Dad—Reminiscing in Autumn By Angie Carlson My father meant the world to me, at age five. In autumn the leaves died. Migrations, black arrows of geese passed overhead, honking like an amateur marching band. Dad came alive at the sound. In our basement, smells of damp wool and canvas mingled with... Show moreDad—Reminiscing in Autumn By Angie Carlson My father meant the world to me, at age five. In autumn the leaves died. Migrations, black arrows of geese passed overhead, honking like an amateur marching band. Dad came alive at the sound. In our basement, smells of damp wool and canvas mingled with that of well—oiled guns. Father—thin, crewcutted, a jester in motley camouflage and Redwing boots, made his way to the muskeg bogs and rice-choked lakes, carrying his gun proud as a soldier. Planning to wait up for Dad, I would post watch from the living room couch, but mother’s stories closed my eyes. Suddenly, inside noises on the basement stair: the dull scud of wet boots on cement, laughing rising and falling. I ran down the stairs, excited! Limp-necked geese irreverently thrown on yellowed newspapers spread upon cement, bound at the neck with gaping red holes for bellies. Show less
In Huehuetenango I wanted to talk with you: you said you were asleep. I didn't realize then that you were. The heat is getting unbearable. On a bus going into Mexico you say you need a cigarette 17 and maybe a cup of coffee. I watch you smooth the ends of your moustache before you close your eyes... Show moreIn Huehuetenango I wanted to talk with you: you said you were asleep. I didn't realize then that you were. The heat is getting unbearable. On a bus going into Mexico you say you need a cigarette 17 and maybe a cup of coffee. I watch you smooth the ends of your moustache before you close your eyes to wonder why I chose mountains and you chose rum. I watch until the volcanoes are out of sight. Show less
One of the customers got up from the chair, brushing a few loose nubs from his collar. “Boy,” Tom thought, “I bet if you rubbed the top of his head it would be just like petting the Butte family's Weimaraner." The two boys didn’t read their magazines very closely. Instead they breathed in the... Show moreOne of the customers got up from the chair, brushing a few loose nubs from his collar. “Boy,” Tom thought, “I bet if you rubbed the top of his head it would be just like petting the Butte family's Weimaraner." The two boys didn’t read their magazines very closely. Instead they breathed in the exotic smells and gloated in the men’s club atmosphere. “0K fellas, you guys are next,” said Ray. "Which one is first?" Tom got a new comic and went to the chair. “Hey sport, you’ve grown so much since I saw you last I don‘t think you need a booster this time! Hop right up there." The youngster obliged. grinning. and his brother returned to his magazine, oblivious to the buzzing clippers and animated hunting stories. Shortly it was his turn to climb the chair and be pumped to the proper height. Skilled hands drew tissue paper around his neck and after shaking out the sheet. it was billowed over him. “Ja, vell, vould yew lewk at dat. Hooo-weee dat hair'ce long! Ven's da last time yew in here?" ". . . Uh, Ida know." "Ja. vell. by da lewks of tings I shewd say it's been a vile. Yew play hooky or go fishing or someting?" “Yep. I went fishin'." “Yew catch anyting?" "Nope." “Ja, vell, dat's vat happence sometimce." “Yep.” ”. . . Ja, vell," he said, clipping steadily, “Yew hear any gewd yokes lately?" "Nope." “. . . Ja, vell yew hear da one about dat darn old Svede who vent and drowned himself ven he try tew build a cellar in his ice fishing house?" "Nope." “. . . Ja, vell. I guess not, tew." The rest of the cut was done in silence until the Norwegian got out his straight-edge razor from the drawer and started to sharpen it on the long leather strap that was attached to the chair. “Hey!” “Ja, vell, I taught yew might vant a shave dis time, but if yew don't ve can vait." "Yeah, I do. I do want one!" “Ja, vell, den yew yust hold still and put your head down." He did as he was told, and after his collar was loosened he felt the soothing warmth on the back of his neck and could smell the menthol coolness. He didn't move again until the talc-filled brush swished about his head. He reached back and felt the smoothness just below the hairline. 39 Show less
MURPHY SQUARE Editor: Art Editors: Staff: Editorial Board: Faculty Adviser: Paul Kjlgore Julie Docken Richard Jackson Rachael Christianson Kristen Olsrud Janis BlomgTen Paul Kilgore Boyd Koehler Kim Morken Dave Wood John Mitchell Printed at Tandem Press 7716 Colfax Ave. So. Richfield, Minnesota... Show moreMURPHY SQUARE Editor: Art Editors: Staff: Editorial Board: Faculty Adviser: Paul Kjlgore Julie Docken Richard Jackson Rachael Christianson Kristen Olsrud Janis BlomgTen Paul Kilgore Boyd Koehler Kim Morken Dave Wood John Mitchell Printed at Tandem Press 7716 Colfax Ave. So. Richfield, Minnesota All selections submitted for Murphy Square werejudged anonymously by the editorial board. Show less
From a might-have- Held-rninnows cup, and We sang French lullabies Loud and alone On the lake. My northern loan With a shredded wheat beard, 23 Your eyes believing I thought our singing Really put The fish to sleep.
A Monk’s Response to St. Dream By Richard Nelson Last night he dreamed a dream And she attacked again All soft and round and warm. The promise of her pleasures Assailed his rigid sleep Until frustration and Desperate rage Jerked him purged from Hypnos’ grasp. Ah, sweet, gentle abbot, Could you... Show moreA Monk’s Response to St. Dream By Richard Nelson Last night he dreamed a dream And she attacked again All soft and round and warm. The promise of her pleasures Assailed his rigid sleep Until frustration and Desperate rage Jerked him purged from Hypnos’ grasp. Ah, sweet, gentle abbot, Could you have been so wrong? Was the bush of thorns which Satisfied your cupidity A cleanser more potent Than this release? NOTE: Benedict’ s 35 Note: Prior to founding the monastic community which bears his name, Benedict of Nursia fled from the worldly diversions of Rome to live as a hermit in the Sabine Hills. One night Benedict dreamed of a woman whom he had seen in Rome. To overcome this desire of the flesh. he threw off his cloak and hurled himself into a briar patch. According to legend, the drops of his blood which clung to the briars were transformed into flowers which bloom the year around. Show less
My stomach was starting to feel sick. I was becoming confused. "I can only think of little reasons for hating you. Luanne." I whispered. “You never clean the bathroom. You woke me up tonight to ask if Gary had called. You never wash your hair." Theodine looked at me with a sad look in his green... Show moreMy stomach was starting to feel sick. I was becoming confused. "I can only think of little reasons for hating you. Luanne." I whispered. “You never clean the bathroom. You woke me up tonight to ask if Gary had called. You never wash your hair." Theodine looked at me with a sad look in his green eyes. “I did you a favor, Luanne. They will wash your hair. make you look nice. probably put you in a slenderizing dress. God will forgive you and you'll go to heaven." Luanne believed in heaven and the end of the world. She told me once what it would be like. The part she was most excited about was that wild animals would be tame in heaven. She loved cats. “Wouldn't it be nice if I could have a pet lion?" Then looking at Theodine who was climbing on her bookshelf. “I still love my little boy best, don't I?" Theodine was sleeping now. The phone startled him. I let it ring. not wanting to desert Luanne. It kept ringing. “Hello.” “Hello, is Luanne there?” “Not right now. I think she's at the laundromat." “Well. . . tell her Gary called, and . . . maybe I'll call again in an hour or so. Bye.” I set the phone down as close to the door as I could. then pulled the cord as far as it would stretch, which was just far enough. I laid the receiver next to Luanne's cold face, then started to cry. 19 Show less
Untiltled By Cindy Robin Johnson suzanne and i are elite. we travel a road of war but don't pause to feel the bullets' breath. 13 our grassy hilltop found. we stop to be magnified with lenses. the soup was good thank you but i must be off. i have my time to watch. we lift our bodies off the... Show moreUntiltled By Cindy Robin Johnson suzanne and i are elite. we travel a road of war but don't pause to feel the bullets' breath. 13 our grassy hilltop found. we stop to be magnified with lenses. the soup was good thank you but i must be off. i have my time to watch. we lift our bodies off the ground and find that murder is no more. why fight or file for gruel? we don’t know but walk down the road under Open fire. Show less
3O Wealthy Destruction By Rachael Christianson Irreplaceable china slips. The owner of the fortune flips. Scattered across imported tile, The form reduced to worthless chips. Potent language explodes so vile As host sweeps chips into a pile. Total change—composure restored. Host forces glazed and... Show more3O Wealthy Destruction By Rachael Christianson Irreplaceable china slips. The owner of the fortune flips. Scattered across imported tile, The form reduced to worthless chips. Potent language explodes so vile As host sweeps chips into a pile. Total change—composure restored. Host forces glazed and frozen smile. Assures his frightened guest, “Oh, lord. A mere loss in my china hoard!" Nonchalantly waves, “Please don’t fret. It's one of which I can afford." Then seemingly without regret, The tense atmosphere to abet, Picks up his drink, makes a toast, sips, Destroys one more to make a set. Show less
MURPHY SQUARE CONTRIBUTORS Dave Anderson graduated from Augsburg last December and now lives in St. Louis Park, Minn. Caroline Bell is a freshman from Roseville, Minn. Debbie Bouchier is a senior art major from Minneapolis, Minn. Angie Carlson, a sophomore from Hibbing. is majoring in English and... Show moreMURPHY SQUARE CONTRIBUTORS Dave Anderson graduated from Augsburg last December and now lives in St. Louis Park, Minn. Caroline Bell is a freshman from Roseville, Minn. Debbie Bouchier is a senior art major from Minneapolis, Minn. Angie Carlson, a sophomore from Hibbing. is majoring in English and communications. Rachael Christianson is a senior English major from Osseo, Wis. Maureen Cooper. a sophomore majoring in English, lives in Minneapolis, Minn. Mary Deering, a junior from Huntington. N.Y., is majoring nursing. Julie Docken is a senior from Wayzata. Minn., majoring in art. Jim Haley is a 1977 Augsburg graduate from New Brighton, Minn. Chris Halvorson is a junior English major from Coon Rapids, Minn. Rick Jackson is a senior from Golden Valley, Minn., majoring in art. Cindy Robin Johnson. a freshman from Woodbury. Minn., is majoring in art and sociology. Lori Johnson, a junior from Staples, Minn., is majoring in English. Paul Kilgore, a senior from Mora, Minn., is majoring in English and history. Lisa Monson is a senior history major from Fridley, Minn. Kimberly Morken, a senior majoring in English and elementary education, is from Spring Grove, Minn. M. H. Mourning, a junior majoring in English, lives in Minneapolis, Minn. Richard C. Nelson teaches history at Augsburg. Randy Rogers, a junior from Minneapolis, Minn., is majoring in art. Ter Scott. a senior majoring in art and education, lives in Minneapolis, Minn. Paula A. Shelley, a junior from Minneapolis, Minn., is majoring in art, English. art history. and education. Sharon M. ’I‘ibesar is a member of the nursing department. Show less
W (a H 0 C7 Preface MS’ via This is the sixth year in which Augsburg has used “Murphy Square" as the title for its literary magazine. Before 1975, names such as "Burnt Sugar" and “Loose Change" were often employed; these titles, while imaginative, did not really identify the magazine with... Show moreW (a H 0 C7 Preface MS’ via This is the sixth year in which Augsburg has used “Murphy Square" as the title for its literary magazine. Before 1975, names such as "Burnt Sugar" and “Loose Change" were often employed; these titles, while imaginative, did not really identify the magazine with Augsburg and its students. The switch to “Murphy Square" reflected, I think, a desire to bring the literary magazine and its contents closer to home. The new title caught on, and has since effectively defined the magazine. This year's volume of Murphy Square is the first of the 1980’s. I believe this fact gives it a special significance. The start of a new decade, like the beginning of a new year, is often viewed as a turning point, a rebirth, a time of new directions. Hopefully, the 1980 Murphy Square has captured some of the events and ideas which are so much a part of this important time in our lives. Paul Kilgore -vvv' 1447 68 Show less
4O "Ja, vell, dere yew go. young man. Is dis money for de both of yew? Ja, vell, den here'ce your shange." The young pair put their caps back on, the brims going down over their eyes a little farther than when they walked in. They were both beaming when they got home. He drew back from the window... Show more4O "Ja, vell, dere yew go. young man. Is dis money for de both of yew? Ja, vell, den here'ce your shange." The young pair put their caps back on, the brims going down over their eyes a little farther than when they walked in. They were both beaming when they got home. He drew back from the window and thought about his last haircut. Only it wasn't a haircut. it was a “hair styling” done in a barber “shoppe” in a suburban mall by a young woman dressed in a red and white striped jersey, black pants and black arm gartersl She was supposed to look l890-ish. The only magazines she had to offer were Gentlemen's Quarterly and an Eddie Bauer catalog. She didn't even know any good jokes. He started walking again. The bread was getting cool. Show less
In Remembrance of a Hat By Chris Halvorson In remembrance of a hat You do not wear anymore And in view of another arm around your shoulders that wear a sweater we bought Together At the little shop on the corner. You, who I do not know anymore, with new glasses, curly hair and ice in your smile... Show moreIn Remembrance of a Hat By Chris Halvorson In remembrance of a hat You do not wear anymore And in view of another arm around your shoulders that wear a sweater we bought Together At the little shop on the corner. You, who I do not know anymore, with new glasses, curly hair and ice in your smile Seem yet so familiar to me. But I cannot love you who sits there so close to one you once loved. Ignoring her in remembrance of a hat she once gave you And a sweater you bought Together At the little shop on the corner because you have not forgotten whose arm is now Around your shoulders. Show less
Flight to Flight By Mary Deering “An eight month old infant, cradled in his mother's arms survived an eighty foot plunge from the Lake Street Bridge . . . " At age eight months I flew. Granted, in my mother's arms. But airbom and free-floating in Wingless flight. Just the same. My mother had... Show moreFlight to Flight By Mary Deering “An eight month old infant, cradled in his mother's arms survived an eighty foot plunge from the Lake Street Bridge . . . " At age eight months I flew. Granted, in my mother's arms. But airbom and free-floating in Wingless flight. Just the same. My mother had experience in such matters. Twice, before I was born, she had tried. 33 And knew now the subtleties in calculating Wind direction and speed. The flight was our secret: the hour and place. Known only to us. That Tuesday. at 10:30, We were up And over the bridge railing. A pause before flying, one final check for wind currents. All was as planned. I remember she held me tightly. I had complete confidence, though I recall the cold As we poised for flight. My blanket, carefully considered; extra weight. Left behind in the car. One cold pause and we were off. Out and down. I felt a fearful ecstasy, the wind pressed Against my eyes and filled my mouth, I could not cry out my delight. Down, my mother’s hair blowing up over her head. The severing of familiar attachments Roused memories of another rent. A similar terror, a similar thrill, eight months earlier. I was held close. Down and a moment later Gravity reclaimed us. I was thrown from her arms Show less
The Haircut By Dave Anderson Jewish pumpernickel, egg bread, and a loaf of sourdough were inside the brown paper bag he hugged at the corner, waiting for the light to change. It was an awkward way to carry a package. but the awkwardness was offset by the warmth the bread gave off. The simple... Show moreThe Haircut By Dave Anderson Jewish pumpernickel, egg bread, and a loaf of sourdough were inside the brown paper bag he hugged at the corner, waiting for the light to change. It was an awkward way to carry a package. but the awkwardness was offset by the warmth the bread gave off. The simple scenario had been acted out countless times since his boyhood: in the early evening he would walk two blocks up to the del, buy some fresh bread, and walk home. The neighborhood remained the same over the years. The Mobil station was still on the southeast comer. the tavern on the southwest, the delicatessen on the northwest. Oh, there had been some changes: Pegasus had been replaced by a modern corporate symbol at the gas station, Schmidt drawn from the tap was up to thirty-five cents a glass, and the deli had changed owners. But as he crossed the intersection to the northeast corner he saw that a more radical change had taken place. On this comer there should have been a gray, two-story frame house with a low, brick building attached to the front of it. The latter structure still squatted there, but only the front wall of the house remained standing. What he saw walking to the deli was an illusion; the single wall was like a prop on a Hollywood movie set. Walking home he could see what should have been the rest of the house was rubble and debris—broken foundation blocks, splintered planks, glass, insulation, a staircase that led nowhere. The streetlarnp made jagged shadows on the wreckage. Shivering, he hugged the bag closer and walked around to the front. “Guzzi's Barber Shop" curved across the plate—glass window. Taped neatly in the lower right—hand corner were handbills for Tuesday Night Bingo at the VFW, an upcoming Shriner’s Pancake Breakfast at the Lodge, and a high school football schedule. On the door was a handwritten note, barely legible because it had been scrawled so hastily. GONE HUNTING—BACK TUESDAY, he decided it said. He freed one hand to shield his eyes from passing headlights and pressed his face against the pane. “Here are two dollars. I expect fifty cents back. Now take Tom and get going!" “Aw, Mom." he whined. “Don’t you ‘Aw, Mom' me! You just go and be done with it!" “But Mom—” “No ‘buts’ either! You know, you’re just making it that much harder on yourself." "Why can't I go alone?" “Because he’s your brother, that‘s why." “That’s not a good reason." “Well, it’s the best one I've got.” 37 Show less
16 Guatemalan Lament By Lisa Monson On a bus coming out of Guatemala you say you need a cigarette and maybe a cup of coffee. I watch you smooth the ends of your moustache before you place your hand on my leg. I look out the window. I once gave you a glass to replace the one I broke with a note “I... Show more16 Guatemalan Lament By Lisa Monson On a bus coming out of Guatemala you say you need a cigarette and maybe a cup of coffee. I watch you smooth the ends of your moustache before you place your hand on my leg. I look out the window. I once gave you a glass to replace the one I broke with a note “I'm sorry. I hope this does." You said you liked blue better anyway. I gave you a lighter —I'd run out of matches. You said it was handy. The miles are passing us by. You couldn't tell me when drunk you kicked the glass then hid the pieces so I wouldn't know. Nor when drunk you broke the lighter. You blamed it on someone else. The driver says we have fifteen minutes. Remember the candle stuck in the wine bottle? You wanted to take off your clothes. I told you I was becoming serious. You were flattered and held my hand. Show less
