The Trillium Spring 2011
The Trillium is the official arts publication produced by the students of Trinity College. The ideas expressed herein are not necessarily those of the faculty, staff, or adminis-tration of the college. Entries are judged on the basis of creativity, thought-provoking ideas, and freshness of style. The student co-editors do not know who the authors of the entries are. Managing Editor:
Peter Eckert Ellen Larson Kimmy Probst Sheril Varughese Bill Smith
Job 8:9 by Mercedes Doyle
Title Page Artwork:
Trillium by James Allen Class of 2004
Cliff Williams, Production Kristin Lindholm, Editorial
Copyright ÂŠ 2011 This material may not be reproduced by any means, in part or in whole, without written permission from the authors. April, 2011
CONTENTS LAURA BROWN KRISTINE LORCHEIM KATIE FOUTZ MARY YOUNKER KRISTINE LORCHEIM
Cold Roses New York Nights Summer
7 8 9
How to Read a Woman
Flower Among the Leaves
Golden Plover’s Feather
KYLIE CHIVINGTON LAURA BROWN
KELLEY GOEWEY CANDACE RAICA
Heaven Homesick Sheol Survivor
The Mistress of Wander
17 18 20
LAURA BROWN MOLDED FACE I Keep an old wooden box overflowing with masks. It was passed down through the ages. Each mask reflects the expectations, the sacrifice. Wish there was a better way. A better way than whispers and lies, and wearing a costume that isn’t mine. I mold the mask into the shape of my face. I slip onto the stage, with my chin stretched upward, and my shoulders pulled back. I’m ready to perform for my audience.
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Knew that they would erupt with approval. Smiling on the outside the mask giggles, then bows. I squint, trying not to be blinded by the spotlight. The face hisses under the mask with the intensity of a monster. It demands authority. It demands freedom. Real tears soak from underneath the mask. I peel it off, my bare face now feeling naked. Ignite the fire, let the flames of gold lick up the box. Keep it away from Me.
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KRISTINE LORCHEIM WINTER
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KATIE FOUTZ COLD ROSES
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MARY YOUNKER NEW YORK NIGHTS
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KRISTINE LORCHEIM SUMMER
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KATIE FOUTZ HOW TO READ A WOMAN: FOR VIRGINIA FOUTZ NOVEMBER 28, 1924 – APRIL 19, 2010 A woman’s face will crease as she ages through every fond phase of motherhood. Wrinkles fold just as beloved pages, like books reminding us of all that’s good. Now, one might read a woman by her skin as though the signs of wear were some black ink, But such a woman holds a depth within— she carries worlds more than some care to think. Every worried frown meant that she loved us, each stern rebuke was meant to help us grow. She taught us compassion, conviction, trust, and pushed us without ever letting go. So when our marks of age won’t go unseen, we’ll remember who showed us what they mean.
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TRACIE SMITH FLOWER AMONG THE LEAVES
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KELLEY GOEWEY GOLDEN PLOVER’S FEATHER Golden plover’s feather and a white chalk horse, Blood, wine-red in the setting sun, Keeping faith on a steady course, A king who knows when his time is come. A thing twixt the people and Death’s fell pall, A thing twixt all to be met by one, And only one can do for all— The true King knows when His call has come. His call had come from the holy will, Once in time and the deed was done. Wine-red blood over His tribe still, That they keep faith when He bids them come.
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MARY YOUNKER CUMBERLAND GAP
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KYLIE CHIVINGTON MATTHEW 28:19
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LAURA BROWN SPOKEN The sharp end of your being that cannot be used to kill, and cannot be tamed. Red with desire, dry with thirst, thick with a sickness. Malicious words roll across it before you can smother them in your grip. It remains cursed from the sweet taste of the forbidden fruit.
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KYLIE CHIVINGTON NEELLU
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KELLEY GOEWEY HEAVEN HOMESICK Coolness and darkness and deep quiet lakes, A shade from the riotous heat of the day, With purity rich in each breath that one takes, In the solitude silence where I’d like to stay. There in the shadows and green filtered light Sounded throughout with a deep longing sigh, There nature, forgetting the stain and the blight, Calls me, Adam’s child, to bide and to lie. In all the stillness, we’re granted reprieve, To slip off our feet and finally breathe. The gift is precious, we gladly receive; Our sin-selves are quiet, and forbear to seethe. Just for a moment the chains have been struck, But back in an instant, and naught but to clutch At the cleanness of freedom; we’re plunged in the muck, But we treasure the moment, and hope for more such.
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CANDACE RAICA SHEOL SURVIVOR I was put to death before I had life, for those who were made to love me defiled that gift in choosing to hate me. Not a hate that could be so easily defined by an onlooker or even one who perused the door on occasion in hopes of gaining mercy for their gracious act. No, it was a hate that festered like milk sitting in the sun for too long. The stench lingers in the corner until life is detected and then it crawls out to offend the nostrils of the living and bane them into sickness. The seven deadly sins knew their kind well and had them wrapped in so much folly that they too thought themselves to be great givers of life and joy to all who fell into their clutches. It wasn’t until life began to shine, bright as the coming of the day, that they sent out their devilish plan. All previous attempts to rip apart the soul had proven futile as the underbrush burned away and new growth sprung up. It was then that true, fermented hate spat out of their mouths like acid burning the roots of a tree. Only this time, the soul did not bend or shutter and hide in darkness. Nails that once scratched the heart were cut to the quick. Hands that once pulled heart strings with calls of pity were bound. Words that once twisted truth fell flat like the fizzless odor of week-old soda. No longer were they sweet to behold. Then I was lifted by my Lord out of their grave and into the arms of his beloved. There, in the shelter of peace I was tended to by those who never knew me. With deep love and grace they examined my wounds and taught me the healing touch. It wasn’t long before I was able to walk for the first time. Instantly I desired to join them on their missions to the fields of the burning. It is in this sulfuric place that many make their final escape from certain tragedy. I was begrudged to find that I was not as well equipped as they that allowed me to follow. Often times myself I found fondness in distraction. Once, in the dead of night, we passed a hole in which a familiar voice called out. Curious, I stood at the edge to peer inside. Up whipped a hand to grab my ankle and pull me in but strong arms pulled me back. In tears I ran but was held by truth in love of those who had forged through thick to know me well. I did not return to those fields readily. Not until another voice rang louder than my fear. A child who but had one last chance to be rescued from their captors’ claws begged mercy in the life they had given only to find disdain and fury. A fire welled
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so deep inside that even fear could not contain me on the sidelines. I leapt into the fray amidst the soldiers and have not looked back since. Many times the hands of that hole have lifted up to snatch me away but they have missed. When the sun parades overhead I often turn and look upon it. I even made a rope ladder, securing it to a new living tree that sprouted in this desolate place. Tossing it inside I waited many days but nothing stirred. On my tours I often stop again to see if anything has changed. One day I found the ladder was on the ground, cut to pieces. It had never been used. The grave is too deep to see who is inside anymore. I can only hope for the day when I am not the only survivor of that sheol.
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IAN CATTANACH THE MISTRESS OF WANDER
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