May 12, 1980 Davidson College Vol. 2, No. 2 Sta.ff Editor Aida Fayar Doss Managing Editor Marshall Waddell Poetry / Fiction Nancy McNair Essays Ann Tutwiler, Andy Miller Artwork Gia Partain Photography Whit Yelverton Editor's Prerogative This issue of Hobart' s Park marks a mileston e of surts i11 Davidson's lit e rary history. For the first time, th e c:u /l ege community will be able to read several of th e prize-winni11g stories and poems from the annual Ver ee 11 Bell writing competition . Jim Robertson's first place sto ry ·· You Always Was /\ Pr e tty Boy," appears in this issue. Several of Sue U e hun ey 's poems, for whic:h she wo n second pla ce, we r e printed in the last issue of Hobart's Park. Four others are printed in this issu e. Minor Sinclair and J e ff Morrow shared third plac e. Minor's story ·A Ro ad Has No End" was also in this winter's issue. Unfortunat e ly , space considerations did not allow us t u pri11t Jeff's story. Cathi e Chester and Connie Mc:L e a11 were both awarded Honorable Mentions and th e ir po e try appears here . A11cl finally: an admittedly personal and shameless plug fur th e magazine. We've got somethi11g good going h e r e; let's not l et it die . Davidson ne eds a quality magazine to showcase its cr<>ative students. Keep those manuscripts and artworl, coming . . . and refer any questions, criticisms, h e lp , or prais e to n ext year's e ditor-Eddie Harrison! -Aida Fayar Do ss Table of CDntents FICTION You Always Was A Pretty Boy Jim Robertson 5 ESSAYS New Delhi, November 28 Carol Loptson 21 POETRY Black David Banks 3 Untitled Su e Dehoney 8 Petit-mort SueDehoney 8 The Last Season SueDehony 9 since last I've heard from you SueDehoney 9 Untitled Constance McClean 11 nancy and momma Cathie Ch es t e r 11 S.F. Cathie Ch es t e r 12 Six by Tim Bethea 15 The Living Symphony Elizab e th Kiss 16 Conflagration David Banks 21 Readiness School Eddi e Harrison 23 PHOTOGRAPHY Hydrant Whit Yelv e rton cover Window# 1 John Highsmith 4 Untitled Tr ey Thi e s 18 Window# 2 John Highsmith 20 ARTWORK Untitled Untitled Untitled Gia Partain Marshall Waddell Paul Schultz 10 14 back cover Copy breakers throughout the magazine are by Gia l'artai11 , Bun Walt e r , and Marshall Waddell . Hobart's Park is published twice during the academic year by students at Davidson College . The magazine office is located in the Coll e g e Un£on . The subscription rate is $4.00 per y e ar . Black I would (like to) be black. If I were black I would give the Black Look and sport dark skin on my anns . My fingernails and palms and smile would strike stark contrast to my dark. When I bought black person's cosmetics they would enhance it With black channs to win black girls. There would be a black butt perched over my black legs (which would run fast- er than white ones) and I could dunk . I would have rhythm and soul and funk, know the black step and dance it . My h ead would sprout black curls that would not comb. But I would speak right and have the black thing sing be street wise have brown eyes branded as Black. I ' d live in a black home and have the re-markable style of the race and l ean in my strut. And I want to be left-handed . May 12, 1980 -David Banks 3 Window No. 1 John Highsmith 4- Hobart's Park You Always Was A Pretty Boy You lookin' good, Nathan. You always was a pretty boy." I smiled as Leila told me that, although I feared it would come out as more of a half-twist on my lips. She had always admired my looks and told me as much. The room closed in on me with its bare clutter; Leila's oldest son John, who lived up in Indianapolis now, had given her a huge oak music console complete with a built-in imitation fireplace that took up most of one wall and jutted out toward me. The plastic red coals turned slowly while July burned outside, and the console's glow made it hotter. A lone air conditioner sputterecl in the next room but the cool didn't reach me . Leila wasn't even beading yet. I thought about asking her to turn off the console hearth but decided against it. Instead I asked her how she felt. " Well , my blood ' s been low lately but I ' m doin ' all right. Ticia 's what I got to look after. She don 't eat nothin' and fixin' to look skinny lik e she thinks you got to look startin ' high sc hool. Now that makes me feel o ld ! .. She chuckled soft l y as children laughed and sq uealed outside. I look ed out t h e window and saw t hem across the road, sma ll arms and l egs and hand s -,o m e how h ang ing o n to a fast-spinning tir e sw in g . " I told you not to swang on that ol' rope! Now lay quiet on the couch while I call your daddy and see what he says do." My left elbow burned into the m uscl e surround ing it. I wanted to move but it hurt so much that I lay still like Leila told me. Crying hurt but I cried anyway . Mama had gone shoppin g and Eliza wasn ' t even walking yet. Leila swished back in too long a time. May 12, 1980 "Your daddy says he'll carry you down to the clinic at lunchtime, so take these aspirin and drink this Co-Cola." She placed a washcloth on my head and gave me a look to make sure I was all right. I nodded and another nerve screamed as I did . *** The back door slammed. A tall goateed black man, probably thirty, filled the doorway . "Oh, Reuben, this is my boy Nathan ." I nodded self-consciously and tried to look relaxed as he mumbled something and shot me a quick, check-it-out glance before disap- pearing into a back room . She had told me a lot about little Reuben over time. how he ' d been a good student but dropped out to join the Navy, seen Nam and then moved to Indianapolis too. Up there, she said, you could make good money . She ' d made good money, too , baking pastry at the E-lite Cafe until it burned in fifty-six which put her out of work for too long though big R eu ben swept up at the clinic when Mama hired h e r to clean house and take care of Nathan Bedford F or r est Stone, newly-adopted infant son. ·· Your mama's your mama, don't ever forget it, Nat h an . " Leila lectured me on that point repeatedly wher, Mama wen s shopping, but my parents rarely di s cus se d it. Leilf , drilled Eliza on the same subject as soo - 1 as s h e co uld understand. I'd tease Eliza and say L e il a wa s r e ally h er mama but one day Leila caught me say ing it and she just stared and I never said it again . *** Smoke poured out of a house in town that we could see from up on the hill with the binoculars I had go L ten that day for Christ mas . Everybody wanted to l ook t hrough them. Faint horns and sirens, almost w hi spers , t ea sed our ears and I tried to follow the fire t ru cks with t he glasses but my friends kept jiggling m y arm for their turn so I never got a good look. Late in the afte rnoon Mama got a call that kept her motionless for a moment, a n d I wouldn't believe that the s moke had come from Leila and Reuben ' s house. They got out in time with all six children and Ticia just a baby but that old shack was gone . Mama called some people and Eliza started grabbing clothes while Daddy just sat back real quietly, smoking his pipe and reading " Fortune" and I turned on Championship Wrestling. Soon the y left for Leila's and Daddy fell as l ee p in his chair and I cut off the T . V. Two years later the City Council condemned four blocks of s h a nti es in that part of town and Daddy built two 5 6 office buildings near where Leila and Reuben ' s house had stood . ••• It surprised me that Leila had moved so long ago to this tiny goverpment house wedged in with hundreds of other 235's on the edge of town. " You know I'd still work if I could, Nathan." I nodded. " It ' s just that I ain't got nobody to carry me up to yo ur place from out here and your mama don't like to drive half an hour to get me . I don't blame her. And too, my blood ' s been low ." I nodded, looking directly at her. She had tried to fix h e r se lf up, or so I thought, but she fit poorly in her ye llow print dress with flowers on it. The dress tugged at h e r thick shoulders although it had no sleeves, and now droplets of sweat oiled her wide face . Little R e ub e n appeare d again in the door. " You n ee d anything, Mama?" he asked, looking at m e bl a nkly . She smiled as she shook her head and the b e ad s danced. .. B e hav e now, heah? " she yelled as he vanished and Lh e back door slammed. Having him home pleased h e r - s he said it made her feel younger to have two child r en at home-but he ' d leave Friday and Ticia would follow him before she knew it. It seemed to worry Leila ; probably Ticia's good looks would take h er away from her mama long before Leila thought s he would go. It was women that Ticia would look like some day, pretty women, that big Reuben had messed with, as well as others who just liked him, according to Mama . Leila knew he ' d messed with them; she must have told Mama a lot more than I heard, but I'd hear her mutter about how he was low down and fooled with trash and she'd leave him tomorrow if it wasn't for the children. Still, he 'd always waited on her in a beat-up white Plymouth down where their house used to be to take her hom e after I dropped her off. Reuben would slouch in hi s seat, sticking up a hand and sometimes sliding his face into a smile. Then he would drive off with her, and how could she leave him then? The flowers curled, wrinkled as she rose out of her chair to fix some iced tea . "That's an awful pretty dress you got on, Leila," I said. " Why, thank you, Nathan." She looked genuinely pleased, and I felt a natural smile crossing my face. "I bought it a while back but it 's cool for summer, " she yelled from the kitchen. Ice clinked into glasses and it cracked as the hot tea washed over it. She returned with the tea and for a moment we sat back quietly, almost like enjoying small talk that lets you drift, half-listening to other people ' s thoughts, when even slight motions of air will cool you much more than usual if only you'll let them. Then somebody glides by in a certain manner and that air gets sucked away, or sometimes a phrase stuck in the middle of a sentence does it, sometimes at the end. ••• I looked up from my bowl and there it sat on page one. White scrap metal lined the wet tracks that glowed in the car lights . They hadn 't identified the woman yet but a wallet said the man was Reuben. Part of me wanted to stop eating, but the flakes weren't soggy yet so I finished . His hand kept sticking up in my mind. Had that sliding smile eased Leila into the car instead of some girlfriend? Mama tried calling but the phone was already busy . She tried again in a few minutes. Still tied up . She was planning to go to Birmingham for the day and wasn't leaving until she got through to Leila's house but I said I'd find out and besides she really couldn't miss that sa le . She left. I dialed the fifth, even the sixth number and then hung up. ••• The phone rang. Leila rose up out of her chair and went into the kitchen. The coals burned brighter in the console now , or maybe the room just felt hotter. Two oviirstuffed chairs, the console, a battered coffee table with a ceramic lamp on it, and a loveseat ate up Hobart's Park the room. This was her best room . The small window opposite the console magnified the sunlight, catching the thin rug in splotches. Maybe that ' s what made . it hotter. Still, the room wasn't bright. I heard Leila hang up the phone and I wiped my brow. The dull yellow in her eyes had a clay color. She tried to look at me blankly like little Reuben had done, as if what she was going to say, and my answer, didn't matter one way or the other. Her eyes twitched s lightly . She remained standing on short fat legs but I didn't get up . She held an aging Rav-a-Tampa cigar box with both hands . The box was not very dusty, just cracking on the edges. " Nathan, I never asked you to do me no favors when I could do it myself. Your mama knows I always paid her back loaned money on time." " I know, Leila ." "An d you know I'd work if I could, but after Reuben nobody'd carry me up the hill though I don ' blame your mama." " You don't have to explain, Leila ." Which one of us was sweating more? " I guess yo u want to know what's in the box ." " Not if you don't want to show me, Leila , and you know that ' s all right." " Here, see what you think." She shoved the box in my hands. I stared up at her but now she was managing littl e Reuben's look. The Rav-a-Tampa slipped away and s unlight caught flashes and glints that splashed the tight room and scattered the stillness. Old silver littered the rug. For a moment it looked like a lot. " Where did you get all this, Leila?" I asked in a too loud voice. " Been savin ' it since before I married Reuben , for when we might need it. My mama gave me a little, and then an aunt some more. I don't know how I kep ' it hid from him as long as I did. He'd steal it for drinkin ' and trouble. No good at all. But the chillun . . " She paused , not finishing. I knew she couldn't finish. Th e son's gaz e that she had mastered slipped away from me and then slipped away from her and she sat down. I started putting the coins back in the box, picking them up at the edges like I remembered from my Merc ury head dime collection . " I know you know old money, Nathan ." She watc h ed me retrieve each coin from the rug, not possess iv e ly , 'just interested in how I touched the coi n s. lightly, probably the opposi te of how Reuben had grabbed a silver dollar when she didn't expect i t. The last coin finished off another row and I closed the lid: I stood up from my crouch and held the box out to May 12, 1980 her. ''No, Nathan . Sell it. Get what you can. You'll do better than me." She looked proud and determined in a strange way sitting in her chair next to the console . 3he looked out the window so I walked into the kitchen with the box and flipped back the lid. I looked in the phone book and dialed the number. Five numbers, six. The back door slammed and Reuben walked by into a back room, seeing me completely and not at all. Seven . " He ' ll give me seventy-five dollars , Leila . He should pay more, I know, but he won 't, at least not over the phone . Said he'd need to see 'em before going any higher . He ' s right, you know. Most I could probably get would be a hundred , maybe one-fifteen." I wanted it to sound matter of fact, like small talk drifting, but instead I halted and then ran on too loud so that Reuben could hear. He would have heard anyway . Leila stared at me and didn't say anything. I wanted to tell her that she shouldn't worry that the money wasn ' t worth more because soon it would rise and I would keep trying to find a better price, maybe in Birmingham, but in the meantime could I lend her some cash? I held the box out to her instead. "I guess you didn ' expect me askin' no favors when I called and I did want to see you while you were home, Nathan . " She rose up out of her chair without looking at me. "The price'll go up, Leila, and I ' ll check with you next time I'm home." The words jumbled together, clashed with my eyes, refused to float and rushed by her instead (didn't they?) . The eyes sputtered, cooled . The air conditioner gave up. She looked at the box attached to outstretched arms and hands and reeled it in from me. July only glowed now outside. I stepped out of the room and to the front door. " Are you sure I can ' t help?" " No, Nathan. It's all right. Ticia's older now and we can move up with John-no , with Reuben-if things don ' t get better . They been tellin' me that for a long time." She gleamed in the doorway , holding the Rav - a-Tampa box and gazing into me with that same look I had felt when she gree te d me. H You was a pretty bo y, Nathan. " " I ' ll be seein ' you , Leila ," I said, and turned from her eyes . I walked quickly to my car and the air refused to move . I · waved at the glowing figure-the s un was just right for it now-and then took short breaths as I pulled from the curb and the yard and the burning console. -Jim Robertson ••• 7 Untitled Even with this rain the pavement's spilling up from the post-office doors and down the street . Streetlights are like stars tonight that fall in rain-drops; they splinter black and bright a gainst the asphalt . In front of me, t wo girls are running, dodging the rain; it ' s odd I shouldn ' t know their names- thi s town ' s so small in summer. In mirrors made of darkened storefronts I watch them run; their tilted hips and tilting brea s ts, s o much younger than mine. R e aching t he last window and past the last streetlight, they dive into t he rain- div e and disappear . I turn and see I too, am watched- s h e, a woman in the glass; we s t a nd, and stare, pulled down by rain- o r t e ar streaked , o n the window pane s. S he i s heavy lidded , h e a vy lipped ; her body, c h a nging in every glass, w ill always be brea s t and hips . A c orn e r of my brain is bent with he a t - s h e br e ath es warm- - a nd the se few weeks I've lived without myself, as t hou g h th e re were nothing underneath- I nod , w e nod, and walk the wind o w s. W e stand eac h other t o w h e r e t h e sto refr o nt s e n d - to w h e r e th e mir ro r s brea k , a nd I t h row he r d o wn : w i t h th e we i g h t o f our bo d y, h er voice, my min d- I step ou t , again, u nde r rai n- I drow n . . . - Sue D eho n ey 8 Petit-mort a man, only, would call it that- my friend had said -a ' petit - mort ' , one ' s little death; as if its worth lay alone in lack or the end of all else : a priv a te apocalypse- if so, i t would be this little death that could take your face from me again and again - turning it in to you a nd taking you away a s far as d e ath could, e ver . b ut no- in thi s aftermath I learn pr e ci se ly why my friend is wrong, a nd why a woman know s the petit-mort who 's see n a lo v e die thousands o f tin y deaths ; th e y ' ll follow each other one by one lik e a Penthouse dream ... why now, alone at night I ' ll d i e one sole small dea t h , a nd w a k e these m orn ing s, h a v i ng d rea m t I re m e m be r ed how it i s at a ll , o n e l ives . -S u e Dehoney H o ba r t's Park The Last Season We ' ve been up to watch the leaves change over, three generations and one car; the roads that fold toward Blowing Rock are not too far for us, or others . It's long since we've been here last. Now, important, and posted at the windows, we ' re to catch the colors flying past and call them for my grandfather . He has brought winter with him here; nodding between us, he stares hard against his snowy eyes, and blinks . From drying corn and dying kudzu w e try to squeeze sugar maples - th e colors we're used to, but the frost that spreads around us h a s changed fall ' s focus; i t honors eyes that only see what cataracts leave behind. Fi e ld on field of the paling vines, l e aves that blow to powder, and dust the road in wind; th e s e are the shades that fill our eyes and choke our words a s they begin. My grandfather shivers through the afternoon: What 's left to do but lean against that cold , to hope that we can warm him soon? For if he should close his eyes, ju s t now, and sleep, would the mountains breathe again and color turn their leaves? A nd if w e should come back another year, o ld e r , after other summers and springs, would the road lead us anywhere but here, to thi s fe e ling of what the last season brings? -Sue Dehoney May 12, 1980 since last I've heard from you it's gotten very hot here- the air is grey with it . I've been watching your oak tree- the one my arms won't reach around, wilt, while the sidewalk softens and pulls at my shoes. I should say : Pedestrians! Beware of the ground beneath you feet- it's melting! There ' s no one here though , to be saved- the whole town's gone to the beach today but me and a handicapped horse. And he'd volunteer a last promenade- do himself in if he found a forked tree, a ragged edged fence, a cliff- or maybe if he ' d known from the start he ' d be looking but just wouldn't see ... hi s eyes were torn when he was small, and for a scar he's worn his life through, and all- he' s worn it well. But he 's only a horse . My eyes you know, are green with grey that rings them and the things they see- lately though, the grey ' s gotten wide, and I can't say I really see much that ' s outside- but I feel what is left; what ' s left's left to die, all hope is out there, and how I'm to try- and though I know no fear is the same, I tell you : I'm scared. And it ' s hot here, and hotter- and I wonder, is it this way where you- where are you? a post-script with news: It seems that the horse's just done himself in- and everyone's here, just back from the beach- and you may want to catch me while my eyes are still green- they're changing, reply- - Sue Dehoney 9 .. · • . . :;.:: . . . . . .... . : .·.·.·• __ __ _ :. :~~ ,~~; ;-;~; rf ;;; _:-~, -, - · .. :: · . : . · ; : · _ ".:' . ',· . . ; ·.· .~ . ; . . ~:i : . . · .. , · , : = • . · , : ~- ,.:.!- - ~ - ir' . _.,.. ; ..,.r- 1 : < ; , e( '. , , . • :::. .... \':~ ... ~. ,. ,""'",f~~1;\ . .. - • . , - : ·;\~:, ;, ~ .. . ' - .~,~ i ~·-r· · f. . - - : - ~ ) ~ =-1; . . -~ i.; - , . . ' . ' :\f" _~ · -. : ·_(.; . . / .: 1•'\ , : :: ·: ~ )J" " · · :f~~-i . 'i}IJ-..)1- . . , "'' i"' . i i :~·jTtt\- · f _ : r · :,-.-· . ~- : , _ , .· -~ ... i ; tfi .- ,~~ ~~ ~ ~- ~ :_ ; . .. -: -~ .- . , . . · Gia Partain Hobart's Park May 12, 1980 Untitled I robbed an old woman's garden taking chrysanthemums and asters of gold, rust and wine from the tangled mass of dead grass before winter. In the twilight she watched me behind her frosted window pane . Only the rust and wine were mine and she waits for me on the sidewalk every morning, sweeping magnolia leaves. She pulls streams of gold from the eyes of the man growing old who rides his bicycle back and forth along the deepening lines in my hands. ---Constance McLean nancy & momma light always light from the backseat of a car carrying 2 adults and 4 children breathless to Cockspur Island we are going blackberry picking w e were well - equipp e d with buckets, nets, gloves , mosquito repellant, songs, and ice water shouting over the hot wind that ms.hes in the car - going to the beach, the island - the road is lined with oleander bushes that flash red and white red and white filing all the way to Tybee march of majesty to 4 children and 2 flower-mad adults, both capable of heartbreakingly beautiful and enchanting stories concerning all possible histories and purposes of the magical bushes awesome as they whip the wind with color -forever the drive to Cockspur Island watching bush after bush blow by plastered to the back seat singing girl scout songs at the top of one's lungs - tunelessness forgivable for children - holding one ' s hand out the window to feel the wind jerk it, catch it, maybe lose it; and the colors of intensity that were only summer, the usual, when young -Cathie Chester 11 12 s. F. a little tremor waves the chicken wire and a white ostrich, black ram, a goat with twisted horns roll their yellow eyes but no one comes walking across yellow-starred fields with a knife my plane lands with a tremor in this country so like Greece where a rumble can shatter off a city park or send black cliffs droppingon the filming of popular TV shows along the fabulous shore road to L . A. This is the cult murder capital of the world . -Would you wanna raise children-? -But its a great place / trendsetters for / starmakers/make it/buy;settle;Drive Ferrari ; build a redwood solar by the sea- money , foam, heavy salt fogs eucalyptus smell and anise burning spiral blue beneath reminds ; teasing fragility of a flower-covered white rock pile -Baby you could only love it here- under the piles we feed the guardians who caress this fickle stillness from the city walking downtown saw seaflavored cotton candy twist through wedding cake streets brushing brown foreheads and smooth papaya mouths of smiling natives their feet unseen in soft clouds that wind and obscure past their shoulders - but their hands flash out with a glitter and they smile pointed smiles was she the one / who / no / its only the Gentian baker lady she sells croissannts and sacher / but she's old/no / not old enough - just watch her hands and this is Berkeley. street sellers sit and hawk like creatures without legs - blasted, gums chins red white eyes pinned to your collar that comers wont unloose / why do you see them that way? This is Berkeley which god brings madness? s un under cloud and the legless trunks reach out, tearing ankles bite thigh s rip genitals down to the pavement / colored chalk and blood str e ad like silty come across callused palm handprinted bodies rolling I fob u r t ' s P u r h May 12 , 1980 red streaked centaurs shake laughing from the shoulder, rippling suncolored hair- centaur stumps without horse bodies headless horses run watering the bad rock beneath the streets w / blood I wouldn ' t mind (so much) but your neighbor loaned his stereo, a bottle of Zinfandel, his smile- butchered his white goat, goose , and rabbits cut his wife in pieces and the red lights came to our back door The dog got in the corpses beaus she came home stiff / her face dried blood and I had to soak it out points so sharp around her eyes they could have hurt / and they were mixed pieces, which throat she nestled in, licked whose blood ? Come on / baby / safe / safety lies in certainty thi s sunny day, blue sky blue sea my hand-its brown warm salty from holding a little bite tastes sweet acidy - soft peel thi s muscle beneath your thumb is live it jumps like the 2 halves of muscle in your calf your certain legs climbing before me up redblack ocean cliffs your hidden blood , covered body and these internal cliffs dumping their insides cubes and sheets of splinters spill as a cold wave slaps a glittering vein waves suck & lick at broken teeth they pasture climbing sheep on these cliffs sea sheep sacrificial wher e is their keeper the man who watched us up his goat will watch us down tum for me, your hand-these cliffs are concave standing on the edge you're undemined which god are you s tanding black against the gold beating on these teeth / smiling in the wind a smile in your yellow eyes I couldn't hear it if the whole side crumbled and vanished in that licking with a roar the wind roars louder blow arching over your shoulders, beating -you draw me to it tremors drowned in a caress a slip a shove into a louder roar _ Cathie Chester 13 14 Marshall Waddell Hobart's Park ····················································································1 • • : . • • • • : The Gigolo The Toast : • • . ~~ . . ~- . : with a whisper on my face : • to the drums • : ~ ~~ ! :. C';v by warmly and lay your hair in mine :. Leaves of earth ~ A • • • spread over us • • before our neighbors know • :. 1 im Be+he1!:l draw me up-side down :. we walk on burnt skin I I, LJ a • with your tongue • • and then • • • • her orange fires • • and pour ~ out of the sheets • • make us hot to dance. • • and sweeten me with coffee • • • : Milk maids shiver The Harvest So and drink me over toast. : • • : beneath their mothers : • She places red flowers • warming : onto the coffee table: : • a cheek • : on her bosom. : • the chimes blow single • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • Later a pig spins through the flames and we may eat soon. Each one of us is hungry . Songs of bathing I stretch around me curls I wave to close my skin. (the air is sweat) I sing I sing of waves of thighs through loins of songs of bathing . notes through the room; • • • her lover kneels in the garden pulling weeds and drops roll down his dark back. October spreads over a town too small to handle New Jersey sin you are too fast and you have no wo~n Good night and drink up cups of cheer passing daughters of firey friendship . Ginger in the Sea While the sea shouts with her she calls to she calls to she lays down again and her fingers wave in and out of sunlight. • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • . ' • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • i May 12, 1980 15 16 The Living Symphony 1 Words Words whirl in air Thud into the plum-pudding Wrinkled sponge of my brain Waltz in the grey mist Above salt marshes-and Whisper behind mountain hemlocks, Alwa y s elusive . The ring of the moon is made of them, Swarming around the glacial flower Bittersweet bearer of madness And meaning . In the family room at ten M y sister and I weave webs of words , Lacing the silver strands Above the sleeping sunlight From bookcase to coffee table Till the room glows with our dreams. Midnight conversations, We toss words across the table- Round red metaphors Flung smiling Into the spaces between us . Alone, I string words, Watery pearls on the clothesline at dawn , Shimmering in fleeting perfection. Words Are the dizzying leap, The dangerous voluntary vomiting Of ourselves . And still the wordsmiths labor Longing for the Word That stirred the universe Announcing, from the dark and empty wastes, The poem's commencement. 2 At the Pond Though he was half-winged and absurdly fat He was a King. His royal stance- Quick tilt of neck Upthrust at my intrusion- Parted th e air. Th e n , the proces s ion : His slow and solemn dance In v e lvet orange slippers Followed at a respectful distance B y his faithful concubine . Two yards away, He surveyed my alien presence With grace, wound-stiffened, Of an old warrior Fragile in his majesty. Hi s measured glance Locked into mine With curious intelligence. Ridiculous , to be Intimidated. But I left . Hobart ' s Park 3 Puritan Rower Dark seed stinks inside me Nestles somewhere in my guts Then, delicate tendrils trail Up unseen avenues (My esophagus sweetened with green) Emerging: my hair entwined They burst bright to bloom . Thus does guilt make human, Make good the movements of my life In Calvinistic creation. There is no controlling Of the process. Too long The stem old faith precedes me , Pulses in my blood. Clasped hands, wasted with work Foreheads furrowed in tearful prayer My grandmothers, my grandfathers Rise in my heart: it comes again. Scoff at it, rat i onal ones The guiltless generation, golden In the California sun! Say no good can come From dark , squinning secrets And cringing fear. Your polyethylene flowers $pring sterile from psychodelic soil Unreal and beautiful. Yet I have seen the maggots And wet pink skin of earthworms Around the roots of roses . The trembling, luminescent hands Would wilt without the dark, Crawling soil , death-filled, beneath. Nature does not segregate The bitter from the sweet They dance, in fl ower, animal I n water gazing at the sky Th e y dance , emwine , within our b l ood - An d ebb and flow o ur a ct ions ' ti de . May 1 2 , 1980 4 Rosary Today, the sea strokes shores With our fluid fingers-gulls soar Sun pours on fems and stones And bums in shattered glass On highwa y s-half worlds away Fenceposts scowl guards sway With drink-the prisoner awakes To concrete walks and question marks And in th e single window Clouds hug bar s and sing. It is S pring-the daffodils Smooth , golden clarions, peer at earth With quizzical expressions Th e s ky float s light as s ighs Of waking trees . Do flowers appease Burstings of darker, uglier things? For despite strangling-sure cement She blooms glorious again Nature, consoler or indifferent Shining through our excrement. 0 dark-eyed friend-your heart that sees The tears of children, lilt of sea Sing the living symphony Sing the living symphony -Elizabeth Kiss (Editor ' s N ote : This p oe m w a s a w ar de d an H o n o r a b le Men t ion i n the R. W ind l ey H all w r itin g co m petitio n fo r f r esh m en. ) 1 7 18 Trey Thies Hobart's Park Indians as a race No, you couldn't have seen surely not, I don't see, of course you didn't, how could you? Usually by then I didn ' t either, but the white casts on both legs with the little hole to pee through and the nakedness in the sun caught my eye as we passed by sweating. A girl, I think maybe ten, the cup beside her in the fine, taupe dust - y uu know , the color of the skirt my mother made me the trip-I guess she was alive t hough I don't really know ; s h e didn ' t move How could she? Yes, I guess you're right, with the casts She was still there when we pas s ed by on our way back to the hot e l as it was getting dark. Of course, it 's horrible I don ' t understand who would leave her there myself. Someone told us the pimps maim the children to make them better beggars so I guess someone had broken her legs . Well, I know. It ' s awful. I suppose the Indians who see it everyday have grown too used to it for it to matter much in New Delhi . How could they? Oh, I agree, to leave her there in the hot sun all day what kind of people could pass by, without even stopping, (I should have killed her then to save the time and pain of dying) like I did -Carol Loptson May 1 2, 1980 I know about age Age is no creeping wrinkle, no loosening flesh, no parched twig bones, or even time. Age i s misconstrued as birthdays and ceremonies piled up in graves . Age is not barnacles of experience encrusting first form, leaving harsh edges and armoring scars; no , my elderly as you slip into senior citizenship (an awkward term in even poems) and lose validity thus, Age is not time, as you know from some children's eyes and watching forty-five years pr essed into faces s upposed to be thirty. Age is not history, written up in crinkled letters, and torn edges of photographs and yellowed satin, or shoeboxes of layered tissue and dead pressed memories. Thanks to Elizabeth Arden we all know the secret-of-youth, shall I tell you the secret of age? I know at twenty-one. Age is only wishing you didn't know what you know too certain now. -Carol Loptson l!J Window No. 2 John Highsmith 20 Hobart 's Park New Delhi, November 28 At the end of August , during our Semester-In- India Program Orientation, our director had the eleven of us play "s imulation games." For one game, we were assigned to groups of three and told to go to the local mall, introduce ourselves to people as Martians, and ask them questions on twentieth century Earth culture. In such ways did we prepare ourselves for India. Three months later, I am listening to the ticking of Tom's travel alarm clock, in a room of half -s leeping people in New Delhi. And if that isn 't the most ridiculous thing I can imagine . .. We are mildly sick. Our bodies are tired and filled with Asian parasites and bacteria, but it is our minds, filled with Asian faces and fine dust and crowded buses and too much Mughal architecture, that retreat to sleep and the quiet comfort of the clock ; a clock ticking like the one on my grandmother 's mantelpiece exce pt this i s on the bedstand in the Hotel Imperial and our grandmothers are miles away. So we smile, or just gaze towards the other beds and chairs. To other comatose victims. Each of us stranded on our islands of white sheets and rubbery cushions. There is humor in it . Becky sees it . " This is funny." We concentrate on well worn inside jokes, when we concentrate on anything at all : " I s it raining ?" . .. " Thank you," or " 'We just hit four ducks. " Occasionally someone gets up to make the trip to the toilet. Someone says they want a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on white soft bread . It is twilight, and I think of the Hindu · myth of Vishnu killing the demon on the porch at twilight: neither in day nor night, neither in the house nor outside . So our lives see m now--- s u s pended; neither this nor that. ' 'Random. ' ' It has become our tradeword in a culture and situation that somet imes makes no se nse to us . "Ran dom " temples, " random" souvenirs, "ran dom" beggars. We are not warriors. We are not mission- ar i es. We are not businessmen. We are no t diplomats. We are not even tourists. We have no mission, no real reason for being here, and we are feeling it today. " What time is dinner? " Becky is fidgeting . "Seve n -thirty." It is only five. There are no real questions anymore. No more "why are we here? "s . We've gone through all the questions by now, and the ones that are left we cannot answer. May 12 , 1980 We focus on the fact that we will, most of us , be home in three weeks, and then we will be able to eat hambur ge r s, pizza, and pancakes. And turkey. " What I'd really like, is a package of cheese and crac ker s a nd a Dr. Pepper . That's my favorite latenight snack at Davidson." John, who has had a f e ver for two days, mus es on, " Davidson really curls up, tucks itself in at night ." Those of u s from Davidson r e member how , in the middl e of the term so metim es all the lights are out by two a . m., and only the lamplights on the brick walks stay on. Some of the dorm halls still are lit by their over h ead floure sce nt panels, but the halls are empty exce pt for book piles, a few plastic cups half full of Coke, one or two phones, and the gray plastic trash cans at the ends of the hall s, filled with Cha rl ut le Obs e r ve rs, "Tab" cans, and " Ritz" cracker boxes. Even the campus dogs find lounges or halls , and curl up to s leep . Some nights in the s pring, soft notes drift over th e n ew grass from Oak Row , from the practice rooms. But mostly it is just quiet, as if everyone has gone home . Conflagration There o n ce was an opulent nation Whose people opposed int egratio n. It answered their ills With fertility pills And a tax break for mic ege nation . Anathemas in the vicinity Came from those who had lost their virginity The problem ' s quintessence : Increased co n c upi scence Had led to a l oss of identity . To investigate government deeds, A commission for citizens' needs Made a sedulous st udy Of most everybody And fo und all the kids were cross-breeds. -David Banks 2 1 22 Some of us go home for a while, and it is very quiet. " I wish I could see my brother ." A whisper. "Your what ... " "I miss my brother ." Bee's brother is like a twin, she's said. None of us have ever met him, though we know him well. We look over the room service menu to find something like cheese and crackers for John. John notes they don ' t put egg in French Onion Soup anywhere except in India. They have a different conception of things here . " Do you want to get the 'Imperial Gourmet Appetizers' for fifty Rups? Half a lobster . . . " John has expensive taste . We order " Moussaka." What they bring has no eggplant, what they call "brinjles," in it; it's just some vague casserole. Names here do not correspond to our names for things, to what things a r e . .. in our reality. Tom rolls over and coughs. He throws off the blanket. David wanders in. He has been sleeping all afternoon to escape the heat and he is drinking a glass of boiled water from the room thermos . " What have you all been doing? Sitting here?" The overhead fan spins, whirs. Time passes over us like the artificial breeze. It is not hot now; we simply have not bothered to turn it off. It was drying Tom's clothes which are strung over the clothesline stretched across the room. Besides, it gives us something to watch. '' ... waiting for dinner . It ' s time for dinner, '' Becky sighs. "No, it can't be yet. I'm not hungry ." I get up and walk to the bathroom. The hall smells like cleaning fluid on the dirty dark-red floral rug . The flourescent light in the bathroom flickers on , like lightning after the darkness of the room. I blink . I think of the small stone that hit me square in the back this morning as we moved through the crowded Old Delhi street around the Jame Masjid Mosque. One of the boys who was asking for rupees and "b all p ee ns " must have thrown it . Another boy careened by Becky and David on a bicycle so that they had to jump out of the way, and pedalled on, laughing . Women stared from behind their heavy, black c hadors. The men called softly as Becky and I went by, and snickered as we passed. Butchered lamb hung in the open shop collecting flies and dust. I go for my bottle of Lomotil but I can't find it, or we have run out. I rifle through the jumbled piles, the piles that appear after two or three nights in one hotel. Three nights ago at two a.m. in a fit of neatness , I culled anJ r eorg ani ze d and packed my essential b e longings into my small backpack. Now I can ' t find a nything. Last night in the dark, without my co ntacts, I tried to find my soap to counteract the fear that the Indian dust and dirt would become p e rmanently lodged in my skin, like a bad memory , if I l eft it on any longer. It was dusty, very dusty in the Mosque area. This i s a " volatile Muslim area ," said Ram Varma (who we·ve nicknames " Kazoo" aftn the cartoon charac- ter). The people h e re steal bricks from the housing project and store them in their houses for the riots. A few days ago, we ' re told , there was a demonstration agai nst the takeover of the mosque in Mecca---the rumor circulating is that Americans were behind it. On the comers, guards with rifles are standing in s mall groups . Someone whispers "Foreigners! . . . " One young boy hisses " Get out .. . " We have been r ea ding the papers . Back on the bus, there is an inaudible sigh of relief . W e are strangers, and Indians are strange to us, though we realize it only occasionally. We have green skin and antennae. We are invaders , of a culture, and neither we nor th ey are vaguely comfortable with it so m et ime s. Yes, we are people ; they are people. Most of the time we act like people, but sometimes we look at each other as cultural specimens . We have come . We will go. This trip to India will . have no absolut e meaning outside the contexts of our individual lives, and yet it is somehow a part of that Hobart's Park patt e rn of our lives that we do not see. It is something eac h of u s felt was important . But we go away not knowin g precisely how or why. As we have no real qu es tions anymore , so we have no answers either. We go away . We will go home . W e go to dinner at last. -Carol Loptson Author ' s note: This is not, and is not meant to be, a summary of th e Semester-In-India Program, or even a representa- tive experience . It was written about one afternoon , by one person, on one evening . This, in fact, is the most hostility we ever encountered, and some people in the group didn't notice it . This low grade infection and lethargy was as sick as any of us ever got. It was one of the five or six most boring afternoons. It reflects my prejudices and judgments. It is a " Down " piec e. But for anyone contemplating "escaping" to another, more exciting place (not necessarily India); or for anyone determined to experience another culture from the " inside " ---without prejudice ; or for anyone merely curious how it felt sometimes , I think this has something to say. I was all those things and I learned it isn't all that way. I wasn ' t disappointed ; I wasn't angry; I wasn ' t even afraid . What I was , was confused, and I know less now about why I went than I did before the trip. I don't see that as negative . It just means I can keep learning from that experience even after it is " over ." It was a trip to India, but it was also a trip with twelve other people---initially strangers ---and I lived with them 24 hours a day for 99 days. It's harder to get away from a group like that than you might imagine, because there's really nowhere else to go . We all managed, and even made friends , and that in itself was a pretty worthwhile thing to do . In fact , I think it 's one of the most worthwhile things you c an do at Davidson , even if it's hard to know why . Having as few illusions and as few preconceptions as I could helped because I guarantee, you shatter enough about yourself to fill a whole notebook and I did . It 's a true learning ex p e r if'l u :e , and the emphasis is thus---a rare find at Davidson . We were a diverse, motley lot . But the one thing we all had was enough courage to at least see some illusions shatter and to wurh to a real uncl e rstuncling of the situation . That real understanding came hard, if at all. Sometimes it didn't, and that ' s what this piece is about. -C.L. Mm, 12.1980 Readiness School A grim, black-headed lady- she had greasy hair yanked back, and white lips with a hooked nose to punch schoolin ' and justice through the tender stalks of all of us. Me an ' my playmates. There was a big mansion or castle with cool, frightening stones, and a dizzy set of steps swooping down to a basement or dungeon- a forbidden place. It becomes clear now - A green rail and pretty leaves on The steps in the shadowy depths. There were leaves, leaves, leaves, . .. you could bury yourself in it and die. And even caterpillars in the dust and you could find lightning bugs sometimes, to grin at. And always acorns. We have nap - time sometimes and I always stay awake (my sister wet the bed) and Mis ' Catinwold gets mad but it 's all okay when Mommy gets here in afternoon . And we played games in long, long lines- " Red Rover, Red Rover, Send Jackie Over! Red Rover, Red Rover, Won't You Please Sir Send Miss Beth Over! " - Beth loves me . We laughed and cried on a long chain of days. There ' s a secret cat-there is, I tell you . - Eddie Harrison 23 :~· , > , :i >} i .· ~ . J . , . •. ; ,:. ; ,. t ,\ . ' - . -·?/ t1: ' : Paul Schultz