grandpa's dream and to preserue the loue and memories between us, those which only a grandpa and a granddaughter would know, and remember always.
-Gwendolyn Welston Rice
Holiday Dreams
I was glad when everyone left each going his separate way to new year's parties. I wanted to be alone to remember the happy times, the many new years' eves we were together.
I listened to music, (missed Guy Lombardo) danced with the rhythm, sipped wine of forgetfulness. Your nearness filled my dreams. At midnight when the big apple fell, I had tasted yesterday, today ... and tomorrow awaits.
- Lena Nevison
Icy St I I I ne~~
Lui led by a I ingering autumn, days low hung, mist and warm rains, ho Ii days, parties, pushed icy thoughts to other c I i mes.
Tonight, the cry is wintry weather touching zero.
The moon sharpens my view of scor-covered earth, misty grey, white reigns. Walnut shadows shiver Icy I imbs against the sky. - Lena Nevison
Stealing Among Dark Cabins
... listening to the crunch of booted feet. Old Dane and I trudge along. Wind wails her mournful song on half-downed wires, beats branches against ice-brittle glass. In semi-consciousness, dreams appear of a more fruitful time . Old Dane nips at my crusted coat-tail... begs for a morsel. Cannot push through blinding blanket. Where is the road?
Must find Old Dane a bone and a place to lay his head . Just want to sit on that silvery, frozen bed ... Rest a bit. .. me and Old Dane.
- Mary Lou Waltz
Industrial Revolution
Black waterfalls cascade down refuse mountains further polluting death spasms entering final throes.
I , a marionette, do St. Vitus' dance pulled by corporate strings.
- R. B. Dean
J.L Stein
Primordial Lover
The earth mother offered to share the magic: Boldly, proudly, enticingly extending her touch; her time-worn stones and ancient weapon. An umbilical from a busty goddess seeking to mingle life's essences in a moment of harmony.
I want to seize that moment. Share the fundamental urgency, taste her sweat, and rest my head upon her breasts.
-H. C. Mason
Large Mouth Reflections
I've been holdin' a fishin' pole since I was big enough to make a fist. But. it took all o' thirty-seven years to catch a bass this big-let alone two. Still yet. though. had I known one of 'em was a girl. I'da let 'er go.
-H. C. Mason
Traneendlnc the Physical
Poetry, whether considered an art form or a type of communication, is as diverse and varied in its presentation and appeal as the people who read and write it.
Poetry can document the political and philosophical climate of an era, or describe in the simplest of terms, the love of one person for another.
The written poetic form can present a mental portrait to the reader that is almost as tangible as reality, while relaying the sensory information to trigger our personal memories: the smell of peanut butter fudge boiling, the scent of a baseball glove's leather on a hot summer day, or the knife-like piercing sting of a snowball slamming into the side of one's head on a distant winter's day. These phrases connect us, via images, in an instant, with unforgettable moments in time.
More importantly, these symbols which we call words can connect us with things even more intangible than the past: the innermost feelings of the human spirit ..... the almost universal responses to the joys and tragedies of being alive. The cringe we all feel when a child is injured. The warmth or the jealousy we may experience when we see two lovers locked in an embrace. The lump that forms in our throats when we are touched by sorrow or in response to praise. These shared emotions link humankind universally, crossing cultural and racial barriers, transcending time and space, reminding us that we may not be as different as we might have thought, and that we are far from being alone.
The diversity of poets, as I have said, is reflected in the multidimensional nature of their creations. In their attempts to put pictures, and emotions into literarily palatable form, many poets constantly and diligently strive toward the ideal. Some feel that this is an almost unreachable goal. Thus, they die unsatisfied, with the degree of perfection, or lack of it, that their work has attained. Immortality may become a reality for a few, but only in the minds of successive generations of readers who keep the artist's work alive; it then stands as a shining example of the immutability of the human spirit and, ironically, as an ideal for others to follow. The very goal that the poet may never have thought attainable, is, in the end, realized.
For many, this ideal is reached only through the minds of others. Like Shelleys' Mount Blanc, seemingly unreachable, but gleaming in the distance, "remote, serene, and inaccessible."
So, what is this poetic ideal? It is a precise and intentional construction-a marriage of words, art, and communication, and, in fact, a transcendence of the physical limitations of language.
H.C.Mason Poetry Editor
Performers in This Drama
•..
RII contributors to this issue are Shawnee artists--some, students at Shawnee State Uniuersity; some, members of the PhoeniH Writers; and others, members of the greater Portsmouth community.
In this special issue, our attempt is to celebrate the literary and uisual arts of many talented indiuiduals natiue to the Shawnee Hills, on both sides of The Ohio.
