The Trillium Fall 2004
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 administration of the college. Entries are judged on the basis of creativity, thoughtprovoking ideas, and freshness of style. The student coeditors do not know who the authors of the entries are. Managing Editor:
Stephen Hull Jessica Keller Aileen Torola Lindsey Willicombe
Just After Nine by Matthew Zide
Title Page Artwork:
Cliff Williams, Production Kristin Lindholm, Editorial
Copyright ÂŠ 2004. This material may not be reproduced by any means in part or in whole, without written permission from the authors. November, 2004
CONTENTS DAN FRAMPTON
Reflections with Professor Keating
The Surreal Dial VII (Sleep)
My Soul Ever So Silent
A Brown and White Steer
DAVID BROOKS AND DAVID FI ELDS
Contemplations While Giving a Presentation on Low-Income Housing
If Every Leaf Had a Voice
New Zealand Cowboy
My Hiking Days Are Over
The Urban Form of the Water 21 Cycle
The Haze Ever So Thick
The Sun Sets Behind Puget Sound and the Olympic Mountains
Remember the Sabbath
DAN FRAMPTON REFLECTIONS WITH PROFESSOR KEATING What’s this whole poetry thing about? It’s about living. Stopping, slowing your pace between math and Greek to remember glory. Live on purpose, not on accident. Deliberately. To admit to truth— of ourselves of life of love of desire of passion of humanity Taking off the masks, dropping the pretense. It’s about words, tuned until they are meaning —somehow— not ornament. Meaning, not exegetical proof, but raw life, raw beauty, passion, desire, humanity, love, truth.
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DAVID DULCEANY THE SURREAL DIAL VII (SLEEP) Teacups shatter on a marble floor Bouncing always from trampolines to cherry trees And back Jumping from a diving board at the top of a skyscraper Into the vastness of a surrounding ocean Floating on air through clouds like motion Becoming the thin fabric that enrobes dreams Like chocolate ornaments on Christmas trees Pass through ritualistic existence By means of blue bubbles of blessĂŠd bubblegum Blown by bombastic balloons Always wandering, ever pondering The essence of the reasoning behind Why human beings must sleep so much
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TAMI BURKE THINK I say nothing just smile sit back and listen free but not from my own mind.
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KAELEE BERGHUIS MY SOUL EVER SO SILENT
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AMBER MCDONOUGH A BROWN AND WHITE STEER
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SHELAH FERREIRA MY ALL I see myself embedded in their breath The second to last beat of every pulse What little of a woman I possess Is shredded, weaving into another I’m hemmed into their fabric Even my shattered gift Flakes of gems in their heart strings My reflection in their eyes How can this be me? That which I didn’t give gladly? But He gives and He takes away So I live out my brokenness Crumbling into their mold The earth giants walk on, build on Only but a cornerstone Only but a breath They can tear me any day Kneading me into the Potter’s clay They can take what I have, take what they may Because the Lord gives and He takes away All that I bare All that I clothe All that I care All that I loathe All that is wrong All that is right All that is dark All that is light
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DAVID BROOKS AND DAVID FIELDS CONTEMPLATIONS WHILE GIVING A PRESENTATION ON LOW-INCOME HOUSING; SAN JOSÉ, COSTA RICA, 2004.
Photo by David Brooks; altered by David Fields. ________________________________________________________________ 10 • THE TRILLIUM
RANDY HOFBAUER FAUST’S REDEMPTION Father Simon Wilde’s face went from a purplish-red hue back to the pale wrinkles of his well worn face, his feet slipping and squeaking against the lacquered oak floor. He was surrounded by shadows, the small flickers of light coming from the fireplace in the corner. It was the middle of winter in the city and the snow was hitting the windows so fiercely that the flakes could be heard without careful attention. The fireplace was barely kindled and only three other men sat at the bar, the bartender bent over with his posterior pointing toward Father Wilde like a red sheet taunting a bull. He took his seat by the fire and let out a gargle deep from his throat, grabbing the attention of the humble bartender who fiddled with the taps for a few minutes and emerged from the back, handing a creamy pint of Guinness to the elderly priest. His one hand slicking down his wetly matted hair across his shiny scalp, he shook the hand of the bartender with his other hand, blessing him for remembering such a great thirst in such a little man. When he attempted to hand his change to the bartender, the bartender held his hand up and spoke in such a deep voice, “Dear Father, such a man of God need not pay for a simple pint. Your work is of a most important nature; you are a man of cloth and have great responsibility!” “But you too, my friend, bring consolation and friendship to so many people who come through the door. Look how many trust in you and find you a friend! No one cheats you or steals from you; the Lord gives and the Lord takes away, and you never question why.” The bartender smiled and turned to walk back to his bar, the priest sitting down in his seat and setting his glass down to warm his hands by the almost-dead fire. Within seconds, the door burst open and in walked two men, one slung around the other’s shoulder. The one walking was a burly man with a stout build, his hair a shining auburn and his clothes tight against his skin from the wetness of the snow. The other man was somewhat older with graying hair that stretched far beyond his years. Even though Father Wilde could tell he was a young man, the man appeared to have aged decades overnight. “Could someone help me, please?” the younger-looking man shouted. Several men turned to look, a few rising from their seats after Father Wilde had already taken his first steps toward the ________________________________________________________________ FALL 2004 • 11
two men, grabbing the sick man’s free arm and throwing it around his own shoulder. The two of them carried the sick man toward the couch, laying him down in front of the barely burning fire. After letting go, the priest and the other man stood there looking at each other and at the sick man. “Father, thank you for helping me. My name is Jerome.” Father Wilde shook the man’s hand, looking curiously into his face. “My name is Father Simon Wilde.” “Father Wilde, I found this man lying in the alleyway next to the bar. He was wailing quite loud about his pains, and he is terribly beaten up and bruised. I don’t know what to do.” Father Wilde kneeled next to the sick man, staring him in the face and lightly running his fingertips across his wounds. There were open sores across his body, and the man stared into Father Wilde’s face like he was some sort of biblical angel. The man saw youth in the priest’s eyes; Father Wilde saw death in the man’s face. So often did he believe that the life of the Christian man matured far beyond years as he slowly lost sense of time in order to strive for the eternal. However, so often did he forget about the reverse and the evils of humanity, giving a man brittle bones and wonderful pleasures in exchange for his own soul. How true it was. “Father, what will you do? Shouldn’t you read the man his last rites? Or maybe pray for his soul?” Father Wilde raised his head and looked at Jerome. “There is still chance for this man. He isn’t dead.” “But here’s your Bible, Father. Here’s your prayer book. They’re behind the couch; you should read to him.” Father Wilde rose from his chair and walked toward the bar. The bartender handed him a bottle of whiskey from behind the bar. “Father, that man has been in the alley many times. I’ve thrown him out several times, but never have I seen him like this. He’s a drunk, and I don’t like them spending time around here, especially when they’re poor. I know you understand.” “But why do you accept him as a drunk, but not as your own flesh and blood?” “He’s bad for business, Father. You should know that.” Father Wilde looked back at the man and saw him shivering, slightly shaking the couch on which he lay. “Father, what are you going to do? We can’t have him in here.” Jerome called out, “Father, you must read to this man; you must direct his soul before he dies!” The bartender once more grabbed the attention of the priest, “Father, Father, you cannot expect to save this man’s soul. You ________________________________________________________________ 12 • THE TRILLIUM
can ask anyone here; he has no soul.” “I tell you, he has a soul. He has a name, and he has a soul. What is his name?” “We call him Faust, Father.” “Faust? Like the legend?” the priest asked. “Exactly like the legend, Father. We call him that because the last time he was here, he traded his soul for a pint of ale and didn’t even think twice. He could have sold anything for a pint, and could have sold his soul for anything. But he chose to sell his soul in the face of immediate despair. Surely there’s nothing even you can do.” Father Wilde, looking somewhat agitated, walked back over to the couch with the bottle clutched firmly in hand. “A man cannot sell what is not his. The least I can do is nurse him to health.” He knelt next to the man and unscrewed the bottle, taking a rag and soaking it with the whiskey, pressing it on Faust’s wounds. He took a little and poured it in the man’s mouth, helping him swallow to numb the pain. In protest, Jerome grabbed Father Wilde’s prayer book and Bible and thrust it toward the priest, saying, “Father, I demand you pray for this man’s soul! You cannot allow him to die lost!” The bartender yelled, “You crazy man, get out of here! Don’t you know the man is already damned?!” In complete disgust, Father Wilde snatched the books from Jerome’s hand and, in redeeming love, poured whiskey on them and threw them on the fire, watching Faust begin to smile as the radiant warmth of orange flames rose and warmed his ailing body, giving warmth to death’s coldness.
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LAURA HURNI ELAINE
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DAVID DULCEANY IF EVERY LEAF HAD A VOICE The frozen flame of the vigil cabbage stream As Ice could, in all his calculated glory, relive The wood slot formed by preaching bureaucrats After surveying the surroundings, it was found That the office was indeed empty As they once indicated, previously During some lapse in consciousness If every leaf had a voice, an intense conviction It would proclaim the preciousness of life Or attempt to take arms against abortion
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SCOTT KOEHLER JABBERWOCKY I’m following down the rabbit hole. Alice my guide, she’ll let me know. The looking glass is broken. Will I stick around, or will I go? So I pick up the pieces and then Reassemble every one of them. Pushing I begin to transcend Back to the place where I began. So I still trudge through the mud. Waiting for something or someone. And I still look to the day. Hoping it will come. I’ve been stranded out here for a while. Dependent on you just like a child. Have my actions been that defiled? Waiting around is just not my style. I want to get moving again. The patience I must find is so hard to comprehend. Would you kindly untie my hands? Or is this the way everything stands? So I still trudge through the mud. Waiting for something or someone. And I still look to the day. Hoping it will come. And I search over and over—Try to keep pace while no one else is sober. I’m trying the best I can—Trying still no one understands. None of you ever wanted to know me. Your comfort zone was way too cozy. A stick in the mud I remain. The mud the only one that holds me.
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AMBER MCDONOUGH NEW ZEALAND COWBOY
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DAN FRAMPTON CLIMATE (UN)CONTROL(ABLE) My brain feels hot and thirsty turn the showerhead on and let the coolness sink into the cracks, satisfying to the core, an orgasm of not-craving, clarity. But I am cold and controlled, too sterile in contaminated space afraid of bugs, sweat, and life I let go, and become one with summer air wild, rooted on rainforest floor. Iâ€™m alive. In a dream, legs not moving to flee terror now, body transfixed to a couch eyes locked on a point non-existent a to-do list as long as my life anxiety about first step halts journey
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JAMES FAIR TURTLE SHORES
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HEATHER UNRUH MY HIKING DAYS ARE OVER
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DAVID DULCEANY THE URBAN FORM OF THE WATER CYCLE The city skyline is evaporating Ghosts born in glass are waiting Maidens don’t tread where flowers grow Grandma still kisses the garden they know Eyes watch from a tearing sky Birds without wings find the willpower to fly Every heart on a laundry line A condensated wine glass holds sunshine ‘ Tis airy to be seen defiled The exact preciousness of a pearl is vialed
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KAELEE BERGHUIS THE HAZE EVER SO THICK
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JUSTIN SWANSON THE SUN SETS BEHIND PUGET SOUND AND THE OLYMPIC MOUNTAINS
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DAN FRAMPTON REMEMBER THE SABBATH Blur TALK N OISE billboards everywhere I look, I can’t escape faster, cut the corner, step there, smile and nod faster, write it down, check the clock, power walk someone critiques your timeliness you burn with bitter ice self-employed to every lesser god Five days later, you notice you are. Five seconds later, you forget. Obligation, not motivation Skill, not passion Busy work The one who created heaven and earth Lord of Hosts wild glory, depth of stars rests.
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The Trillium is TIU's undergraduate arts journal. Founded in 1985 and published each semester, it is produced by students and contains stude...
Published on Nov 1, 2004
The Trillium is TIU's undergraduate arts journal. Founded in 1985 and published each semester, it is produced by students and contains stude...