To Buffy, on the occasion of your birth your mother reads books: dr. spock and how to rate your infant on a national scale. she shakes when she sees you; takes little pink pills to hold you without dropping. her fingers are slender, fitted to an artist’s pencil; silky black ladies seducing on paper... Show moreTo Buffy, on the occasion of your birth your mother reads books: dr. spock and how to rate your infant on a national scale. she shakes when she sees you; takes little pink pills to hold you without dropping. her fingers are slender, fitted to an artist’s pencil; silky black ladies seducing on paper. your fingers are perfect with blue eyes and a rosebud mouth. you'll be a beauty. your father sold his guitar to the devil. he reads the bible now, and the watchtower; wondering if he’ll find a job that pays, if he could ever leave you. his hands are large and stained with the blood of 984 north Vietnamese- he kept count. someday the blood will rub off on the back of your head. Jill Busse 41 Show less
II In the city, in flush air, I float alone upon this concrete jutting And watch an old man fly casting In his lenticel of grass— Alone, all alone. He's a recurring figure in my theater of street. Such a confident pleasure he is to me As his steady hand flicks the line forward and back forward and... Show moreII In the city, in flush air, I float alone upon this concrete jutting And watch an old man fly casting In his lenticel of grass— Alone, all alone. He's a recurring figure in my theater of street. Such a confident pleasure he is to me As his steady hand flicks the line forward and back forward and back In morning, through heated noon, at dusk. The man's a rhythmic reoccurrence. His body swings freely back and forth back and forth As he angles his fishing line, which is but a thread from my lofty height Onto the limited grass. “What are you fishing for?” People shout as they rapidly proceed Through their crisscrossed setting. Yes, they think he’s crazy crazy crazy To be fishing where there are no fish; But how can they presume? He’s a colorful man to me, quite luring. Why, for all we know, he’s Don Juan; He stands still amidst the people Who pace in determined pattern. His fishing rod’s a ring of power As he controls his movement And ours. Mary Belardi Show less
CONTRIBUTORS Linda Anderson is a freshman from Hartland. Mary Belardi, a senior, is from Owatonna. Jill Brustad is a sophomore from Minneapolis. Jill Busse of Nashville, Tennessee, is a senior. Junior Vicki Dahl is from Hopkins. Pat Hansel works in the Chinwag and is a graduate of St. Olaf. Beth... Show moreCONTRIBUTORS Linda Anderson is a freshman from Hartland. Mary Belardi, a senior, is from Owatonna. Jill Brustad is a sophomore from Minneapolis. Jill Busse of Nashville, Tennessee, is a senior. Junior Vicki Dahl is from Hopkins. Pat Hansel works in the Chinwag and is a graduate of St. Olaf. Beth Ann Huehn is from Cambridge. Mark Mikelson, junior, is from Minneapolis. John Mitchell, on leave from the college, is working on an MFA in film-making in California. Elsa Mohn is a senior from Minneapolis. Freshman Lynn Sheree Nelson is from Forest Lake. Lynn Pagliarini, senior, is from Eveleth. Debbie R00 is a sophomore from Columbia Hts. Sophomore Karen Will is from Bemidji. Dave Wood is an English professor at Augsburg. Jan Vatsaas is a sophomore from Minneapolis. Show less
As I watch my father plow, Thick black waves of earth swell under the machine power. Suddenly he stops and calls to me. In his hand, a tiny rabbit, frightened heart beating against an oily glove. We look at each other and smile. The plowing can wait. Linda Anderson
A SIMPLE RESPONSE Since you asked, I have always rather thought of myself as a cat Silently perched on the limb of a tree Surveying the jungle below, Aware yet uninvolved. Through the leaves of my perch I appear The tree's golden reflection By day and by night my eyes shine. And a lovely... Show moreA SIMPLE RESPONSE Since you asked, I have always rather thought of myself as a cat Silently perched on the limb of a tree Surveying the jungle below, Aware yet uninvolved. Through the leaves of my perch I appear The tree's golden reflection By day and by night my eyes shine. And a lovely coincidence About being a cat is that In the jungle every living being is potential Food for another living being, Except none eat cats. Other times I feel like a turtle In the clutches of an eagle flying to feed its young, Immobile and hiding without hope. Elsa Mohn Show less
Janice was becoming impatient. She clasped the diair with her hands. straightened her back, and was about to speak. NO, Gudrun first. “I have changed my mind." Gudmn put a firm look on her face. “What?” Janice looked confused. "What about?" She thought for a few moments and then looked anxiously at... Show moreJanice was becoming impatient. She clasped the diair with her hands. straightened her back, and was about to speak. NO, Gudrun first. “I have changed my mind." Gudmn put a firm look on her face. “What?” Janice looked confused. "What about?" She thought for a few moments and then looked anxiously at Gudrun. “Do you mean about Michael?" “No.” Why did she have to make this so complicated. “That's not what I mean. I mean I can change my mind." “Sure. Why not." Janice looked disappointed and put her elbow on the bowed back, hand on cheek. “About what then?" “About dying." “Listen, Goodie, I've got lots to do and don't have time to talk like that right now." “How about now?" “Now what?" “Dying now.” Janice stared pensiver at Gudrun. Slowly she asked. “Whose dying?" “How about mine?" “What are you talking about, Gudrun?" “There is only one thing we all have to do. Die." Gudrun lifted up the sleeve of her robe, unwrapped her wrist, and continued. "For me it's a choice." “Well, that's a nasty cut to be sure, but it isn‘t going to kill you. How did it happen?" “I did it with a razor blade." “Why?” "Why," repeated Gudrun. She paused and thought. cocked her head slowly to the side. Why. “I don’t know. It just happened." “It just happened? How? Did you fall?" The whirlpool reappeared. Gudrun crossed her arms tightly across her chest. “Yes.” “Well, get dressed and I'll walk with you over to the health center." “There’s more." “More what?" “More that happened." “What do you mean?" “I made a star." “What do you mean you made a star?" “And I ate it," continued Gudrun. She was hunched over her crossed arms and legs, staring at nothing. “Gudrun,” Janice asked slowly, “what did you make it out of?" She tried to focus on Janice‘s eyes. “Sleeping pills." “How many?" “Thirty. I think." “How long ago?" Gudrun shrugged. "Maybe an hour." “Get dressed. I'll be right back." Janice got up to leave but turned around and asked. “Why, Gudrun?" "Why," repeated Gudrun. Janice left. Gudrun didn't know what to wear. Her breathing was heavy, and each exhale sounded like "why." Clean underwear, of course. and that wrap-around dress that was so easy to put on. But why. Janice came back. 34 Show less
shoulders to match, Larry thought. The small amount of black, closely- trimmed hair visible around his tiny ears was tinged with gray. A heavy, clean»shaven beard repelled the water which had drenched his face. His eyes were big and white, with small, very dark pupils emitting a fiery look that... Show moreshoulders to match, Larry thought. The small amount of black, closely- trimmed hair visible around his tiny ears was tinged with gray. A heavy, clean»shaven beard repelled the water which had drenched his face. His eyes were big and white, with small, very dark pupils emitting a fiery look that enveloped the entire room. He shouted, “Get outside!" Larry couldn‘t remember the last time he had moved so quickly. He ran as fast as his 223-pound frame permitted him to. The men raced into formation —ten men abreast, four rows deep. Larry, who was in the front row, suddenly realized he had forgotten his raincoat. A quick glimpse around revealed he was the only one who had. He thought about going back inside for it but changed his mind when he saw the sergeant coming out the door. “There is one thing you yellowbellies will remember from this second on—it never rains in the Army; it rains ON the Army!" he roared. “I am your drill instructor, your D.I. You do not call me sarge, you do not call me by my name. When addressing me, it is ‘Drill Sergeant’ and nothing else. Is that clear?” A resounding “Yes, sir!" echoed through the company area. “I am not a ‘sir'; I work for my money. Officers are addressed as ‘sir."’ “Yes, drill sergeant." “Did you people say something?" he asked, hand cupped behind his ear. "Yea, drill sergeant!" they screamed as loudly as they could. He paced back and forth before the formation, hands behind his back. "You people were nearly ten minutes late getting into formation this morning. I hope you don't plan to..." His eyes became fixed upon Larry, whose uniform was now soaked through. The sergeant was upon him with the reflexes of a cat, standing no more than two inches from him, yelling at Larry’s face. “Hey. boy, you trying to shrink that uniform? Where the hell’s your raincoat?" "It's inside, sir—er. drill sergeant," Larry somehow got out. "Get it. You go in there, get that thing on, and be right back on this spot in twenty seconds. You hear me, fatboy?" "Yes, drill sergeant!" Larry snapped. He turned and took a running step in the direction of the barracks. The second step he took didn’t touch the ground but, rather. the sergeant's outstretched leg. Larry fell to the ground, sprawled out on his back, his face being pelted by huge raindrops each of which had a little sting to it. “What‘s wrong with you, boy? Your legs can't support all that fat or what? C'mon, get up off the ground." he said, helping Larry up with an ex- tended hand. Anger began to swell up within Larry. but he thought it best to keep his anger right where it was. “Thank you, drill sergeant." he said. “You call me a ewe?" the sergeant exploded. “You know what a ewe is? It's a female sheep. Is that what you're saying I look like. a female sheep?" "No, drill sergeant. I just..." Larry tried to explain as the sergeant shoved him in the direction of the barracks. "Your twenty seconds are up. fatboy. I don't see that raincoat.“ Larry hustled as fast as he could and rejoined the formation with his raincoat on—backwards. The hood of the coat was lying limp upon his chest. He hoped that somehow it wouldn't be noticed. It was. 15 Show less
Perpetual Summer Fat Ladies parade by with obnoxious rolls of excess flesh appearing undisguised and unbecoming above tight suits of unyielding nylon While Slender Young Maidens flirt chastely with tempting waves They present themselves, proudly submitting to the admiring glances of Golden-armed... Show morePerpetual Summer Fat Ladies parade by with obnoxious rolls of excess flesh appearing undisguised and unbecoming above tight suits of unyielding nylon While Slender Young Maidens flirt chastely with tempting waves They present themselves, proudly submitting to the admiring glances of Golden-armed Boys with sinewy muscles that ripple under supple bronzed skin And the Little Children sing and shout skipping blithely over dashing whipped topped waves, paying no attention to advancing bemptresses and sun worshipping gods . who eventually marry and produce sun-dancing children And the golden boys grow older chasing their fleeting youth with their slender young maidens Who parade by with bulges appearing OBNOXIOUSLY above their swim suits. Lynn Sheree Nelson 37 Show less
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS I wish to express my sincere appreciation to all those who made MURPHY SQUARE possible. Many thanks to the assistant editors and the Editorial Board for their dedication and assistance; to artist Kathy Forsberg for her excellent cover design and sketches; to Gary Andersen for his... Show moreACKNOWLEDGEMENTS I wish to express my sincere appreciation to all those who made MURPHY SQUARE possible. Many thanks to the assistant editors and the Editorial Board for their dedication and assistance; to artist Kathy Forsberg for her excellent cover design and sketches; to Gary Andersen for his counsel, encouragement, and many long hours; to Laurie Nelson for her hours spent typing the manuscripts for presentation to the Board; to Vicki Anderson, who helped with the initial publicity notices; and finally, to Tandem Press and OCR Mesetting. My special appreciation goes to Mrs. Lorraine Livingston, who served as faculty advisor of the publication, and to all those who submitted manuscripts for MURPHY SQUARE. Diane Andersen Editor Show less
about the authors . . . chris haluorson is a sophomore english major from coon rapids. Iaurie halvorson is currently taking time off from school and living in minneapolis. wall johnson lives in minneapolis and is finishing his sophomore year of a biology degree. paul kilgore is from mora,... Show moreabout the authors . . . chris haluorson is a sophomore english major from coon rapids. Iaurie halvorson is currently taking time off from school and living in minneapolis. wall johnson lives in minneapolis and is finishing his sophomore year of a biology degree. paul kilgore is from mora, minnesota, and is ajunior majoring in english and history. marie mccoll is an english/communications major from minneapolis. miriam mestoura, a sophomore majoring in english/secondary education. is from ain leuh. a small town in north central morocco. john mitchell teaches in the english department at augsburg college. him morlzen is a sophomore majoring in english/elementary education from spring grove, minnesota. m.h. mourning is a sophomore from prior lake. minnesota‘ richard nelson teaches in the history department at augsburg college. john popham is a senior english major from cambridge. minnesota. paula shelley, a sophomore from minneapolis, is working on degrees in art/ english/educalion. theresa storm is a senior from burnsville. minnesota. majoring in english/ communications. hathy ueldey is a senior elementary education major from tornah, wisconsin. kathy yakal, a senior from normal, illinois, is majoring in english. Murphy Square Page 31 Show less
f’“°“’o : Bat Stew : A man was making a stew in a large black pot one day, when a bat, blinded by the daylight, mistook the pot for the entrance of a cave. It sailed into the stew with a plop! The man did not see or hear the bat's arrival. When he ate his stew he could not remember what it was he... Show moref’“°“’o : Bat Stew : A man was making a stew in a large black pot one day, when a bat, blinded by the daylight, mistook the pot for the entrance of a cave. It sailed into the stew with a plop! The man did not see or hear the bat's arrival. When he ate his stew he could not remember what it was he put in that made it so crunchy. As he was chewing on the bat’s head he burped and the bat’s brain, being rather mushy, was propelled up to his own brain. When his wife came home later that afternoon she found her husband wearing dark glasses and bumping into the furniture, and now he began to lap up his meals with his tongue. Needless to say, they don’t get invited to many dinner parties anymore. His wife grew accustomed to her husband’s new behavior, except she’s lonely in bed at night because her husband insists upon sleeping in the closet or under the bed. The kids haven't noticed any difference yet. —walt johnson Murphy Square Page 7 Show less
Thirty five. Shadows of apathy. The Children of War wallow, Drowning in Academe’s Wine-dark sea. (Understanding is a well-spring of life to him who has it; But the correction of fools is folly) “So what?” “Who cares? ” Not why. Forty. The seducer’s Canal went dry. (by doubt we come to inquiry,... Show moreThirty five. Shadows of apathy. The Children of War wallow, Drowning in Academe’s Wine-dark sea. (Understanding is a well-spring of life to him who has it; But the correction of fools is folly) “So what?” “Who cares? ” Not why. Forty. The seducer’s Canal went dry. (by doubt we come to inquiry, and in inquiry we discover truth) No K—Y here, magister magnus. Whatever became of Heloise And Astrolabius, passion’s son? At forty five he'll wonder why He even worried about it. Si credis Tuus clunis Herbam sit —richard c. nelson Murphy Square Page 21 Show less
The Roadmap Home For San Souci Cave, the Tennessee River, and the Hellen Keller Memorial Bridge, Decatur, Alabama Home is a few inches from here, near a fold in the roadmap, just south of the Tennessee, and the river is a blue line through which I must return nightly, to cross and go north the... Show moreThe Roadmap Home For San Souci Cave, the Tennessee River, and the Hellen Keller Memorial Bridge, Decatur, Alabama Home is a few inches from here, near a fold in the roadmap, just south of the Tennessee, and the river is a blue line through which I must return nightly, to cross and go north the next day. On a bridge named for the blind I am a rebel in a makeshift dream and wander like a fool among friends who are aware but cannot explain their excitement, thin swallows in the exhalations of a sandy cave. I am lost but the river returns and returns again and again. I am a shadow, afraid of the dark and the open road turning within, two sticks in a blue shirt, flinging a string of cans. Here my arms are raised and circled by crows. —john mitchell Murphy Square Page 11 Show less
Alone One small daisy In a field alone Showing its head Where the grain ’5 been sown. Bravely lifting Its head to the light Swaying in the wind From the left to the right. I can’t figure out And I don 't think it’s fair That that lone little daisy Is the only one there. l§ —miriam mestoura ’~'1\f... Show moreAlone One small daisy In a field alone Showing its head Where the grain ’5 been sown. Bravely lifting Its head to the light Swaying in the wind From the left to the right. I can’t figure out And I don 't think it’s fair That that lone little daisy Is the only one there. l§ —miriam mestoura ’~'1\f’ _ x '2 4%: @¢5 b— “NW/Cy ’\ ‘ \ f1 ” J,/ 4 ! WW WWW A ’3 727K SCOT Murphy Square Page 27 Show less
“Spain will conquer,” I proclaimed, my voice growing louder. “The cliffs of Norway will be no more and fools like you will rot in their crevices." My face burned and I slammed my fist hard on the podium, screaming, “Martin Luther will be the first to die! " Then I turned around facing Dean Carlson... Show more“Spain will conquer,” I proclaimed, my voice growing louder. “The cliffs of Norway will be no more and fools like you will rot in their crevices." My face burned and I slammed my fist hard on the podium, screaming, “Martin Luther will be the first to die! " Then I turned around facing Dean Carlson and pointed my damning finger at him, “You will be the second." I sat down and waited for the verdict. The alumni began to clap. They stood up and cheered. They shook my hand. They invited me to speak at their church dedications and Sunday school classes. I felt confused. Hadn't they heard what I said? Didn't they see that ugly purple mark growing on my face? I was polite. I smiled a lot, and then excused myself as soon as possible. I ran home to my dorm as if I were being chased. My roommate wasn't home yet so I slept in her bed. I don't know why. Ijust did it. My head started hurting again. I saw white tiles on the ceiling. Someone was writing on them. something ugly. I saw my name. I closed my eyes and the bed swayed as if I were drunk. Knocking woke me up and I heard Jeff’s voice. . “Diane, hurry up. We'll be late." He was standing outside my door wearing the baby blue, three piece suit his mother had bought him. What was he doing here? I said something I had never said before. “Go to hell." “What?” He hadn't been listening. He never listens. "GO TO HELL," I repeated, louder. I was starting to like the sound of the word. Hell. Hell. HELL. “I'm sorry, Diane. I didn't hear you." He was tying his shoe. “I’ll be ready in ten minutes." I smiled. Murphy Square The church was only a block from my dorm. We got there just as the organ starting playing the first hymn. I tried to sing. Gross words kept coming out of my mouth. words that belonged on bathroom walls. I started to cry. Jeff squeezed my hand and smiled. I hated him. We walked to the front of the church for communion. He was right. I was a hypocrite. The wafer tasted dirty. I started to feel sick to my stomach. Martin Luther stood before me, holding a cup of wine. He looked at me, shook his head and starting walking past me. “Wait,” Iscreamed. “you have to give me that." He ignored me, so I grabbed his robe and pulled it tight around his neck. taking the cup from his hands and pouring the wine down my throat, hoping it would make me well again. Jeff stared at me. The others waiting for their wine started to whisper. I shouted, “Spain will conquer," and threw the empty cup at Martin Luther. I ran down the aisle feeling a terrible sense of freedom. God is dead. God is dead, I thought. I ran through the snow feeling warm from the wine and full of energy. —kim morken Page 1 7 Show less
Augsburg College George Sverdrup Library Minneapolis, Minnesota 55454 Murphy Square ’79 Augsburg College MINNEAPOLIS, MINNESOTA VOL. V — MAY, 1979 Editor: Kathy Yakal Faculty Advisor: John Mitchell Editorial Board: Barbara Andersen Paul Kilde Boyd Koehler Laurie Nelson Todd Tischer Kathy Yakal... Show moreAugsburg College George Sverdrup Library Minneapolis, Minnesota 55454 Murphy Square ’79 Augsburg College MINNEAPOLIS, MINNESOTA VOL. V — MAY, 1979 Editor: Kathy Yakal Faculty Advisor: John Mitchell Editorial Board: Barbara Andersen Paul Kilde Boyd Koehler Laurie Nelson Todd Tischer Kathy Yakal Editorial Assistants: Lisa Rusinko Paul Kilde Staff artists: Terry Scott Judith Mitchell Cover design: Phil Thompson Photographs courtesy Echo and Augsburgian photographers Printed at Tandem Press 7716 Colfax Avenue South Richfield, Minnesota Show less
Murphy Square Vasilikos He arrived in a yellow cab With an old leather suitcase And climbed the stairs For a month long visit He always read the newspaper In our overstuffed chair With yellow stained fingers And a saggy T-shirt He took me on a trip Through the Great Northern Market Where he... Show moreMurphy Square Vasilikos He arrived in a yellow cab With an old leather suitcase And climbed the stairs For a month long visit He always read the newspaper In our overstuffed chair With yellow stained fingers And a saggy T-shirt He took me on a trip Through the Great Northern Market Where he bought my favorite olives And salty feta cheese He made veal scallopini Served with salad and greek olives On Mom's bologna sandwich budget For my grade school lunch He sang lonely songs at night In the kitchen over dishes When I lay awake in bed Too intent on dreaming He called me smokey eyes When I called him Grandpa And he taught me how the Greeks dance with handkerchiefs I have a dime—store hankie With his initials stitched in white On the comer he had neatly Sticking from his suit pocket. —marie me call Page 9 Show less
