God’s Eyes I knew a girl with a smile that could save the world, A small, upturned nose. perpetually red at the tip, And eyes sadder than God‘s staring at His creation. She deserted her family, Abandoned her best friend, Casting them off like yesterday‘s garbage. She clung to him, While he was... Show moreGod’s Eyes I knew a girl with a smile that could save the world, A small, upturned nose. perpetually red at the tip, And eyes sadder than God‘s staring at His creation. She deserted her family, Abandoned her best friend, Casting them off like yesterday‘s garbage. She clung to him, While he was there. A seventeen—year-old carbon copy, Ofthe father that left her, too. Her stomach swelled. She traded college applications, And family Christmases, For warm bottles. Welfare checks, Lipstick-stained collars. And when he left, The way her father had. She had the same things her mother was left with. Babies to raise, A family she turned her back on, And the ashes of a long dead friendship. I know a woman whose smiles are small, Hoarded like diamonds and harder than concrete. Her eyes are disillusioned, And cruel. Her nose, small, upturned, and perpetually red, Is the only sign ofthe girl she once was. 6 Show less
It’s from the other side of the room, though, that I see an eye like a hovering candle. And for a moment the glow seems to dispel the oppression of the indigo, But I shake myself free of the trance and wrap myself in the protection of the blanket. l squeeze my eyes shut and force myself to think... Show moreIt’s from the other side of the room, though, that I see an eye like a hovering candle. And for a moment the glow seems to dispel the oppression of the indigo, But I shake myself free of the trance and wrap myself in the protection of the blanket. l squeeze my eyes shut and force myself to think only about my blanket But nothing can stop the nightmare now that it’s free The eye moves closer through the murky indigo I tell myself I'm sleeping even though I’m poised to throw another pillow Then all at once I reach out—on impulse—for my candle It’s gone. And I instantly know who took it: the dragon. Under the dragon’s approach I in my blanket, Longing for my candle to set me free, Put my pillow between myselfand the suffocating indigo. Laura Eliason 71 Show less
First Time Slightly anxious, she waits. He enters, closes the door, turns of? the lights. He glides to where she waits. He sofily asks questions; she gives one-word answers. He moves closer; she breathes in his afiershave. Then he moves away, goes to the door, turns on the light, smiles. “20/20.... Show moreFirst Time Slightly anxious, she waits. He enters, closes the door, turns of? the lights. He glides to where she waits. He sofily asks questions; she gives one-word answers. He moves closer; she breathes in his afiershave. Then he moves away, goes to the door, turns on the light, smiles. “20/20. Come back in one year.” Amy Bethke 41 Show less
FOREWORD job/1 A I fir/11W As a title, iMm‘plIy Square came into being in the spring of 1975; I was on leave for two years in San Francisco and know the change occurred while I was away. At first I thought the name odd, and still have no idea who thought ofit or how it actually came about. I do... Show moreFOREWORD job/1 A I fir/11W As a title, iMm‘plIy Square came into being in the spring of 1975; I was on leave for two years in San Francisco and know the change occurred while I was away. At first I thought the name odd, and still have no idea who thought ofit or how it actually came about. I do know that faithful and meticulous Lorraine Livingston was the faculty adviser. In the immediately preceding years, the literary magazine had been called Jrltul, Grgflin. Loose Change, and Burnt Sugar, stilted, jazzy, and enigmatic names that changed almost yearly. In previous decades, coldly allusive literary names like The Din/(Margaret Fuller's famous transcendentalist magazine in the 184-05) had beggared identity and status. The more I thought about it, the better I liked the new name. I marveled that no one had thought of it previ- ously, this coming down and back to our very place on earth. It was our own, not a classical or alien allusion. Murphy Square is the oldest park in Minneapolis, the oldest free and public space in the city. The title. I reck— oned, signified the playful license poets and creative people need to feel and speak truthfully and amusingly—a freely creative zone now identified with the magazine itself. Although the square is enclosed by Augsburg College and the freeway, it is not owned nor regulated by the college. Although writers and artists are associated with the college, they are not controlled by it. Like the circle, the square may also be seen as a symbol of perfection or, short of that lofty aspiration, a symbol of wholeness and centered or squared—away integrity. Because of this line of reasoning, I am grateful for the con- tinuity of the name for the past 30 years, as opposed to a string ofidiosyncratic appellations not many alumni would likely remember and be able to refer to. More personally, I get more pleasure from being published in .Murp/zy Square than from a nationally distribut— ed magazine. Why? Well, more people are likely to read my work, people I know and care about, and readers who will be more able to construe it in terms of my known local identity. To put it in literary jargon, I have the chance to be a public poet rather than merely a private one. IVIurpIIy Square gives me a sense of a reading public, a community to write to and for and about, the dream of most artists, including minor ones. Show less
Albert’s Reign Albert couldn't be late that day. The young woman he'd trained in. who‘d graduated from the same college as Albert but long after his football reign, had become his boss now. and she was in the habit of calling early morning meetings and telling the others who sat behind the... Show moreAlbert’s Reign Albert couldn't be late that day. The young woman he'd trained in. who‘d graduated from the same college as Albert but long after his football reign, had become his boss now. and she was in the habit of calling early morning meetings and telling the others who sat behind the dividers all around Albert’s cubicle that the team-building session would start at 8 am. - even if Albert's bus was late — as it often was. She had announced there would be another meeting that morning. and Albert was determined to be on time. He jumped out of bed when the alarm rang. showered, shaved‘ washed his hair and combed it neatly into place over the spot above the lefi temple where he imagined it might be thinning. He Iefi his apartment ten minutes early, slogged through three feet of snow that had fallen ovemight. and despite his football knee that had started to ache again the day after his fonieth birthday. he was there at the bus stop with two minutes to spare. But Albert hadn‘t counted on the snowplows. One. two. three of them. snorting and scraping from the center of the avenue to the edge. They reminded Albert of an old movie scene, was it Dr. Zhivago? A locomotive pumping toward him ~ no. three locomotives — the first pushing the deep snow into a fun-ow. the second building it. the third lifiing the giant wedge onto its wide blade and forcing a heavy pyramid of crusted ice and snow onto the curb at Alben’s feet. It was as though the earth around the bus stop had suddenly become misshapen. a mountain had been piled up between him and his chance to be a team player at the morning meeting. and he was going to have to scale this heap and climb to the top of the mound of snow that had been banked between him and the bus that was fuming toward him behind a screen of frozen air. Albeit wedged the right toe of his all-weather boot into the icy cliff. then — teetering as he held his briefcase in one hand and his grocery bag of lunch products in the other — he ascended further up the mound. Wobbling in defense of his sore right knee at first, then slipping ever so slightly to the lefi. he regained his equilibrium and moved further up the crag. He held both arms out like a man balancing on a tight wire, and took step after step. Gingerly, carefully, steadily he climbed. And finally, he was there. at the top. He had conquered the mountain. He was king ofthe hill. He stood at the crest and surveyed his world from the crown of snow and ice lefi by the plows. Albert could see clearly from this height. The 22 Show less
Burn ln the humidity of our insomnia and the summer which lingers beyond the window screen beside your bed, your clothes peel away like they want to like they need to and I‘m not going to lie I want to take them off you I want to take you out of them And even in the pale darkness just before dawn... Show moreBurn ln the humidity of our insomnia and the summer which lingers beyond the window screen beside your bed, your clothes peel away like they want to like they need to and I‘m not going to lie I want to take them off you I want to take you out of them And even in the pale darkness just before dawn I won‘t shade the fact that there is indeed a heat within me A fire that I‘ve started myself with the glow and violence of the arsonist who is waiting in the street and is just writhing in the intensity of the patience involved in a decision made by a man who will never go back and you better believe. he‘s going to burn that motherfucker down and he‘s going to love it and when his desire has thickened and climaxed and is then reduced to little but a smoldering remnant under the winds of lust and greed which cool the ash he will realize he is defenseless from doing it again and that's me, girl that’s passion and that‘s lust and that's vivid and that‘s fucking chemistry. . .in a lab where we make that sticky stuffthat comes oflip-flesh plied together by the suction of hot breath and sweat swirled between two open mouths before they kiss and yes~l want to light you up, girl and yes~l‘|l have to do it again and again and again and no—l am not in control and I'm not quite sure what I'm capable of Jonas Stelnberg 24 Show less
Cenote*: A Poem in No Parts (1) He was sweating drops he'd home from the pyramids of Chichén ltza to the damp cool lapping the ledge where the stone stairs end their downward spiral. He hadn‘t intended to swim. But tropical vines hung down from the lip ofthe well to translucent green waters... Show moreCenote*: A Poem in No Parts (1) He was sweating drops he'd home from the pyramids of Chichén ltza to the damp cool lapping the ledge where the stone stairs end their downward spiral. He hadn‘t intended to swim. But tropical vines hung down from the lip ofthe well to translucent green waters flecked with tiny blind catfish. He stripped to his trunks, dove with uncharacteristic haste, unthinking. Floating on his back. he traced the trickling drops Up the green ladder through thick Yucatan air to white-hot sky. burning cornea of the relentless eye scouring then and now. He floated. as ifpinned to the undulating surface. awaiting the celestial iris. the fiery rainbow that sweeps past life to history. 28 Show less
«am-f Morgan has gone off in search of unsuspecting squirrels, and as I begin to follow her, I suddenly recognize a large log. As a young teenager, my friend Mark and I were bored one August afternoon. My mom was naturally sick of us being around in the house as she had work to do and had been... Show more«am-f Morgan has gone off in search of unsuspecting squirrels, and as I begin to follow her, I suddenly recognize a large log. As a young teenager, my friend Mark and I were bored one August afternoon. My mom was naturally sick of us being around in the house as she had work to do and had been dealing with us all summer, so she told us to go ride our bikes somewhere. After making a quick stop at the hardware store for some WD—40, we went to Pamela Park with a plan whose origins escape me today. We entered the woods and after making sure nobody besides us was around, I removed the red straw taped to the side of the WD-40. Carefully attaching it to the can, I lit the lighter that served as the pilot flame for my ghetto flamethrower. With the simple squeeze of a trigger, I was able to enjoy the sight of a flame reeking of petrol flaring out a good six feet. “Whoa,” I wondered aloud, “What can we do with this new invention of ours?" Mark had a plan. He soaked a portion of a fallen tree and then, mimicking my flame throwing technique, proceeded to light it on fire. It burned vibrantly for a while, but as soon as the mixture of petroleum and mineral oil was consumed, the log assumed its boring old brown appearance, mysteriously without charting. The solution soon became obvious: more WD-40, Before long, we were sustaining a fire spanning the entire length of the branch, simply by waving the can back and forth. Then the company arrived. “Whatchu kids think yer doin'?” The voice belonged to a white-haired man in a straw hat walking a white—haired terrier. Speaking with a southern twang, the jumble of words that followed was hard to decipher, but we both managed to catch a “call the police" somewhere in there, and Mark responded with a quick “Let's book it!” Leaving the can and its flaming creation behind us with our newfound admirer, we biked off with an incredible adrenaline high. I hear a scufile up ahead and am jolted back into the present. Two territorial Welsh Corgis have gotten in an altercation with Morgan, and 33 Show less
creek water and scrape moss from a log to create brownies, cake or cookies. I always remembered to stay out of Grandma‘s way. I could tell where she was by the sound of her slippers shuffling across the floor. She always shuffled. Mom called it dragging our feet when we would do it. but it was... Show morecreek water and scrape moss from a log to create brownies, cake or cookies. I always remembered to stay out of Grandma‘s way. I could tell where she was by the sound of her slippers shuffling across the floor. She always shuffled. Mom called it dragging our feet when we would do it. but it was shuffling here. Mid afternoon Grandpap would return from the fields to fetch his favorite little farmer. With walking stick in hand. he'd lead the Way across the creek. through the gate and up to the barn. The sheep would follow causing me to grab hold of Grandpap's plaid shirt. Once in the barn. only one sheep joined us, “Lamby.” As Grandpap scooped grain from the bin. 1 cautiously pet the sheep. Grandpap would put some grain in my hand and the sheep would tickle my palm as he devoured the treat. Grandpap called the sheep with a strange hoot and slapped the stragglers on the rump to get them to the feeders. Returning to the house, Grandma would always have supper ready. As a treat for helping with the chores. Grandpap would pop open a bottle of “Dad's Root Beer" for me. Dinner was always followed with bread and jam. apricot was their favorite. A fraying wash cloth, soap smelling of flowers. and an old blue plastic basin with water would be gathered for a sponge bath. If time allowed, we could catch a little TV. l'd sit on Grandpap's lap and watch Carol Burnett perform her magical comedy on the television. Sometimes, we'd sit outside on the lawn. Fireflies flashed their lights daring us to catch them. Grandpap told me the lights wouldn't work any longer if we kept them in a jar too long. On the morning I would leave, chores would wait. Sadness would pour over the faces of Grandma and Grandpap. A smile of excitement emerged on my face. I knew when the hugs and Grandma's sloppy goodbye kiss was done, Grandpap would slip a dollar into my hand. 'A little something for the toll road shops." he‘d say. Our car would drive down the long curving driveway - all the while I'd wave frantically at Grandma and Grandpap. already thinking of when I'd see them again. Show less
10 Love Will Call To You Some Day In May And call and call but you won't be listening. You'll be a mollusk stuck on the underside of a rock as the tide comes in, goes out. You'll be a burr in a horse's tail. Love will call to you some day in May and your phone will be tied up, you'll put love on... Show more10 Love Will Call To You Some Day In May And call and call but you won't be listening. You'll be a mollusk stuck on the underside of a rock as the tide comes in, goes out. You'll be a burr in a horse's tail. Love will call to you some day in May and your phone will be tied up, you'll put love on hold. You'll have voice mail and tell love to leave a message and the time called, that you'll get back to love as soon as you are able. Love will call sometime in May 3 and you’ll be outside cleaning your gutters, or cutting down the red flowering mulberry bush because it blocks your view of the garage. Love will call to you someday in May l in a foreign language and you'll answer. You’ll say, "Speak up, please. Louder! Clearer! I can’t understand. Your accent. Your voice." You’ll slam the phone down in disgust. v“ 1:, w. . 143‘? j 911.’1‘,:’l Show less