DEPRESSION Ella Robinson L‘ndtrnmlh the (‘()\'(‘I'i In the middlc olklhc day. Light hhvring through lht‘ ihhrir As you Irate tho sliu‘hcs. And blink §l()\\'l)' Breathing in and out In :\ slcudy rhythm. “'ilh your (at curled up On a pillow lxxidv you. 17 Murphy Square
SESTINAS ARE WEIRD Jayne Carlson The assignment was to write a type ol‘poem ealled a sestinti. Some say it‘sjust weird. while others like its predetermined form. Some like to play with the words and try to make them sing. But how on earth could you sing. let alone write. something so silly. it‘s... Show moreSESTINAS ARE WEIRD Jayne Carlson The assignment was to write a type ol‘poem ealled a sestinti. Some say it‘sjust weird. while others like its predetermined form. Some like to play with the words and try to make them sing. But how on earth could you sing. let alone write. something so silly. it‘s child‘s play. really. This strange poem ealled a sestina is nothing but form- filting words and thzitjust gets weird. \\'hat a crazy stilted format. and the weird notion that a poem doesn't have to sing. it just needs a solid form. And so the question is. ean you write a sestina.’ Or would you rather play at finding some other game to play. a game that‘s not so weird as writing a sestina, Perhaps you‘d rather sing or even just write or maybe sculpt a form. a form that doesn‘t have to eon-form to some silly word play. Maybe you‘d rather write a Sonnet. it‘s not so weird. or a song that you eould sing. anything but one of these God-lorsaken sestinas. I love the seslina. it‘s got good form. it makes me want to sing and play. because it‘s really weird and 1 really, really like to write. So take a siesta before you write your sestina. so you have energy to play with this odd form. Its inventor surely must have been weird or maybejust liked to sing. or better yet. to write. 71 Murphy Square Show less
own compositions and classics, picturing himselfplaying for people, not pets. I headed toward the stage to find him. A folk singing couple, all denim and snow white hair. sat behind microphones on the parking lot stage. As the woman spoke, I could hear only her kindness. Her words were washed... Show moreown compositions and classics, picturing himselfplaying for people, not pets. I headed toward the stage to find him. A folk singing couple, all denim and snow white hair. sat behind microphones on the parking lot stage. As the woman spoke, I could hear only her kindness. Her words were washed away by the wind. “'hen their singing began, hints broke above the audible threshold that their song lyrics had been reworked to refer to pet dogs An occasional cat was thrown into the songs, in the interest offairness and equal- ity. I laid some applause on them. catching the man’s eye, receiving his knowing nod as he strummed on, I continued to scan the crowd, looking for my son. Something was rhythmically heat— ing on my leg,just below the knee. It was a thick, strong, wagging tail. The rhythm stopped as the dog sat down . . . right on my foot. \\'arm fur against the bare top ofmy Hip-flopped foot was both soothing and unpleasant, The dogs companion took no notice. engrossed in an animated conversation \\ ith a runway-thin. spiky -haired woman attached to a Pomera- nian. “hen the folk duo finished, my furry frictth thankfully gave them a standing ovation, releasing me at last. Taking the microphone, the master ofceremonies shecpishly told the audience that he hoped the rock music wouldn‘t bother the canine ears in the crowd. He was sensitive to the idea that an amplified guitar might sound different to a greyhound than to her gray-bearded hippie host. or that a Dylanesque harmonica may produce some frequencies beyond the spectrum ofhuman hearing Bol) alwa [used us to suspect this, didn’t he? It had been so many years since I felt the exhilaration ofthose moments in the wings, and mounting the stage to a roar. or even a smattering ofapplause. I watched my boy, with his hlend ofcontidence and selllconsciousness, emerge from the shadows. As he brought his lips to the microphone the wind robbed the PA system ofits power. He triumphantly said what sounded like “Hmrrh. “'ephfr (Iofflsh Schwindt.” \Vcll, at least halfofthe crowd didn‘t understand English anyway. with the exception ofcertain key phrases, like “go out?" or “want a treat?“ He began to sing, and the voice that was so effective in saturating our living room, or open mike night at the coflcehouse. was no match for the rising wind. Surrounded by indiflerent Afghan Hounds. exhausted Basset Hounds, charming Collies, and wiggling Dachshunds, I fixed my eyes on the young man that all these pets and people ignored. These purehi‘eds had their own egos to contend with. One dirty gray mixed breed, more knowing ofthe ways ofthe w orld, cocked his head at an angle. This may have been his first harmoni- ca experience. .\ dark gray wall ofw *ather approached and fat raindrops split the crowd into its indi- vidual elements. \\'ith leashes pulling this way and that, the festival dissolved. From beneath the weathered wood overhang ofthe barbecue shack, I watched the festival fade away. As he ran fast through the raindrops trying to protect the precious Contents ofhis guitar case. my son caught my eye. In that Ileeting split second I saw only satisfaction, not regret. The experience was not what he had expected, but his smile showed he knew some- thing, Now he knows . . . as I have known. I smile at the good fortune ofthis day, reminded that the best memories are not from triumphs, but the unexpected - the dog shows. People will listen as my son‘s tale begins: “I played at \Voofs‘tock.n 46 Murphy Square Show less
"Hey l)ad.".]ohn said hopefully, "\Ve brought your golft’lubs." Grandpa‘s ey s swept over the bag in the t'orner. but it was obvious he had no inter- esl in these Obit’t‘ls he had spent so much of his life ttsingjolin had hoped that this simple gesture might bring a simple smile to the old man's... Show more"Hey l)ad.".]ohn said hopefully, "\Ve brought your golft’lubs." Grandpa‘s ey s swept over the bag in the t'orner. but it was obvious he had no inter- esl in these Obit’t‘ls he had spent so much of his life ttsingjolin had hoped that this simple gesture might bring a simple smile to the old man's late. but that hope quickly faded and his shoulde shrugged. “How are you doing. Grandpa?" asked Danny. The old man (‘l()S(‘(l his eyes and nodded his head slowly as if. meditating upon the answer. but the door opened and Billy"s aunt, Kathy. walked in. “Hi‘lohn. Hi Danny." she said. hugging the boy. “lt‘s \i‘tiiitlet’ful that you're here. Oh, and you brought Dad‘s t‘lubs. Did you see that. Dad? They brought your Clubs." Grandpa ignored the clubs again. lnstead he looked up at‘lohn and made a Clumsy motion with his hand. “You thirsty?"‘]ohn asked. G andpa nodded. Yes. "\Vhat do you want to drink?" G indpa t'losed his eyes and moved his lips. but nothing came out. "l’epsiRiIohn asked. Grandpa shook his head. No. "Mountain Dew?" Grandpa opened his eyes and nodded. Yes, .\unt Kathy interrupted “The dot‘tor says he shouldn't drink carbonai“ But‘John shot her a \'i('l()llS look and she stopped. “Here Danny." he said reaching into his “and. “Go get me and your grandpa a Mountain Dew and whatever you want from the vending maehine." Danny grabbed the hills out ol‘his father‘s hand and hustled out the door. He found the vending marhine and looked at his ehoit‘es. S/Irilr, (Io/(e. Dir! Cake, .llr. Pibb... N0 Jrloimmin [but] Shoot. Danny thought to himself. Thin/i. Damn: l/Iilt/t. He put the bills into the machine and got a eouple Sprites and a Coke instead. He brought them back into the room and poured a Sprite into a plastic cup with a straw. Grandpa closed his eyes and the hubny liquid rushed up the clear tube. “How's the Mountain Dew. Dad?“‘]ohn asked. Grandpa shook his head. [IR nolllmmlnin Deu'. “They didn‘t have any in the vending machine. All they had was Sprite.” Danny said. Grandpa smiled and nodded his head. Thank you. .\l‘ter a whileJohn bent over to give his father a hug. “Listen Dad. it’s Sunday today. \\'e‘re t'oming hark on Thursday. okay? Don't you go anywhere ‘til we get back.” Grandpa nodded and raised his arms to give Danny a hug. “Goodbye,” the old man whis- pered in Danny‘s ear. "Bye, Grandpa." Danny replied. smiling at the old man. * * 3k The boy and his lather drove to the airport and flew back to hIinnezipolis without saying tnut'h olianything. Danny sat in his wind0\\’-seat staring out at wispy clouds in the distance and then his gaze shifted down to the ground miles below. There was nothing down there that looked like anything. .-\11 that could be made out were shapes, lines, and specks ofcolor. There were no people down there. no cars. and no noise)just silence. Ifanyone on the plane was making noise. it was eompletely drowned out by the constant overwhelming hum ofthe jet engines. Silt/Ire. Danny thought to himself. T/ml’r w/ml (lent/i ix, JilPflrFfiYt‘l'Ef, Silent? injvlll hem] and tin-yum em. The humming engines vibrated gently, and staring out the window at the 48 Murphy Square Show less
MY MOTHER LOVED TURflUOlSE Judyjolmsan It was an odd thing to remetnberjust as my friend Carol pressed her thick brass necklace into my hand while we were having lunch. "I want you to have this.“ Carol said. "I was sitting in church this morning and my mother said ‘Give this to your little friend... Show moreMY MOTHER LOVED TURflUOlSE Judyjolmsan It was an odd thing to remetnberjust as my friend Carol pressed her thick brass necklace into my hand while we were having lunch. "I want you to have this.“ Carol said. "I was sitting in church this morning and my mother said ‘Give this to your little friend over there. I want her to have it.‘~ "l ( an‘t take this." I answered back. “It‘s too much." “No.” she said. “I \\ ant you to have it, and I always do what my mother tells me. even if she‘s dead," May be it was the mention ofthe word "mother“ that brought this sweeping back into my mind May be it was because (Iarol was an artist. much like my tnother. and had bright eyes and colorful clothing. But when Carol placed the intricate patterned necklace on my palm. I felt the density ofthe tnetal: my hand sank from the weight. And I remembered \\'e lived in New Mexico fora few years. back in the late 30’s. Mom fell in love with the landscape. the red plateaus against a deep blue sky. She traded bland Scandinavian cui- sine for spit y salsas and smiled chili peppers. She loved the adobe houses with great cedar beams. She was fascinated with the Indian cultttre and people. And she developed an obses— sion with turquois jewelry. She \\ as so taken with the artistry and color that in a moment of rare indulgence. she bought several turquoise squash blossom necklaces. They were designed by a friend. a silver smith. who folded the heavy silver into deli— cate leaves that \\ rapped around the large polished stones. The massive necklaces resembled intricate vines or ancient cave paintings straddling from shoulder to shoulder. Each necklace weighed over a pound. Tiny imprints along the silver edges formed a geometric pattern out— lining the turquoise, The stones hues ranged from the color ofa robin‘s egg to the saturated blue oftw ilight. My mother .said the stone captured the sky. stretching from mountain to mountain. sometimes broken by feather clouds orjet streams. she would say. “Then you know it is “.\|\\ays look for the natural veins in the stone. real. and not that fake powder stuff," \\’hen Mom placed one ofthe squash blossom necklaces in my hands. it was heavy ‘lver. black tarnish nestled in the crevasses. I felt the soft and cold. I ran my linger along tht stone. and the slight indentation along a sand—colored vein. She watched me feel the neck- lace. become familiar \\ ith it. Then she took it back. as ifshe couldn‘t bear to watch it rest in another‘s hand. “For safe keeping." she always said as she packed it awa'. My mother never wore the squash blossom necklaces. but kept them in a Red “ing shoe- box on the top shelfof her closet. wrapped irt felt. She said they gave her a headache. pulled too much on her neck. She had smaller turquoise necklaces for special events, and she had a large oval turquoise ring she wore every day until arthritis finally made her take it off. But the squash blossoms stayed out of reach, unseen. in a cardboard shoebos \Iy sisters and I were considered too young to be responsible for them. even when we reached our middle ages. "When I die. you girls can each have a necklace. They are your inheritance." she would tell my sisters and [tie every time we brought up the subject. The waitress brought Carol and me more coffee. 20 Murphy Square Show less
every place selling food is hosting a private party. I finally find a place to eat. “Sherpa‘s De- light." a Tibetan restaurant beckons me inside. Luckily for me, Tibetans celebrate their New Year. Losar. in March. I finish my cigarette, throw it into the concrete gutter and go inside. Timidly... Show moreevery place selling food is hosting a private party. I finally find a place to eat. “Sherpa‘s De- light." a Tibetan restaurant beckons me inside. Luckily for me, Tibetans celebrate their New Year. Losar. in March. I finish my cigarette, throw it into the concrete gutter and go inside. Timidly poking my head inside the door reveals a small room with six or so plastic tables, all empty except for one. At the only occupied table sits three young Tibetan men playing cards and smoking. They glance at me. turn down the stereo. which is playing “Hotel Cali- fornia" by The Eagles. and motion for me to sit at one ol‘the tablesxjust not theirs. One turns tip the volume on the stereo while belting, “Livin‘ it up at the Hotel California!" along with the song. Sitting in a plastic chair and muttering about having no idea where I was. I pick up a menu without looking at it. I consider making my protagonist a Tibetan like the three guys play ing’ cards. Perhaps I could write about “Exile in India." or “From Shangri-La to the \\'orld." That could be interesting. .\lter scanning the menu {or a minute or so. Seeingy no roti or dahl. I look over at the card game. which had grown lairly boisterous while I scanned my menu. I presumed one of‘the card—playing Tibetans to be a waiter of sorts. Sure enough. one notices me, lays down his cards. and walks over. "I'll have the chicken momos." I say. pointing to the item on the menu in case he doesn‘t speak linglish. “Steamed or fried.“ They‘re loads better steamed. But that‘sjust my opinion.” says my waiter in perfect English. “Steamed. then." I reply. trying to disguise my disappointment at having been easily understood. The waiter nods his head and walks away singing “Life in the last lane. guaranteed to loooose your mind!" along with The Eagles. I sit disheartened at my table. You‘re supposed to have to work to order food in India It’s supposed to be a challenge. You're supposed to have to practically go back to the sweltering. unhygienic kitchen and show the cook what ingredients to make your food with. Your waiter is supposed to totally luck up your order and bring you something not even on the menu. You‘re supposed to have to argue at the register that you did not order seven masala teas so there‘s no w a) you're paying for them. There aren't supposed to be napkins or a bathroom. and il‘you‘vc got things right. there should be disease—ridden mice darting around the dirt lloor. Not only was there a tray ol‘napkins on my table. a bathroom down the hall. and no mice to speak ol‘. my waiter understood my order to a T: he even gave a helpful suggestion. That was lar too easy for this really to be India. “Maybe the cook won‘t wash his hands and I‘ll get food poisoning," I mutter to myself. Alter lilteen minutes ol'spying on the Tibetans playing cards in the corner. I hear a bell "ding!" and out come my steaming inomos. "Tu-chuh-chel" I say to my waiter as he ptits down my food. which. according to the guide book I was hiding under the table. means “thank you" in Tibetan. “\\'elcome." he says. turning around and walking back to the card game. 'I'rying not to stare alter him land wishing he‘d said something back in Tibetan), I tuck in to my momos. Dipping one into the red chili sauce that came with them, I stulI‘one into my mouth. Boiling hot chicken juices burst in my closed mouth and I grunt with pain. “Too hot to handle?" one Tibetan yells from behind his cards. 68 Murphy Square Show less
INSECURITY Ellery Davis Stands outside ui‘m)‘ house The twilight bruism his face The buttons on hisjackcl are tiny mirrnrx‘ His cufflinks arr Gordian knots I pull the string that (lows 1hr blind< As his fingernail taps on 11w glzns. 51 Murphy Square
WHAT TIME IS IT? Laura Morales Bu“ hglnm‘rs . Ruxh hunr ulKu'cl (‘I(‘[)|lkll‘ll\', Your ([00]) \‘niu' in u 11i\'(' Ul‘honvy bt't's. ‘\ \lnl‘lll n11mxlcmly inlpntirm‘v. In (lixxunann- with th' cooling gluxs. 60 Murphy Square
CRUMBLE Kevin Butcher Ci'umhle \\'ings ol‘birds 5“ ing [eyerishly As ears hluze (tirelessly by. Tires burn into asphalt As [huts press the pedal to the “001’. learlessly. The wind rips grass from mots And the sun seolds (TOPS onee crushed. Turning (0101:. .10 (lust. By boots that bind dirt... Show moreCRUMBLE Kevin Butcher Ci'umhle \\'ings ol‘birds 5“ ing [eyerishly As ears hluze (tirelessly by. Tires burn into asphalt As [huts press the pedal to the “001’. learlessly. The wind rips grass from mots And the sun seolds (TOPS onee crushed. Turning (0101:. .10 (lust. By boots that bind dirt encrusted lbotS. Bell buekles rel‘leet seorehing light Into frantically flying hird§ sight. They erash into the ground. her over rhirken leet. As dry grass blades eut into lelit wing then righL \\'2mn rocks become leatureless hires As the sun races away: The evening's spotlight illuminates exnt‘tly Htm' being alone tastes. Fouls gold sparkles dully in the sky Offering false hope to those who he Benealhulust lying there. only to stare. \Yutehing the world slowly (rumble. 57 Murphy Square Show less
UNTITLED Colin Stan/Jill () liurlh. Ur-rcality. .\li1‘thliil 21nd nu‘lzim‘holy. all, (Inmo into me (15 I do you. all-ways. (Imningling runsriousnms with turning. going. lingering Sn what ilil‘m a vessel * .\ L‘nnIlurntc nl'lhrcos? Imagination and will my Iools‘ .\pi1chm‘ Shilpl‘d by its (‘unlcnl§... Show moreUNTITLED Colin Stan/Jill () liurlh. Ur-rcality. .\li1‘thliil 21nd nu‘lzim‘holy. all, (Inmo into me (15 I do you. all-ways. (Imningling runsriousnms with turning. going. lingering Sn what ilil‘m a vessel * .\ L‘nnIlurntc nl'lhrcos? Imagination and will my Iools‘ .\pi1chm‘ Shilpl‘d by its (‘unlcnl§ chamctcrs. Ycl you say I‘m wearing a woman's hat. .\n(l I my. "Flck ll‘l‘nlrrhv lirllk. This is Muylu-zmu'rita Basliun nl‘lmslards Homo in No One Hgiycn only nl‘cunimings anyone) and goings (cvvrhou'V‘W"mm" Whatever that means_ 42 Murphy Square Show less
OCTOBER Elle 7770712' You are no Christmas angel. your halo is woolen and woven with cigarette smoke. Your shoulders too. once mantels of sunlight now gesture (lismally toward your \t't‘eping wings. \\'hat (lust! lt Clings so still and solemn to your Blues-man boots. the (lust ol‘death. ol‘those... Show moreOCTOBER Elle 7770712' You are no Christmas angel. your halo is woolen and woven with cigarette smoke. Your shoulders too. once mantels of sunlight now gesture (lismally toward your \t't‘eping wings. \\'hat (lust! lt Clings so still and solemn to your Blues-man boots. the (lust ol‘death. ol‘those who have “alked that ground belon- us. Autumn arrives. mid-funeral expet'ting to be fed by eyei'y tree. .\Iy ou‘n boots scratch against their ol‘li'rings. green and gold, reminding me that Change is the natural way ol'things. I walk on. ghosting down the l’ranklin Avenue. seeing bicyclists pass like glass-blown ornaments. There is a light on in the upstairs window antl the shape ola (‘llllfl staring out at me. lask his forgiveness: l)a|)e. please lorgiye me. \\'e are not (lead. we are only dreaming about death. To you. it may look as though the world is ending * hut il‘sjust the season \ye‘rt- passing through. * * * * * l sau a ehiltl \\ ith a light on in the upstairs \\ inclou' and thought that I saw an angel. But which one \tas the angel the Child or the light? 18 Murphy Square Show less
ing. his mother, and the velvety darkness ofthe cold night that had settled upon the city. Suddenly a light turned on in an apartment across the courtyard. The introduction oflight, ofanother life form, was unsettling. He assttmed that he was entirely alone with the sleeping city. Now his eyes... Show moreing. his mother, and the velvety darkness ofthe cold night that had settled upon the city. Suddenly a light turned on in an apartment across the courtyard. The introduction oflight, ofanother life form, was unsettling. He assttmed that he was entirely alone with the sleeping city. Now his eyes were drawn towards the square oflight and he waited for whatever sign of life that had turned it on to appear. Then he saw her. the creature that came with the light. Her back was turned to the window but he could see she had long black hair that matched the midnight sky. She turned to face the window, but Elliot was too far away to make out any defining feature other than that she was naked. He pressed his face against the cold window, the courtyard seemed to stretch ottt before him. growing longer. distancing him from the girl and from the bright beam oflight she had brought into the night. His vision became cloudy. the world was hazy. His ears started to buzz and beads ofsweat formed on his upper lip. It was as if he was going to faint. He‘d never felt more cognizant that he did at that moment. The room began to swirl around him. It was a good dizziness that came with the spinning, although he had a feeling that at any moment the entire situation could sour and he would be sick rather than exhila- ratetl. The sound of rushing wind filled his ears and he forgot where he w . The square of light across the courtyard turned to blackness and Elliot plummeted from his euphoria into the reality ofthe dark night. Who was she? He did his best to commit her figure to memory. He stared for a longtime. willing her to come back. lilliot lit a t rette. inhaled. and knocked the ash from the tip onto the windowsill. The papery flakes scattered in the chilly night wind that snuck in through his closed win- dow. He wanted to know more about the strange girl who hadjust appeared to him. hlaybe she had been looking for him. Elliot felt as ifshe had made herselfknown to him on purpose. She obviously meant to spark his interest: after all it was she who had presented her naked body to him. He decided to paint the outline ofthe figure in the window. His paintbrush was drawn to the canvas like a magnet. Something had taken over him. As he whisked the brush across the page he imagined what it would be like to meet her. He would be sitting in the courtyard beneath the blazing maple when she would Spot him, although he wouldn‘t notice her. She would leave her apartment, perhaps feigning an errand to run. She would lightly kick through the piles ofleaves lining the sidewalk as she ap- proaehed him. eoyly attempting to steal his attention away from the ground, or the cigarette in his hand. or the leaves. He would hear her footsteps but he would assume they were the steps ofa stranger bustling by. The footsteps would stop right in front ofhim although the girl would remain silent. Slowly Elliot would lift his gaze, noticing her small red boots, then her thick gray tights. then her lacy black dress hidden beneath a coat three sizes too big for her. She would smile at him, maybe she would even laugh. Her laugh would be light, but it would float all around him like fresh snowflakes on the winter breeze. Elliot dropped the paintbrush into his brush box and stepped back to look at his creation. It was missing a lot, but it was a start. He needed to see her again, needed to fill the empty spaces on the canvas with the details of her body. Patience. The girl would show her— selfto him again. and then he would be able to add whatever she required so that she could come alive on the easel. He went back to the window andjammed his cigarette into the ashtray on the sill. The window across the courtyard was still dark. He pressed his nose against the glass and searched the darkness, looking for any sort ofdetail ofthe room behind the window. Noth- ing. A siren roared across the city, and a gust ofwind shook his windows violently. He closed his eyes and recalled the girl. her curve, her hair. Again sweat began to form on his lip and his dizzy head floated upward, away from his body, away from his apartment. His ears 54 Murphy Square Show less
green grace ol‘dcer eyes and the forest rains of the Pacific Northwest. You threw it all away. For what.J For these savage nights and broken days, to live and (lie on the streets of LA. Old Flame Arcade Fire l’oot stomps open into a wheeze ol‘accordion. as the guitar beats out notes like it could... Show moregreen grace ol‘dcer eyes and the forest rains of the Pacific Northwest. You threw it all away. For what.J For these savage nights and broken days, to live and (lie on the streets of LA. Old Flame Arcade Fire l’oot stomps open into a wheeze ol‘accordion. as the guitar beats out notes like it could play a piano. A melancholic howli' “You knew in five minutes / and I knew in a sentence. A lhrum olK-iolin rises to the sweep ofthe chorus: So why do we go through all ofthis again? / Your eyes are fluttering / such pretty wings / a moth flyin’ into me / same old flame again / it never ends." The cover ol‘the album uses the fine lines Ola turquoise pen, the intricate ntotil‘ol‘slained glass patterns. Victorian scrawl. The Sicilian used to draw for you like that, (lelit’att'ly tangled hearts and skulls and flowers with your name. They sit in a box. covered and avoided, dodged like a bad street full oftrcspassing memories. Because after you left* all the calls he never answered. all the messages he never returned. And then after days and \\'eeks and months. alter you‘ve gotten used to this rupture ofthe heart. this empty space, sloppily patched and plugged. a letter comes and he says. “Will you come back home?" For so longy that was all you wanted to hear. But still. You freeze. “'here do you stay, where do you go? Do you stay? Or do you go? 10 Murphy Square Show less
