Mosaic_II_1977.pdf
Media
Part of Mosaic II: 1977
content
MOSAIC
D
\
IIlarist
college
arts®literary
IIlagazine
cover
drawing
by
eva plaut
Table of Contents
Sketches
3-9
Eva Plaut
Order of things
10-11
Richard Glass
Japanese Grab Bag
by a Dim Road
To the Dog
12-14
Francis De Nagy
Guilt
Confirming the Reservation
To Walt Whitman
15
Tim Delaney
Boy standing by road
16
F. Witt (Photograph)
Burnt Logs
17
Bert (Photograph)
The long Beach Pike
18-20
Dolly Vowell
Object D' Art
21
Don Anderson
Abstract Anonymous
22
Rose
23
Kathy Butz (sketch)
You are Still
24-25
Jeff Burdick
1st piece of Rain
7th Veil
26
Peter Van Aken
Transportation One
Scheduled FI ight
27
James Holmes
Leaf
28
M. Petruni (Photograph)
Doily
29
Beahan
Between the Park and his House
30
Connie Buckley
I make Efforts for you
Redink
Greetings
31
Megan O'Brien
We talked
Sea
32
Charles Joseph
Movement
33
Anthony Mancuso
Ink drawings
34-35
Kathy Butz
Street Incident - Majesty Dream
36-37
J. Smigelski
38-39
John Witter
Photo No. 5
40
Carol Frazier
Photo No. 6
41
Hauck
Amnesiac's Vacation - John Darcy
42-44
Bringing Prayer Up to Date
45-47
Robert
Lewis
Railroad station
48
Gerry McNulty (Photograph)
House in woods
49
Gerry McNulty (Photograph)
Adieux
50
J. Guerma
A Girl
51
Revision
52
December 26, 1976
53
Judy Farrell
Staff Credits
54
Editorial Comments
55
2
DEDICATION TO EVA PLAUT
To Eva Plaut
..
.
The world has visibly been recreated in the night. Mornings of creation
,
I call them. In the
midst of these marks of a creative energy recently active, while the sun is rising with more than usual
splendor, I look back ... for the era of this creation, not into the night, but to a dawn for which no
man ever rose early enough. A morning which carries us back beyond the Mosaic creation, where
crystallizations are fresh and unmelted. It is the poet's hour. Mornings when men are new-born, men
who have the seeds of life in them.
Henry David Thoreau
-
.
:'
\
~
\
\
>
;tr..,
•
•
I
--
,
-
-
-~--
-
-,:-
-:-,-
,
-..;;
,
.
~
:;
-
.
.
.
.
\
\,
~
;
,
,
~
'
•
t
;
i·
·:>
f
'
eva plaut
3
4
eva plaut
eva p/aut
5
6
eva plaut
7
8
eva p/aut
l
'
{ ~
··-s:
-~
~
;i
a,...
t'I!
, /
.
/ J
·
;/
'/.
,,.
.
•
"I
,
<
':.':I '
...,.~i
"
.,
#';,
, •re
.•
4
,_l
l
t
'
.
-
~
-,
t
.
~
~
,
:
eva plaut
9
r. a. glass
10
the ordering of things,
whether in the mind or in the heart,
is just a start:
a first, tentative exploration,
a declaration
of things evoked in part
and in the passing.
we pass away
and we stay in part
where art gives scope
to a hope revealed,
and profferred,
as a thistle in a vase
is profferred,
an image scraped from a kitchen table,
able
as any image is
to twist apart the coverings
and lay siege to the hearts
inner core.
a gray pond in a gray sky.
the leaves lie down and wait to die.
dry as a twig, as crisp,
they snap.
and i?
i sigh
goodbye
no longer why.
unseamed,
the thistles burst apart.
they pour forth fine white seed
from deep within an inner store.
it is a part in the passing:
the fabric of an art
contained in a poem.
within a line
the fine white spores of a human heart
revealed, and
waiting to depart,
to scatter in the breath of any wind.
r. a. glass
lifted: a japanese grab bag:
three ricepaper mushrooms
formed from sumi/ stroked on a page.
grown motionless in space/
placed. not spoken. eyed instead.
held. found. perfectly round
the ink spills down.
a star. a spark.
the only sound:
echo of a scratching brush.
*
*
By a dim road
By a hard sea
*
By beaten shadows crowding walls
The trees growl green
And green again.
Spring returns:
A camoflage of storms
11
francis b. de nagey
12
Guilt
As he slept curled up on the carpet
I kicked the dog by chance.
He howled once and I
felt guiltier than when I read
of thousands of children,
who starved in India.
I knelt by him stroking
and pleaded with him not to
withhold his adoration and faith.
Food-based love; it has
become indispensable
since his master died.
I 'II watch where I step -
I promised nearly in tears.
I can not step back
to undo old hurts,
but watch me, just watch me
tiptoe now around the room
where he once lived.
francis b. de nagey
To The Dog
I put pieces of me in the can
labeled your food:
the pulsing red ones are heart
and the spongy stuff: lung.
Flesh and insides rejected by humans,
bruised and rejected
are yours now, given
to the one who waives
a bushy tail, glad
I
came.
Don't swallow
the swollen lumps of anger,
they are bitter, as gall.
Don't sniff
for the brain
the skull was pumped
empty.
The rest?
Bones may stick in your throat,
hair is not food,
and there are no guts left.
Just eat the heart,
it was the best part
I
would think,
if
I
could think
with the empty skull,
or feel
where a heart used to beat.
13
Francis b. de nagey
14
Confirming the Reservation
-Dedicated to my spiritual father
The Rev. Armand Padula O.F.M.
Come back humble lover of God,
preach to the birds again.
Our creatures are larger, louder now
than the larks of Alviano were.
Brother Sun's rays glisten
on silver wings
Our birds suck your friends in.
Rader-led, roaring they break
through the barrier you never knew.
Come back gentle saint: preach to them.
Come, hold my hand as I
trudge up ttie steps, loaded down
by carry-on luggage
to enter the gaping metal belly.
I 'I I watch the latest show between
breakfast in D.C. and lunch in London
as we rush through the clouds
where heaven used to be.
tim delaney
To Walt Whitman
You still grow and flourish
Among the deaf weeds, stones, and blind soil.
Now you are gone, Friend,
But the roots
Have taken hold,
New shoots are moving into fresh, green grass;
Flowers long to draw near and listen to your
New-awakened heart beating and pounding
Out your love.
15
f
.
witt
16
17
18
THE LONG BEACH PIKE
by Dolly Vowell
The Long Beach Pike both during and after World War 11 was the epitome of the colorful,
fun-filled amusement parks in the Nation. The Pike seemed to exist at that time for the sole
amusement of the servicemen on the West Coast
.
From
1942
to late
1945
was a time of
deep despair and heartbreak for many. The United States was fighting a war in both Europe
and the South Pacific. The Long Beach area was the jumping-off place for soldiers and
sailors alike. Under the surface of every relationship was the often unsaid thought that these
men might never come back and many would be badly wounded along the way. It was a
time when people, particularly the young, were very much concerned with the enjoyment of
life and the gaiety and sounds of laughter. Be that as it may, the Pike, during the War was
completely camouflaged (as we were under blackout conditions at al I times), but underneath
was the glitter of lights, the flash of tinsel, a cacophony of sounds and a great deal of laughter
from everyone.
dolly vowel/
The greatest attraction of all was closed down during the War as it was so large as to be
virtually impossible to camouflage adequately. That was the roller coaster, which, at that
time, was reputed to be the largest in the world. When the War ended, it re-opened im-
mediately and all around the ticket office you could see the boys trying to convince their
girls that going to the Pike was not complete unless you rode the roller coaster, which was
the greatest thrill of all. Once the girl was persuaded to do so, everything was just great,
because the girl would always be so frightened that she would clutch her date frantically.
The terrified screams which were heard after the first drop could be heard for miles it seemed.
Fascinating as the roller coaster was to some, each and every trip always seemed as terrifying
to others as was the first.
If you had the wit to treat the telling of fortunes as a joke and were interested in finding
out what the future had in store for you, you had a choice of a wide variety of fortune
tellers. You could have your palm read, your stars charted, or a good old fashioned crystal
ball reading. This was a really fun thing, as you were never told anything bad. For a small
pittance (anything from a quarter to a dollar), you could find out a variety of things, like
how many times you would get married, how many children you would have, whether or
not there was trip across the water for you, the number of lovers you would have and most
important of all, the length of time which you would live. As a general rule, all of this
information was imparted by very flashily dressed black eyed and gold earringed so-called
gypsies.
In addition, there was Game Alley, which was one entire street devoted to all kinds of
games of skill where one could win what was thought to be magnificant prizes. There were
shooting galleries, pitch-the-ball, toss-the-beanbag, the goldfish bowland many others where
people could see whether or not the hand was quicker than the eye. The major attraction
on this street was the Penny Arcade. And, in those days, it was just that for the most part.
For a penny a shot, there were lots of slots where you could put your money. Someone was
always looking for the one which was allegedly of "French Postcards". I've often wondered
how many kewpie dolls and plush animals were won by a proud soldier or sailor and taken
home by his bobby-soxer sweetheart (to be thrown away in later years, the giver just a
memory)?
The people who inhabited the Long Beach Pike during the 1940's were predominately
soldiers and sailors with their girls. This was the era of the blue, bell-bottomed sailor suit,
bobby-sox, pompadours and zoot suits. The zoot suiters were notorious for being 4F and
would deliberately start fights with servicemen, especially sailors. That blue sailor suit was
like waving a red flag in front of a bull. The zoot suiters would make fun of the sailor suits
and this would precipitate an immediate fight. Fortunately, most zoot suiters didn't stray
too far into Long Beach as the Shore Patrol did patrol along the Pike quite rigorously.
Probably one of the most enjoyable spots on the Pike was the Hippodrome Skating Rink.
You could go as a single or with a date. If you wished, you could skate alone and not be
bothered, except for those times when the floor was open only for couples dancing. This
was also a place where all the bars of "being properly introduced" were let down. It was
permissible for a strange young man to ask a strange girl if she would skate with him.
Parents and chaperones did bring their children and charges and would then stay for the
evening and watch the skating as plenty of seating was provided along both sides of the rink.
Many of the girls wore brightly colored costumes, both short and knee length. It was sheer
pleasure to watch these young people, either singly or as a couple, roller skating to tunes
which have long since been forgotten, although many are returning as the Nation is now
going through a nostalgia craze. It was not unusual, when the evening was over (at midnight)
for many of the servicemen to have become well acquainted enough (either with a girl or
her chaperone) to get themselves invited over for a good dinner. Everyone needed the fun,
but the family dinners were also a part of sending our servicemen off to the War.
19
20
dolly vowel!
Food rationing, especially meat and sugar, was one of the worst aspects of the war to
civilians. But on the Pike, during the War, at times it was difficult to realize that food
rationing even existed. The smell of the various kinds of foods which you could buy
literally overwhelmed any odor which was offensive to your mostrils. Giant, crispy shrimp
on a stick have never tasted as good as those at the Pike. Shish-ke-bob, pizza, hot dogs,
hamburgers, ice cream, cotton candy - the list is endless. The aromas were like manna
from heaven, something you had only dreamed had ever existed. But, all good things must
ultimately come to an end.
Today, very little of the original Pike still stands. What is left, including the Merry-Go-
Round, has been modernized or up-dated to be clean, sterile and antiseptic. The entire Pike
is now governed by rigid rules of bureaucracy laid down by the City of Long Beach, Board
of Health and anyone else who can manage to put their two cents in in order to regimentize
everything in sight. All the booths are the same. The gypsies are all gone. The roller rink
has been replaced by a discotheque. There is no longer that rakish air of being just slightly
disreputable. A different generation has replaced the one I knew and somehow, I don't
think they will every enjoy the Long Beach Pike as I did!
don anderson
Objets d' Art
An old man's easel on uncertain sand
Rehearses in time the picture-painters stance
Before the sea, as his memories dance
Unanswered in misgivings of his hand.
There, unstretched canvas beach- lines understand
The legs that totter toward a final chance
For one sure, artful death- a brush-burned glance
Still framing recollections to be planned.
In afternoons, when standings stretch in I ing,
Drawn sun-strokes toward the differing days
Which brought them here, the easel shadows span
With his- the workings of the shore and wrong
The sand- til I the slack, sing I ing stroke portrays
How well, in time, the easel holds the man.
21
22
23
jeff burdick
24
you are still
you have this much in silence
i am still
i have to ask
give me some bread and beans
give me a reason to find another chair
paradise
i came through town with a circus parade
i needed a window
i needed a box car
so here is the final rocking chair
no voice for the mother
no voice for the child
bring it all in
ten bags of second voice
second violin
a spear with two feathers
a leather jacket with no zippers
a truckdriver with no hat to take off
and in your presense i ask for
nothing
i wait back in another room among a swordfish dinner
a church door
a child's ear at the church door
brass hinges
cold latch
stained glass
stained menus in the all night place
another message for the cops
cops in sunglasses
two cities connected by rai I ways
the passengers of solid scream
i scream no confession
i scream no secret cigarette desire
i let a spoon go jank in a coffee cup
one of them deep coffee cups
how many men let their spoons go jank
jeff burdick
pieces of people
sections of the figure suggesting the whole
the crack of a door
the thin crack of light with the figure of a mother
watching her baby awaken
alone among the geometry of doors and walls
the first pieces of rain
touch my eyes
i wait for the folding sky to face me
a child's drawing crouches on the grass
afraid to ask
who is taking me
who has left me
the second shadows of thoughts
rip through my movie screen
i recall them anxiously
an image on the wal I
the perfection of the silouette that faces me
a poem once wrote in return
means nothing
25
peter van aiken
26
Seventh Veil
Living under the sea is not the answer:
I tried last week
to live under the silky waves,
to spend the rest of ti me
floating under a blanket of water
.
..
The police pulled me out.
The newspaper said
:
Local Attempts Drowning
Six Killed in Beirut.
I read of myself in the hospital,
green sea water all pumped out.
The nice young men smile all the time,
give me tests and tell me I am fine
.
*
*
*
*
Transportation One
Train tracks
miles of straight-
lying on a gravel bed.
Telephone poles-
Keeping lonley watch on the side.
Traveling through corn-fed America-
the Readers Digest-
open to the flag.
Parallel steel out in front,
only the wind behind.
Monotonous journey
moving so quickly over forgotten ground.
Traveling even while we sleep
.
The wild west has been tamed for good-
the enemy now is time.
james ho/mes
Scheduled Flight
Cry for those who sigh
At acts of infamy great and small
Eyes are theirs of bats at noon high.
Yet they fly their tunneled horizons
Ever so freely wall to wall
So safety is the wing on which they
Soar an ever tightening circle
More and more.
Sad how the glories of flight,
When blind,
Becomes such a tedious chore.
27
m
.
petruhy
28
29
connie buckley
30
Between the Park and His House
It is an ending
I am awkward at.
I walk home fast
to make up for lost time.
The silence cut
like the glass in the park.
Someone left the gate open.
Well, we weren't very good in cages anyway.
We will still hold on,
a weakness that is understood.
I'll tickle your feet
to make you move.
You'll punch at me
as you would a younger sister.
*
*
*
*
I make efforts for you
as I would no other.
If not anything else,
you are a reason
megan o'brien
Red Ink
Red ink spurts forth
While scarlet drops
Splatter against the windowpane and
Clot on the rusty blade.
Rosy spots have stained my white shirt
Connect the dots
With the streaming red ribbon
The Liberty Bell appears
Stop screaming, Mama
Bleach will take it out
*
*
*
Greetings
*
A hidden hello
Tucked between the
Folds of solitude
A
decaying smile
Wrapped in wrinkled
cellophane
a bloodless kiss
Buried beneath
layers of lies
*
*
*
We talked
You didn't remember what was said
We sang
But the words held
No meaning
We might have danced
But the steps were
Too complicated
We tripped and
Fell
31
char/es joseph
32
Sea
I hear the steps of waves crash
onto the sea bed
The clanking of shells scuffing
as the sea water spreads
the sand
My toes wiggle in soggy molds
The wind parachutes the sea spray
Salt designs a pumice texture
My tight skin moistens
The sun burns.
anthony mancuso
Movement
I remember last summer
at Gregory House, sweating,
peeling off soaked jeans,
sliding into a cool swimsuit.
I remember walking in stone-filled
sandles to the pool to meet
your crazy bearded face.
I remember the chill of the first dive
gurgle of bubbles around my ears
opening eyes to arms, legs, trunks thrashing.
In the heat there had been no movement.
33
34
kathy butz
kathy butz
.
·
·.
,
·•·:
·
..
-
-
~
.
.
·
.
.
I••
•
:
•
·
.
.
·
..
'
·.
_
:
·
.
.
.
"·
·
,
_.
.
·
.
...
·
.
.
..
.
.
.
..
.
.
·
·.•·'
.!•,
.
.. ,,···
,:,?:
:.,.i/:·'
.
:
'
.
....
' .
,' >
::.
.
,
'
. ,
.
.. ·
·
.
/<·,;·
:
_·
. :
_
"\~:
.
;? ...
~
..
""!'!!11 . .
::-:-;;-~
.
.
35
joseph smegelski
36
Street Incident
"Give me back my gun," said the Kid.
Pat Garrett held its barrel against his cheek
,
Grinning
.
Billy could hear a dog barking somewhere
Near the General Store.
Garret had the drop on him.
Billy spun like lightning,
Garrett missed,
Billy hit the dirt then lunged
At Garrett's knees and
Scrambled him to the ground.
Billy had the gun pointed at the
Sheriff's head and his knee
Planted in the smal I of his back
.
Garrett didn't say a word,
Didn't whine, didn't moan,
Didn't beg.
The Kid liked that and laughed.
He knew he could pull the trigger and
It'd be all over for better or worse.
He pulled back the hammer gently, his
Finger itching against the thin metal
That would do it.
The dog at the General Store was now howling
And Billy felt like he always did at
Five o'clock with the sun slanting its
Rays on the deserted dust of wherever he was.
joseph smegelski
Majesty
In the split twilight of a burnt evening
Majesty sits bewildered by his
Own grace and supplicants.
Someone has said to him that he is
Indeed majestic and perhaps
Even a bit apocalyptical.
Majesty realizes the danger in the sun.
He waits for night and prepares
A ranbling ode to incompetence.
He fears that someone may see
Him without his robes and tiara
And ask him a question so
Overbearing as to be unanswerable.
Majesty must hide like a scowling dog
Beneath a truck or be beaten
With his own blasted ignorance.
*
*
*
*
The Dream
In my dream, Pound sat in front of me
with his white hair and beard uncombed.
His eyes were as cold as the grave
he was waiting for,
those eyes that had been so hot.
He was silence itself in its blank wisdom,
whiteness upon blankness,
stillness over calm water,
resting without sleep,
dying without death.
37
john witter
38
Recital for Piano
for Andy
Sparks
sprang from his fingers
like tension
from taut
wire struck,
a violinist brought water:
squatting,
the 'cellist worked his bow,
blue smoke rose
I coughed
someone shifted a knee.
Afterwards,
in the garden,
steam hung
mixing
with the cool air:
we moved inside
just as large drops
fell
like pianos.
Four for Eva
Drunk As a Sunken-Cheeked Jockey
With toothless dexterity I prepare
to mount the stoop,
fu 11 of stalled thoughts-
their engines floded.
john witter
Getting the Point
In th is frozen !attitude you
float
aloof as ice
just bearing your tip
ready to take me under
should I drift too close.
If I'm wise,
I 'II head for more temperate waters
and wait.
Heaven and Hell
Purgatory's the worst
because you don't know
how long.
Thanks, I Appreciate That
My patience is running out
like the last penny in a parking meter.
Wou Id you do me a favor
and wait here a minute
while I go get some change?
Just in case a cop comes by.
39
carol frazer
.
40
Hauck
41
john darcy
42
Amnesiac's Vacation
- 1 -
For the moment the busy hands unfold, endless needlework
lain aside; what'II ever become of you? Always
turning, looking, I took away.
Betsy claims she found me one March morning foraging
among baby berries
&
stomping upon a bed of
future floral & stone designs, looking lost,
blanked from focal point
&
history. Without
Delv
i
ng too deeply, suffice it to say I was taken on
as chore man
&
eventually confidante. As the
days unwound, we'd sit in easy chairs
before the antique twenty-one inch Zenith, watching
late movies
&
ballgames, conversing
occasionally. Our mutual exchange sparked
in me remembrances of sorts: full-time
paintings of the township, comic
i
nterludes with
strays, composing songs for beer money,
&
various savage
&
gentle anonymous acts
the nature of a person is prone to. Betsy spoke
Largely of the men she had cooked for, traveled with,
panned gold with, sewed for. A taos cowboy,
years back
,
breaker of stallions. The
soldier back East, promising her the moon,
after the war. The influential Washington
banker, who now
&
again still pays a call.
All this between stitches
&
contemplation of
the work in her lap; will it ever be done?
john darcy
- 2 -
Among the noted
&
notorious with whom she
held correspondence: Brooklyn Walt from
way back when, in flat hat
&
breathy song;
the good doctor from Patterson; an urbane
expatriot from St. Louis who called her
wasted; drunken prince of words from
Wales foaming with beauty; a Jersey
madman howling his love from full lotus;
the Minnesota sadman with the plain's
sensibility, crying "Ma" affectionately.
These are but a few; all sleepless
&
intent, strong
&
loving I ight messengers
whose work helps pay the rent.
- 3 -
My stay outgrows itself; it's been
twenty-seven days since a fistful of
berries. I will leave in the
morning. Bety's provided a look-
see behind this temporary
forgetfulness; memory is beginning to
stir, threads of recall appearing on
the periphery. Our work
awaits us.
43
john darcy
44
Yap
When you think it's over it
begins again, when you
think it's gone it proves
you wrong.
That yapping presence
you cuff on the lip, to still it,
yourself,
&
banters louder than before.
To shake it, you travel
i
n leaps
&
bounds, a moonlight
cat in a fantasy of garbage cans,
lids clanging and clanging, cymbals
of the same old yap.
*
*
*
*
Geographical Excuse
Mountainous shouts, running
syllabic streams: a rivery
vocal style necessarily
hilly
&
saturated, meandering
through ghostly Bannerman
straits I ike a corpuscled barge.
Inflections ripped from the
brick of an abandoned depot
&
full of echoes like an old
casino. How else can I sound.
r.
p.
lewis
A Modest Proposal For
BRINGING PRAYER UP TO DATE
One of the less obvious implications of the Watergate disaster is the need to renew our
collective morality by bringing prayer up to date.
Under the dispensation of the social sciences we've become suspicious of specifically
religious consolations. Isn't prayer, we ask, so much quaint but foolish subterfuge? Aren't
prayers evasive symbolic utterances for real, basic,
material
needs - needs better served (or
should I say "serviced" by the ministrations of depth psychology, behavior modification,
and managerial science?
And yet those powerful impulses that prayer gave form to - guilt, and the desire for
reconciliation - are ever more exigent. Witness the shocking confessional orgy, all too
fumbling and inelegant, that followed upon Watergate. Jeb Magruder stumbled embarrassingly
for several hundred pages trying to apologize for his "American Life." Charles Colson ran
gracelessly to "Jesus". Senators, Congressmen and newscasters tripped over one another
beating their breasts at some National Original Sin that couldn't be specified - and hence
couldn't be behaviorally modified. On the other hand, Haldeman, Ehrlichman, and Mitchell
"stonewalled" it, only because they didn't have adequately dignified words in which to
admit their guilt and thereby secure a self-respecting forgiveness. Even former President
Nixon stands ready, I believe, to confess his misdeeds - if only he had the formula through
which to express his deepest longings for atonement.
45
46
r.
p.
lewis
What we need, it seems clear, are revised prayers that will accommodate our late-20th
century sensibility: prayers that will enshrine our sense of self-worth and personal accom-
plishment even as they quell the more irrational feelings of guilt and failure. Something
mid-way between the ineffective secularism of Ron Zeigler's "inappropriate behavior" and
the barbarism of the "Dies lrae."
To this end I've reprinted here the New Revised Edition of the Roman Catholic" Act of
Contrition." This classic has been translated into a form acceptable to, and usable by, all
men of good faith - or of none. I publish it here for wider consumption since it is now
available to only a select test-market of professional educators, graduate students, and
middle-managerial personnel.
It is a small but crucial part of an ambitious inter-denominational work-in-progress called,
Prayers For A Post-Watergate People.
The earnest hope of its editors and translators is that
the whole corpus of Western prayer, Judaic and Christian, might ultimately be made
accessible to modern man and that the great pearl of wisdom in our religious past might be
repossessed - purged, of course, of its repellent atavism.
For those unfamiliar with it, I reprint first the original text of the Act of Contrition:
0
my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee. And I detest all
my sins, because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell, but most
of all because they offend thee, my God, who art all good and deserving of
all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of thy grace, to confess my sins,
to do penance, and to amend my life.
Amen.
New Revised Edition:
r.
p.
lewis
An Appeal For Reconsideration
I am indeed chagrined - almost at a loss for words
-
at having mistaken my priorities,
relegating you to a lower order of consideration. After due reflection on the matter, I tend
now to view my recent and distantly past insufficiencies as notably blameworthy, indeed
even as cause for personal alarm. In short, I have grave misgivings about my conduct, partly,
as one might suspect, because of a consciousness of the dimmed prospects such a course of
action might entail, not excluding even lasting personal loss and discomfiture.
Nevertheless the primary motivating factor in requesting your indulgence is a good deal
less self-interested. The fact is that I hold you in high esteem, as someone much more de-
serving of my attention than those petulant details of daily life that have unfortunately
tended to preoccupy me.
Should you be amenable to the tone and tenor of my entreaty, I would do everything in
my power to rectify the unpleasant breach that has occurred between us. That is, of course,
with
your continued assistance; without it I would be hard-pressed to sustain such a program
of personal reform. With it, however, I feel confident I can re-orient my value system, per-
petuate a mutually profitable dialogue with you, re-dedicate myself to
.
the high ideals that
give life pith and substance, and thus regain the respect of yourself ... and all others concerned.
47
jerry me nulty
48
jerry me nulty
49
joseph guerma
50
Adieux Sauvages
for Raymond Weies
Requiescat in Pace:
it was only a wispering,
never was it a wish,
above al I not a hope.
One does not wish for the Wise.
Home -way back there- this animistic world
we believe the Wise dies
for, to share the tribal fate
Yet, Home - way back there- this savage universe,
we believe the Wise does not depart ...
Sit tibi terra Levis.
This strange land of your Sand - colored people,
this handful of soil from your "bed" -
I stole to scatter to our mystic winds
which gossip to the gods of our fields.
Let it be known that at every dawn,
when the cool breeze of our sacred nights
will commence to swoon twoards these horizons ...
carrying the glorious tribe of the Ancestors Spirits
I will hear in their majesty your foot-steps.
Home -way back there-
the Wise dies along with the Tribe.
Yet through the thick sacred nights
we hear their foot-steps,
of the whole dead who did not depart ...
judy farre/1
"A Girl"
Mary
Mistie Mary
Dance high toed in clogs
And scream for the scar on your face
Don't comb your hair, please don't wash your face
Eat lasagna with your fingers and
dance
dance
dance
Ribbons streak
Hot pokers
across your skin.
You'll laugh
licking your wounds
searching for the sea salt.
Pluck them
Squeeze them
Sing them
Sweet Mary
Black Mary
Just tear me off a bite of the babe.
51
judy farrell
52
Revision
Among the crisp October Sundays
An afternoon
Saved for two
To clear up dusty ideas
To speak of old friends in a new time
A clean wind, a cough, in a cool room
We have met, for the sake of others, to clean the slate.
Hot tea and buns
To steam away the frost
in
our manner,
An atmosphere of the old cinema.
- and as always the conversation begins
Slightly remarking on new affairs
With no regrets
and then slips
Ah! such insight - you say -
I always knew I made a mistake, even before I made it
How sad I am to loose you
How much you once meant to me.
A strange smiie
A slight sensation of being ill at ease
You remark, I remain self possesed
I do not speak.
So follow the air in a smoke filled trance.
Go and dance to the music in your head.
For here, for us, a rhythme is starting once again.
Slowly it will go for a time
And again he will go leaving me
But who will see me if I smile?
judy farre/1
"December 26, 1976"
The rich orange earth
Sticking like moist cake to the bottom of my shoes
Blending in the suede
As each cautious step brings me further into the deep Virginian
wood.
The fearful glances by the glazed eye
And a chill up the spine
Reveals the hidden unfamiliarity of N.Y.C.
There are no concrete dangers he
r
e
No burnt smoke to hide behind
No alley ways to jump at you
Only the silence of the silver singed snow sprayed along
the dirt
Only the shivering branches raised against the iced blue
sky
Only the thoughts of days long since passed
of lonely moments in a big city
Can cause me to raise my collar to the wind.
53
54
Staff Credits
Editor-Rosie Nguyen
Co-editor-John Witter
Photography Editor-Gerry McNulty
Staff:
Megan O'Brien
Suzanne Breen
Connie Buckley
Kathy Growney
Grace Diaz
Faculty Advisor: Mr. Robert Lewis
Editorial Comments
There was a strong need for students' art and I iterary talents to be expressed. What we have done
was merely to collect those works and group them into a magazine so others could also share and
learn.
The content-poetry, prose, and artworks, are all from students who have experienced some feeling
and then captured it into a form of expression.
We hope that all others who find themselves dabbing in art, doodling in ink sketchings, fiddling with
pad and pen, and writing poetry, will contribute their works to this magazine so that it will continue
to exist and represent Marist students' art and I iterary works.
The Editors
Marist College
Arts and Literary Magazine
55
Mosaic_II_1977_001
Mosaic_II_1977_002
Mosaic_II_1977_003
Mosaic_II_1977_004
Mosaic_II_1977_005
Mosaic_II_1977_006
Mosaic_II_1977_007
Mosaic_II_1977_008
Mosaic_II_1977_009
Mosaic_II_1977_010
Mosaic_II_1977_011
Mosaic_II_1977_012
Mosaic_II_1977_013
Mosaic_II_1977_014
Mosaic_II_1977_015
Mosaic_II_1977_016
Mosaic_II_1977_017
Mosaic_II_1977_018
Mosaic_II_1977_019
Mosaic_II_1977_020
Mosaic_II_1977_021
Mosaic_II_1977_022
Mosaic_II_1977_023
Mosaic_II_1977_024
Mosaic_II_1977_025
Mosaic_II_1977_026
Mosaic_II_1977_027
Mosaic_II_1977_028
Mosaic_II_1977_029
Mosaic_II_1977_030
Mosaic_II_1977_031
Mosaic_II_1977_032
Mosaic_II_1977_033
Mosaic_II_1977_034
Mosaic_II_1977_035
Mosaic_II_1977_036
Mosaic_II_1977_037
Mosaic_II_1977_038
Mosaic_II_1977_039
Mosaic_II_1977_040
Mosaic_II_1977_041
Mosaic_II_1977_042
Mosaic_II_1977_043
Mosaic_II_1977_044
Mosaic_II_1977_045
Mosaic_II_1977_046
Mosaic_II_1977_047
Mosaic_II_1977_048
Mosaic_II_1977_049
Mosaic_II_1977_050
Mosaic_II_1977_051
Mosaic_II_1977_052
Mosaic_II_1977_053
Mosaic_II_1977_054
Mosaic_II_1977_055
Mosaic_II_1977_056
Mosaic_II_1977_057
Mosaic_II_1977_058
Mosaic_II_1977_059
Mosaic_II_1977_060
D
\
IIlarist
college
arts®literary
IIlagazine
cover
drawing
by
eva plaut
Table of Contents
Sketches
3-9
Eva Plaut
Order of things
10-11
Richard Glass
Japanese Grab Bag
by a Dim Road
To the Dog
12-14
Francis De Nagy
Guilt
Confirming the Reservation
To Walt Whitman
15
Tim Delaney
Boy standing by road
16
F. Witt (Photograph)
Burnt Logs
17
Bert (Photograph)
The long Beach Pike
18-20
Dolly Vowell
Object D' Art
21
Don Anderson
Abstract Anonymous
22
Rose
23
Kathy Butz (sketch)
You are Still
24-25
Jeff Burdick
1st piece of Rain
7th Veil
26
Peter Van Aken
Transportation One
Scheduled FI ight
27
James Holmes
Leaf
28
M. Petruni (Photograph)
Doily
29
Beahan
Between the Park and his House
30
Connie Buckley
I make Efforts for you
Redink
Greetings
31
Megan O'Brien
We talked
Sea
32
Charles Joseph
Movement
33
Anthony Mancuso
Ink drawings
34-35
Kathy Butz
Street Incident - Majesty Dream
36-37
J. Smigelski
38-39
John Witter
Photo No. 5
40
Carol Frazier
Photo No. 6
41
Hauck
Amnesiac's Vacation - John Darcy
42-44
Bringing Prayer Up to Date
45-47
Robert
Lewis
Railroad station
48
Gerry McNulty (Photograph)
House in woods
49
Gerry McNulty (Photograph)
Adieux
50
J. Guerma
A Girl
51
Revision
52
December 26, 1976
53
Judy Farrell
Staff Credits
54
Editorial Comments
55
2
DEDICATION TO EVA PLAUT
To Eva Plaut
..
.
The world has visibly been recreated in the night. Mornings of creation
,
I call them. In the
midst of these marks of a creative energy recently active, while the sun is rising with more than usual
splendor, I look back ... for the era of this creation, not into the night, but to a dawn for which no
man ever rose early enough. A morning which carries us back beyond the Mosaic creation, where
crystallizations are fresh and unmelted. It is the poet's hour. Mornings when men are new-born, men
who have the seeds of life in them.
Henry David Thoreau
-
.
:'
\
~
\
\
>
;tr..,
•
•
I
--
,
-
-
-~--
-
-,:-
-:-,-
,
-..;;
,
.
~
:;
-
.
.
.
.
\
\,
~
;
,
,
~
'
•
t
;
i·
·:>
f
'
eva plaut
3
4
eva plaut
eva p/aut
5
6
eva plaut
7
8
eva p/aut
l
'
{ ~
··-s:
-~
~
;i
a,...
t'I!
, /
.
/ J
·
;/
'/.
,,.
.
•
"I
,
<
':.':I '
...,.~i
"
.,
#';,
, •re
.•
4
,_l
l
t
'
.
-
~
-,
t
.
~
~
,
:
eva plaut
9
r. a. glass
10
the ordering of things,
whether in the mind or in the heart,
is just a start:
a first, tentative exploration,
a declaration
of things evoked in part
and in the passing.
we pass away
and we stay in part
where art gives scope
to a hope revealed,
and profferred,
as a thistle in a vase
is profferred,
an image scraped from a kitchen table,
able
as any image is
to twist apart the coverings
and lay siege to the hearts
inner core.
a gray pond in a gray sky.
the leaves lie down and wait to die.
dry as a twig, as crisp,
they snap.
and i?
i sigh
goodbye
no longer why.
unseamed,
the thistles burst apart.
they pour forth fine white seed
from deep within an inner store.
it is a part in the passing:
the fabric of an art
contained in a poem.
within a line
the fine white spores of a human heart
revealed, and
waiting to depart,
to scatter in the breath of any wind.
r. a. glass
lifted: a japanese grab bag:
three ricepaper mushrooms
formed from sumi/ stroked on a page.
grown motionless in space/
placed. not spoken. eyed instead.
held. found. perfectly round
the ink spills down.
a star. a spark.
the only sound:
echo of a scratching brush.
*
*
By a dim road
By a hard sea
*
By beaten shadows crowding walls
The trees growl green
And green again.
Spring returns:
A camoflage of storms
11
francis b. de nagey
12
Guilt
As he slept curled up on the carpet
I kicked the dog by chance.
He howled once and I
felt guiltier than when I read
of thousands of children,
who starved in India.
I knelt by him stroking
and pleaded with him not to
withhold his adoration and faith.
Food-based love; it has
become indispensable
since his master died.
I 'II watch where I step -
I promised nearly in tears.
I can not step back
to undo old hurts,
but watch me, just watch me
tiptoe now around the room
where he once lived.
francis b. de nagey
To The Dog
I put pieces of me in the can
labeled your food:
the pulsing red ones are heart
and the spongy stuff: lung.
Flesh and insides rejected by humans,
bruised and rejected
are yours now, given
to the one who waives
a bushy tail, glad
I
came.
Don't swallow
the swollen lumps of anger,
they are bitter, as gall.
Don't sniff
for the brain
the skull was pumped
empty.
The rest?
Bones may stick in your throat,
hair is not food,
and there are no guts left.
Just eat the heart,
it was the best part
I
would think,
if
I
could think
with the empty skull,
or feel
where a heart used to beat.
13
Francis b. de nagey
14
Confirming the Reservation
-Dedicated to my spiritual father
The Rev. Armand Padula O.F.M.
Come back humble lover of God,
preach to the birds again.
Our creatures are larger, louder now
than the larks of Alviano were.
Brother Sun's rays glisten
on silver wings
Our birds suck your friends in.
Rader-led, roaring they break
through the barrier you never knew.
Come back gentle saint: preach to them.
Come, hold my hand as I
trudge up ttie steps, loaded down
by carry-on luggage
to enter the gaping metal belly.
I 'I I watch the latest show between
breakfast in D.C. and lunch in London
as we rush through the clouds
where heaven used to be.
tim delaney
To Walt Whitman
You still grow and flourish
Among the deaf weeds, stones, and blind soil.
Now you are gone, Friend,
But the roots
Have taken hold,
New shoots are moving into fresh, green grass;
Flowers long to draw near and listen to your
New-awakened heart beating and pounding
Out your love.
15
f
.
witt
16
17
18
THE LONG BEACH PIKE
by Dolly Vowell
The Long Beach Pike both during and after World War 11 was the epitome of the colorful,
fun-filled amusement parks in the Nation. The Pike seemed to exist at that time for the sole
amusement of the servicemen on the West Coast
.
From
1942
to late
1945
was a time of
deep despair and heartbreak for many. The United States was fighting a war in both Europe
and the South Pacific. The Long Beach area was the jumping-off place for soldiers and
sailors alike. Under the surface of every relationship was the often unsaid thought that these
men might never come back and many would be badly wounded along the way. It was a
time when people, particularly the young, were very much concerned with the enjoyment of
life and the gaiety and sounds of laughter. Be that as it may, the Pike, during the War was
completely camouflaged (as we were under blackout conditions at al I times), but underneath
was the glitter of lights, the flash of tinsel, a cacophony of sounds and a great deal of laughter
from everyone.
dolly vowel/
The greatest attraction of all was closed down during the War as it was so large as to be
virtually impossible to camouflage adequately. That was the roller coaster, which, at that
time, was reputed to be the largest in the world. When the War ended, it re-opened im-
mediately and all around the ticket office you could see the boys trying to convince their
girls that going to the Pike was not complete unless you rode the roller coaster, which was
the greatest thrill of all. Once the girl was persuaded to do so, everything was just great,
because the girl would always be so frightened that she would clutch her date frantically.
The terrified screams which were heard after the first drop could be heard for miles it seemed.
Fascinating as the roller coaster was to some, each and every trip always seemed as terrifying
to others as was the first.
If you had the wit to treat the telling of fortunes as a joke and were interested in finding
out what the future had in store for you, you had a choice of a wide variety of fortune
tellers. You could have your palm read, your stars charted, or a good old fashioned crystal
ball reading. This was a really fun thing, as you were never told anything bad. For a small
pittance (anything from a quarter to a dollar), you could find out a variety of things, like
how many times you would get married, how many children you would have, whether or
not there was trip across the water for you, the number of lovers you would have and most
important of all, the length of time which you would live. As a general rule, all of this
information was imparted by very flashily dressed black eyed and gold earringed so-called
gypsies.
In addition, there was Game Alley, which was one entire street devoted to all kinds of
games of skill where one could win what was thought to be magnificant prizes. There were
shooting galleries, pitch-the-ball, toss-the-beanbag, the goldfish bowland many others where
people could see whether or not the hand was quicker than the eye. The major attraction
on this street was the Penny Arcade. And, in those days, it was just that for the most part.
For a penny a shot, there were lots of slots where you could put your money. Someone was
always looking for the one which was allegedly of "French Postcards". I've often wondered
how many kewpie dolls and plush animals were won by a proud soldier or sailor and taken
home by his bobby-soxer sweetheart (to be thrown away in later years, the giver just a
memory)?
The people who inhabited the Long Beach Pike during the 1940's were predominately
soldiers and sailors with their girls. This was the era of the blue, bell-bottomed sailor suit,
bobby-sox, pompadours and zoot suits. The zoot suiters were notorious for being 4F and
would deliberately start fights with servicemen, especially sailors. That blue sailor suit was
like waving a red flag in front of a bull. The zoot suiters would make fun of the sailor suits
and this would precipitate an immediate fight. Fortunately, most zoot suiters didn't stray
too far into Long Beach as the Shore Patrol did patrol along the Pike quite rigorously.
Probably one of the most enjoyable spots on the Pike was the Hippodrome Skating Rink.
You could go as a single or with a date. If you wished, you could skate alone and not be
bothered, except for those times when the floor was open only for couples dancing. This
was also a place where all the bars of "being properly introduced" were let down. It was
permissible for a strange young man to ask a strange girl if she would skate with him.
Parents and chaperones did bring their children and charges and would then stay for the
evening and watch the skating as plenty of seating was provided along both sides of the rink.
Many of the girls wore brightly colored costumes, both short and knee length. It was sheer
pleasure to watch these young people, either singly or as a couple, roller skating to tunes
which have long since been forgotten, although many are returning as the Nation is now
going through a nostalgia craze. It was not unusual, when the evening was over (at midnight)
for many of the servicemen to have become well acquainted enough (either with a girl or
her chaperone) to get themselves invited over for a good dinner. Everyone needed the fun,
but the family dinners were also a part of sending our servicemen off to the War.
19
20
dolly vowel!
Food rationing, especially meat and sugar, was one of the worst aspects of the war to
civilians. But on the Pike, during the War, at times it was difficult to realize that food
rationing even existed. The smell of the various kinds of foods which you could buy
literally overwhelmed any odor which was offensive to your mostrils. Giant, crispy shrimp
on a stick have never tasted as good as those at the Pike. Shish-ke-bob, pizza, hot dogs,
hamburgers, ice cream, cotton candy - the list is endless. The aromas were like manna
from heaven, something you had only dreamed had ever existed. But, all good things must
ultimately come to an end.
Today, very little of the original Pike still stands. What is left, including the Merry-Go-
Round, has been modernized or up-dated to be clean, sterile and antiseptic. The entire Pike
is now governed by rigid rules of bureaucracy laid down by the City of Long Beach, Board
of Health and anyone else who can manage to put their two cents in in order to regimentize
everything in sight. All the booths are the same. The gypsies are all gone. The roller rink
has been replaced by a discotheque. There is no longer that rakish air of being just slightly
disreputable. A different generation has replaced the one I knew and somehow, I don't
think they will every enjoy the Long Beach Pike as I did!
don anderson
Objets d' Art
An old man's easel on uncertain sand
Rehearses in time the picture-painters stance
Before the sea, as his memories dance
Unanswered in misgivings of his hand.
There, unstretched canvas beach- lines understand
The legs that totter toward a final chance
For one sure, artful death- a brush-burned glance
Still framing recollections to be planned.
In afternoons, when standings stretch in I ing,
Drawn sun-strokes toward the differing days
Which brought them here, the easel shadows span
With his- the workings of the shore and wrong
The sand- til I the slack, sing I ing stroke portrays
How well, in time, the easel holds the man.
21
22
23
jeff burdick
24
you are still
you have this much in silence
i am still
i have to ask
give me some bread and beans
give me a reason to find another chair
paradise
i came through town with a circus parade
i needed a window
i needed a box car
so here is the final rocking chair
no voice for the mother
no voice for the child
bring it all in
ten bags of second voice
second violin
a spear with two feathers
a leather jacket with no zippers
a truckdriver with no hat to take off
and in your presense i ask for
nothing
i wait back in another room among a swordfish dinner
a church door
a child's ear at the church door
brass hinges
cold latch
stained glass
stained menus in the all night place
another message for the cops
cops in sunglasses
two cities connected by rai I ways
the passengers of solid scream
i scream no confession
i scream no secret cigarette desire
i let a spoon go jank in a coffee cup
one of them deep coffee cups
how many men let their spoons go jank
jeff burdick
pieces of people
sections of the figure suggesting the whole
the crack of a door
the thin crack of light with the figure of a mother
watching her baby awaken
alone among the geometry of doors and walls
the first pieces of rain
touch my eyes
i wait for the folding sky to face me
a child's drawing crouches on the grass
afraid to ask
who is taking me
who has left me
the second shadows of thoughts
rip through my movie screen
i recall them anxiously
an image on the wal I
the perfection of the silouette that faces me
a poem once wrote in return
means nothing
25
peter van aiken
26
Seventh Veil
Living under the sea is not the answer:
I tried last week
to live under the silky waves,
to spend the rest of ti me
floating under a blanket of water
.
..
The police pulled me out.
The newspaper said
:
Local Attempts Drowning
Six Killed in Beirut.
I read of myself in the hospital,
green sea water all pumped out.
The nice young men smile all the time,
give me tests and tell me I am fine
.
*
*
*
*
Transportation One
Train tracks
miles of straight-
lying on a gravel bed.
Telephone poles-
Keeping lonley watch on the side.
Traveling through corn-fed America-
the Readers Digest-
open to the flag.
Parallel steel out in front,
only the wind behind.
Monotonous journey
moving so quickly over forgotten ground.
Traveling even while we sleep
.
The wild west has been tamed for good-
the enemy now is time.
james ho/mes
Scheduled Flight
Cry for those who sigh
At acts of infamy great and small
Eyes are theirs of bats at noon high.
Yet they fly their tunneled horizons
Ever so freely wall to wall
So safety is the wing on which they
Soar an ever tightening circle
More and more.
Sad how the glories of flight,
When blind,
Becomes such a tedious chore.
27
m
.
petruhy
28
29
connie buckley
30
Between the Park and His House
It is an ending
I am awkward at.
I walk home fast
to make up for lost time.
The silence cut
like the glass in the park.
Someone left the gate open.
Well, we weren't very good in cages anyway.
We will still hold on,
a weakness that is understood.
I'll tickle your feet
to make you move.
You'll punch at me
as you would a younger sister.
*
*
*
*
I make efforts for you
as I would no other.
If not anything else,
you are a reason
megan o'brien
Red Ink
Red ink spurts forth
While scarlet drops
Splatter against the windowpane and
Clot on the rusty blade.
Rosy spots have stained my white shirt
Connect the dots
With the streaming red ribbon
The Liberty Bell appears
Stop screaming, Mama
Bleach will take it out
*
*
*
Greetings
*
A hidden hello
Tucked between the
Folds of solitude
A
decaying smile
Wrapped in wrinkled
cellophane
a bloodless kiss
Buried beneath
layers of lies
*
*
*
We talked
You didn't remember what was said
We sang
But the words held
No meaning
We might have danced
But the steps were
Too complicated
We tripped and
Fell
31
char/es joseph
32
Sea
I hear the steps of waves crash
onto the sea bed
The clanking of shells scuffing
as the sea water spreads
the sand
My toes wiggle in soggy molds
The wind parachutes the sea spray
Salt designs a pumice texture
My tight skin moistens
The sun burns.
anthony mancuso
Movement
I remember last summer
at Gregory House, sweating,
peeling off soaked jeans,
sliding into a cool swimsuit.
I remember walking in stone-filled
sandles to the pool to meet
your crazy bearded face.
I remember the chill of the first dive
gurgle of bubbles around my ears
opening eyes to arms, legs, trunks thrashing.
In the heat there had been no movement.
33
34
kathy butz
kathy butz
.
·
·.
,
·•·:
·
..
-
-
~
.
.
·
.
.
I••
•
:
•
·
.
.
·
..
'
·.
_
:
·
.
.
.
"·
·
,
_.
.
·
.
...
·
.
.
..
.
.
.
..
.
.
·
·.•·'
.!•,
.
.. ,,···
,:,?:
:.,.i/:·'
.
:
'
.
....
' .
,' >
::.
.
,
'
. ,
.
.. ·
·
.
/<·,;·
:
_·
. :
_
"\~:
.
;? ...
~
..
""!'!!11 . .
::-:-;;-~
.
.
35
joseph smegelski
36
Street Incident
"Give me back my gun," said the Kid.
Pat Garrett held its barrel against his cheek
,
Grinning
.
Billy could hear a dog barking somewhere
Near the General Store.
Garret had the drop on him.
Billy spun like lightning,
Garrett missed,
Billy hit the dirt then lunged
At Garrett's knees and
Scrambled him to the ground.
Billy had the gun pointed at the
Sheriff's head and his knee
Planted in the smal I of his back
.
Garrett didn't say a word,
Didn't whine, didn't moan,
Didn't beg.
The Kid liked that and laughed.
He knew he could pull the trigger and
It'd be all over for better or worse.
He pulled back the hammer gently, his
Finger itching against the thin metal
That would do it.
The dog at the General Store was now howling
And Billy felt like he always did at
Five o'clock with the sun slanting its
Rays on the deserted dust of wherever he was.
joseph smegelski
Majesty
In the split twilight of a burnt evening
Majesty sits bewildered by his
Own grace and supplicants.
Someone has said to him that he is
Indeed majestic and perhaps
Even a bit apocalyptical.
Majesty realizes the danger in the sun.
He waits for night and prepares
A ranbling ode to incompetence.
He fears that someone may see
Him without his robes and tiara
And ask him a question so
Overbearing as to be unanswerable.
Majesty must hide like a scowling dog
Beneath a truck or be beaten
With his own blasted ignorance.
*
*
*
*
The Dream
In my dream, Pound sat in front of me
with his white hair and beard uncombed.
His eyes were as cold as the grave
he was waiting for,
those eyes that had been so hot.
He was silence itself in its blank wisdom,
whiteness upon blankness,
stillness over calm water,
resting without sleep,
dying without death.
37
john witter
38
Recital for Piano
for Andy
Sparks
sprang from his fingers
like tension
from taut
wire struck,
a violinist brought water:
squatting,
the 'cellist worked his bow,
blue smoke rose
I coughed
someone shifted a knee.
Afterwards,
in the garden,
steam hung
mixing
with the cool air:
we moved inside
just as large drops
fell
like pianos.
Four for Eva
Drunk As a Sunken-Cheeked Jockey
With toothless dexterity I prepare
to mount the stoop,
fu 11 of stalled thoughts-
their engines floded.
john witter
Getting the Point
In th is frozen !attitude you
float
aloof as ice
just bearing your tip
ready to take me under
should I drift too close.
If I'm wise,
I 'II head for more temperate waters
and wait.
Heaven and Hell
Purgatory's the worst
because you don't know
how long.
Thanks, I Appreciate That
My patience is running out
like the last penny in a parking meter.
Wou Id you do me a favor
and wait here a minute
while I go get some change?
Just in case a cop comes by.
39
carol frazer
.
40
Hauck
41
john darcy
42
Amnesiac's Vacation
- 1 -
For the moment the busy hands unfold, endless needlework
lain aside; what'II ever become of you? Always
turning, looking, I took away.
Betsy claims she found me one March morning foraging
among baby berries
&
stomping upon a bed of
future floral & stone designs, looking lost,
blanked from focal point
&
history. Without
Delv
i
ng too deeply, suffice it to say I was taken on
as chore man
&
eventually confidante. As the
days unwound, we'd sit in easy chairs
before the antique twenty-one inch Zenith, watching
late movies
&
ballgames, conversing
occasionally. Our mutual exchange sparked
in me remembrances of sorts: full-time
paintings of the township, comic
i
nterludes with
strays, composing songs for beer money,
&
various savage
&
gentle anonymous acts
the nature of a person is prone to. Betsy spoke
Largely of the men she had cooked for, traveled with,
panned gold with, sewed for. A taos cowboy,
years back
,
breaker of stallions. The
soldier back East, promising her the moon,
after the war. The influential Washington
banker, who now
&
again still pays a call.
All this between stitches
&
contemplation of
the work in her lap; will it ever be done?
john darcy
- 2 -
Among the noted
&
notorious with whom she
held correspondence: Brooklyn Walt from
way back when, in flat hat
&
breathy song;
the good doctor from Patterson; an urbane
expatriot from St. Louis who called her
wasted; drunken prince of words from
Wales foaming with beauty; a Jersey
madman howling his love from full lotus;
the Minnesota sadman with the plain's
sensibility, crying "Ma" affectionately.
These are but a few; all sleepless
&
intent, strong
&
loving I ight messengers
whose work helps pay the rent.
- 3 -
My stay outgrows itself; it's been
twenty-seven days since a fistful of
berries. I will leave in the
morning. Bety's provided a look-
see behind this temporary
forgetfulness; memory is beginning to
stir, threads of recall appearing on
the periphery. Our work
awaits us.
43
john darcy
44
Yap
When you think it's over it
begins again, when you
think it's gone it proves
you wrong.
That yapping presence
you cuff on the lip, to still it,
yourself,
&
banters louder than before.
To shake it, you travel
i
n leaps
&
bounds, a moonlight
cat in a fantasy of garbage cans,
lids clanging and clanging, cymbals
of the same old yap.
*
*
*
*
Geographical Excuse
Mountainous shouts, running
syllabic streams: a rivery
vocal style necessarily
hilly
&
saturated, meandering
through ghostly Bannerman
straits I ike a corpuscled barge.
Inflections ripped from the
brick of an abandoned depot
&
full of echoes like an old
casino. How else can I sound.
r.
p.
lewis
A Modest Proposal For
BRINGING PRAYER UP TO DATE
One of the less obvious implications of the Watergate disaster is the need to renew our
collective morality by bringing prayer up to date.
Under the dispensation of the social sciences we've become suspicious of specifically
religious consolations. Isn't prayer, we ask, so much quaint but foolish subterfuge? Aren't
prayers evasive symbolic utterances for real, basic,
material
needs - needs better served (or
should I say "serviced" by the ministrations of depth psychology, behavior modification,
and managerial science?
And yet those powerful impulses that prayer gave form to - guilt, and the desire for
reconciliation - are ever more exigent. Witness the shocking confessional orgy, all too
fumbling and inelegant, that followed upon Watergate. Jeb Magruder stumbled embarrassingly
for several hundred pages trying to apologize for his "American Life." Charles Colson ran
gracelessly to "Jesus". Senators, Congressmen and newscasters tripped over one another
beating their breasts at some National Original Sin that couldn't be specified - and hence
couldn't be behaviorally modified. On the other hand, Haldeman, Ehrlichman, and Mitchell
"stonewalled" it, only because they didn't have adequately dignified words in which to
admit their guilt and thereby secure a self-respecting forgiveness. Even former President
Nixon stands ready, I believe, to confess his misdeeds - if only he had the formula through
which to express his deepest longings for atonement.
45
46
r.
p.
lewis
What we need, it seems clear, are revised prayers that will accommodate our late-20th
century sensibility: prayers that will enshrine our sense of self-worth and personal accom-
plishment even as they quell the more irrational feelings of guilt and failure. Something
mid-way between the ineffective secularism of Ron Zeigler's "inappropriate behavior" and
the barbarism of the "Dies lrae."
To this end I've reprinted here the New Revised Edition of the Roman Catholic" Act of
Contrition." This classic has been translated into a form acceptable to, and usable by, all
men of good faith - or of none. I publish it here for wider consumption since it is now
available to only a select test-market of professional educators, graduate students, and
middle-managerial personnel.
It is a small but crucial part of an ambitious inter-denominational work-in-progress called,
Prayers For A Post-Watergate People.
The earnest hope of its editors and translators is that
the whole corpus of Western prayer, Judaic and Christian, might ultimately be made
accessible to modern man and that the great pearl of wisdom in our religious past might be
repossessed - purged, of course, of its repellent atavism.
For those unfamiliar with it, I reprint first the original text of the Act of Contrition:
0
my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee. And I detest all
my sins, because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell, but most
of all because they offend thee, my God, who art all good and deserving of
all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of thy grace, to confess my sins,
to do penance, and to amend my life.
Amen.
New Revised Edition:
r.
p.
lewis
An Appeal For Reconsideration
I am indeed chagrined - almost at a loss for words
-
at having mistaken my priorities,
relegating you to a lower order of consideration. After due reflection on the matter, I tend
now to view my recent and distantly past insufficiencies as notably blameworthy, indeed
even as cause for personal alarm. In short, I have grave misgivings about my conduct, partly,
as one might suspect, because of a consciousness of the dimmed prospects such a course of
action might entail, not excluding even lasting personal loss and discomfiture.
Nevertheless the primary motivating factor in requesting your indulgence is a good deal
less self-interested. The fact is that I hold you in high esteem, as someone much more de-
serving of my attention than those petulant details of daily life that have unfortunately
tended to preoccupy me.
Should you be amenable to the tone and tenor of my entreaty, I would do everything in
my power to rectify the unpleasant breach that has occurred between us. That is, of course,
with
your continued assistance; without it I would be hard-pressed to sustain such a program
of personal reform. With it, however, I feel confident I can re-orient my value system, per-
petuate a mutually profitable dialogue with you, re-dedicate myself to
.
the high ideals that
give life pith and substance, and thus regain the respect of yourself ... and all others concerned.
47
jerry me nulty
48
jerry me nulty
49
joseph guerma
50
Adieux Sauvages
for Raymond Weies
Requiescat in Pace:
it was only a wispering,
never was it a wish,
above al I not a hope.
One does not wish for the Wise.
Home -way back there- this animistic world
we believe the Wise dies
for, to share the tribal fate
Yet, Home - way back there- this savage universe,
we believe the Wise does not depart ...
Sit tibi terra Levis.
This strange land of your Sand - colored people,
this handful of soil from your "bed" -
I stole to scatter to our mystic winds
which gossip to the gods of our fields.
Let it be known that at every dawn,
when the cool breeze of our sacred nights
will commence to swoon twoards these horizons ...
carrying the glorious tribe of the Ancestors Spirits
I will hear in their majesty your foot-steps.
Home -way back there-
the Wise dies along with the Tribe.
Yet through the thick sacred nights
we hear their foot-steps,
of the whole dead who did not depart ...
judy farre/1
"A Girl"
Mary
Mistie Mary
Dance high toed in clogs
And scream for the scar on your face
Don't comb your hair, please don't wash your face
Eat lasagna with your fingers and
dance
dance
dance
Ribbons streak
Hot pokers
across your skin.
You'll laugh
licking your wounds
searching for the sea salt.
Pluck them
Squeeze them
Sing them
Sweet Mary
Black Mary
Just tear me off a bite of the babe.
51
judy farrell
52
Revision
Among the crisp October Sundays
An afternoon
Saved for two
To clear up dusty ideas
To speak of old friends in a new time
A clean wind, a cough, in a cool room
We have met, for the sake of others, to clean the slate.
Hot tea and buns
To steam away the frost
in
our manner,
An atmosphere of the old cinema.
- and as always the conversation begins
Slightly remarking on new affairs
With no regrets
and then slips
Ah! such insight - you say -
I always knew I made a mistake, even before I made it
How sad I am to loose you
How much you once meant to me.
A strange smiie
A slight sensation of being ill at ease
You remark, I remain self possesed
I do not speak.
So follow the air in a smoke filled trance.
Go and dance to the music in your head.
For here, for us, a rhythme is starting once again.
Slowly it will go for a time
And again he will go leaving me
But who will see me if I smile?
judy farre/1
"December 26, 1976"
The rich orange earth
Sticking like moist cake to the bottom of my shoes
Blending in the suede
As each cautious step brings me further into the deep Virginian
wood.
The fearful glances by the glazed eye
And a chill up the spine
Reveals the hidden unfamiliarity of N.Y.C.
There are no concrete dangers he
r
e
No burnt smoke to hide behind
No alley ways to jump at you
Only the silence of the silver singed snow sprayed along
the dirt
Only the shivering branches raised against the iced blue
sky
Only the thoughts of days long since passed
of lonely moments in a big city
Can cause me to raise my collar to the wind.
53
54
Staff Credits
Editor-Rosie Nguyen
Co-editor-John Witter
Photography Editor-Gerry McNulty
Staff:
Megan O'Brien
Suzanne Breen
Connie Buckley
Kathy Growney
Grace Diaz
Faculty Advisor: Mr. Robert Lewis
Editorial Comments
There was a strong need for students' art and I iterary talents to be expressed. What we have done
was merely to collect those works and group them into a magazine so others could also share and
learn.
The content-poetry, prose, and artworks, are all from students who have experienced some feeling
and then captured it into a form of expression.
We hope that all others who find themselves dabbing in art, doodling in ink sketchings, fiddling with
pad and pen, and writing poetry, will contribute their works to this magazine so that it will continue
to exist and represent Marist students' art and I iterary works.
The Editors
Marist College
Arts and Literary Magazine
55
Mosaic_II_1977_001
Mosaic_II_1977_002
Mosaic_II_1977_003
Mosaic_II_1977_004
Mosaic_II_1977_005
Mosaic_II_1977_006
Mosaic_II_1977_007
Mosaic_II_1977_008
Mosaic_II_1977_009
Mosaic_II_1977_010
Mosaic_II_1977_011
Mosaic_II_1977_012
Mosaic_II_1977_013
Mosaic_II_1977_014
Mosaic_II_1977_015
Mosaic_II_1977_016
Mosaic_II_1977_017
Mosaic_II_1977_018
Mosaic_II_1977_019
Mosaic_II_1977_020
Mosaic_II_1977_021
Mosaic_II_1977_022
Mosaic_II_1977_023
Mosaic_II_1977_024
Mosaic_II_1977_025
Mosaic_II_1977_026
Mosaic_II_1977_027
Mosaic_II_1977_028
Mosaic_II_1977_029
Mosaic_II_1977_030
Mosaic_II_1977_031
Mosaic_II_1977_032
Mosaic_II_1977_033
Mosaic_II_1977_034
Mosaic_II_1977_035
Mosaic_II_1977_036
Mosaic_II_1977_037
Mosaic_II_1977_038
Mosaic_II_1977_039
Mosaic_II_1977_040
Mosaic_II_1977_041
Mosaic_II_1977_042
Mosaic_II_1977_043
Mosaic_II_1977_044
Mosaic_II_1977_045
Mosaic_II_1977_046
Mosaic_II_1977_047
Mosaic_II_1977_048
Mosaic_II_1977_049
Mosaic_II_1977_050
Mosaic_II_1977_051
Mosaic_II_1977_052
Mosaic_II_1977_053
Mosaic_II_1977_054
Mosaic_II_1977_055
Mosaic_II_1977_056
Mosaic_II_1977_057
Mosaic_II_1977_058
Mosaic_II_1977_059
Mosaic_II_1977_060