The Trillium Fall 2002

The Trillium

The Trillium is the official arts publication produced by the students of Trinity College. The ideas expressed herein are not necessarily those of the faculty, staff, or adminis-tration of the college. Entries are judged on the basis of creativity, thought-provoking ideas, and freshness of style. The student co-editors do not know who the authors of the entries are. Managing Editor: Meghan Rosing Co-editors: Candace Joy Dow

Ann Eberhardt Clemeekia Pierre

Christopher McCammon Layout: Ann Eberhardt Cover: Candace Joy Dow Title Page Artwork: James Allen Faculty Advisor: Cliff Williams Copyright © 2002. This material may not be reproduced by any means in

part or in whole, without written permission from the authors. December 2002.

CONTENTS

MICHELLE JOHNSON American Vulture 4 MARTA MCDONALD Stretch Marks 5 SALLY HANSEN Luscious Hibiscus 6 JUSTIN ZDERAD Memories of Grandma 7 CHRISTOPHER MCCAMMON An Anatomy of Starbucks 8 ANN EBERHARDT Church 9 AMBER ELSTS Sehnsucht 10 SARAH FOWLER Maddened 11 MICHEAL RAY GRAHAM Guilt by Association 12 CATHERINE WENKEL Temptation 13 MELISSA DAVEY Surfacing 14 CHRISTOPHER MCCAMMON Love’s Paranoia 15 MARIE MOBERG Autumn 16 JAMES ALLEN The Sound of Silence 17 ANN EBERHARDT Night Traffic 18 CANDACE JOY DOW Speed Limit 19 AMBER ELSTS String 20

4 • THE TRILLIUM

MICHELLE JOHNSON

AMERICAN VULTURE I met a countryman in the fog On the streets of a sweet, foreign village. We shook hands. I introduced myself In our own—our own rough lingo. He was very affable, very American: My countryman. Yet, His eyes were glued to the Italian vase Gleaming—rotting there in his hands. It had been a bargain (due to the current Currency problem, of course). My countryman’s face was triumphant: He’d “stolen” six others like it. Repulsion entered into my mind. Entered and switched to shame, then into red hot anger. Count on my countryman to be the vulture, To create a monopoly— Still, even before the drizzle became a fiendish downpour I nodded a tolerant farewell, and left The American to his business, Forgetting him as was my nature.

FALL 2002 • 5

MARTA MCDONALD

STRETCH MARKS now to open books would be harder than pushing my hands through telephones to touch your face— your face too far from my reach for me to handle. I am here on this bed too high above ground for my feet to touch carpet, too soft on my body for my head to lift and my hand to hit hard the incessant beeping of that awful invention—alarm: is all I feel when I catch myself here, so many states away from where I am smooth not rough like I am here rough like my voice in the morning and my face at night when I am too tired for softness this is too far, much too far and I can feel it stretching me across these states of mind and fields and roads away from comfort where I feel no stretch.

6 • TRILLIUM

SALLY HANSEN

LUSCIOUS HIBISCUS

FALL 2002 • 7

JUSTIN ZDERAD

MEMORIES OF GRANDMA I remember you, Grandma. What a lovely name you had Neva Parker, speaks of elegance and grace Your winning smile, your white, curly, soft hair The tender, pale skin stretched across aged bones Your trailer home, which was always full Of love, warmth, peace, a refuge from the world The chairs in the di ning room A red-leathered seat of a peculiar design Bubble-Up in those cute little glasses That we loved so much Cracklin’ Oat Bran, my favorite cereal You introduced me to, sweet and crunchy Swimming in a bowl with 1% milk. Your be droom filled with black and white photos Of people I never knew, but they were still family And friends, somehow, the warmth of company Your bathroom of pink filled with little rugs, Always clean when I was there With the scent of Camille everywhere, like delicate flowers Wanting to be inhaled, to say, “Relax my child.” It was my safe haven, my summer dream, my vacation from the world How angry I was when the men caring for your body invited me to leave As they continued to make that dead thing pretty, O what

vain hope I wanted to be by your side, say goodbye, alone, just me

with my dear one But I know you are in His loving arms, that is my comfort Your empty home, once full of your presence The radio now quiet, even it seemed to have died The mysterious ticking of your clock that broke the

infrequent quiet Now ticks to a silent world, the march of time that took

you away.

8 • THE TRILLIUM

CHRISTOPHER MCCAMMON

AN ANATOMY OF STARBUCKS

I am the scholar in residence at Starbucks, downtown Arlington Heights branch. The following is an apology—in the classical sense—and explanation of why this is so. Starbucks offers the penultimate habitat of the true Sunday-afternoon sophisticate. In cases where the said sophisticate has not reached sufficient self-awareness, the Starbucks environ-ment comes to the rescue by heaping praise on just-the-kind-of-person-you-must-be. Obviously you are intelligent; otherwise you wouldn’t dare lift your eyes to a menu board that strongly resembles a technical manual of some sort, but one that for some reason is written in a hodge-podge of Romantic languages. Yes, you are intelligent—and urbane, cultured. The music which permeates the Starbucks atmosphere provides constant opportunity to prove this: “I really don’t like early Dylan,” you say. “Oh, that aria is from Die Zauberfl`te.… I beg your pardon, The Magic Flute.” You are adventurous: “Explore, Experience, Enjoy” invites an ad for exotic coffee beans, while below you on the table a rough-sketched tribesman cavorts in bas-relief. And not just any beverage, warm or cold, will please one so traveled and worldly-wise. Obviously, if you are to be tempted to indulge in Tazo Tea, it must be of “amazing delicacy, complexity, and strength.” Why? because you are tanked to the gills with amazing delicacy, complexity, and strength. But for all this, you are simple of heart—a confirmed domestic. Thus the poster above the condiment bar offers you a caramel apple cider “Because you can’t drink a fuzzy sweater.” “No kidding and thank God,” say I. Of course, watching over all is the ubiquitous bi-finned mermaiden with her cryptic stare, lending a quasi-religious aspect to your surroundings. In the last days, you have heard, this very fish-wife will be printed in invisible ink on every right hand and forehead, and Starbucks will raise 666 to a more reasonable $7.95. But that’s okay. This doesn’t feel like a Last Day. So you smile, of course, and go on drinking a Grande-No-Foam-Extra-Hot-Seven-Pump-Tchai-LattJ.

FALL 2002 • 9

ANN EBERHARDT

CHURCH I do not want to be here. I want to be anywhere but here in this sterile cavity with its circulating white breeze. Sure, it’s well-ventilated but stifled with limp words. Its see-through walls taunt me with the outside where mountains roar, the sky presses, and clouds linger. Their glory beckons. Here there are only rows of sitting eyes glazed over with Truth. And I am but a blur, slumped in a chair, not wanting to be here .

10 • THE TRILLIUM

AMBER ELSTS

SEHNSUCHT There beneath all the crushed shells Lies an even more impassioned yearning; A longing, a desire, a fervent hope Sehnsucht … It is there seeking fulfillment and Attaining such only from the breath of heaven And the blow of His Spirit. Our souls matched to His hue Seek His face and His eye For a glimpse of that unfathomable beauty A beauty beyond blushing, flushed with blood, His blood, deep and dark, burning on His brow Lingering in our hearts. Sehnsucht … A beauty of pride and glow and justness and glory. Lift your eyes and form your lips to his height. Rosy eyes beckoning back the bloom Seek His face all the more And rest. Sehnsucht: longing, yearning

FALL 2002 • 11

SARAH FOWLER

MADDENED Dust draws in darkly As I lie here, listless, Wearing a far-away expression In a far-away place, Pondering: Is this pain or pleasure? It throbs Beneath my breast— This bittersweet bliss Of mirthful melancholy. I cannot compress space Nor hasten time, Only serve this sentence of separation, Endure the ache of your absence, Damn the distance that divides us— And bask in the awareness That you Are the source of my present pain.

12 • THE TRILLIUM

MICHAEL RAY GRAHAM

GUILT BY ASSOCIATION We are all images of God’s great creation, but some like to categorize others into guilt by association. They look, stare, concur, and formulate my occupation, hating on the mere fact that I am an outspoken individual looking at my dress and shade of appearance ignoring my principles. Just as them I too have credentials I may not have the residuals but what I do have is essential. Some don’t have the capacity to understand my mental capabilities, not getting to know the person, only looking at my physical abilities. Let’s get back to the fact that they categorize me by the way I dress, I am my own person am I to look like the rest I don’t do it to impress. I just like to look my best and not all occasions call for a suit and a vest. Look good feel good that’s my plea to this contest. Second, my outspoken ability is one on my own I say what needs to be said and I am not the one to be walked on. You can put me in a strai t jacket and duct tape my mouth either way it goes the truth will eventually come out. No doubt if my god gave it to me I am going to say it if you categorize me long enough I will get a waterhose and spray it. Guilt by association is nothing we need, the world has its own problems money sex weed and greed how are we to succeed when the spirit of guilt by association people of the world constantly feed. Where I plan on going is a no association zone there is only one me and no genetically engineered clone. I am me and me alone is myself, there I won’t be categorized or associated with any one or anything else.

FALL 2002 • 13

CATHERINE WENKEL

TEMPTATION

14 • THE TRILLIUM

MELISSA DAVEY

SURFACING How do I reconcile the fact that

my mother and father never loved? I never really felt or thought that it

might have been me but do I somehow think so

without the realization? I cling to falling rain. Solitude I seek, yet isolation I fear— a heart cold like a stone that does not consent to skipping across the water. What is the point of that?

FALL 2002 • 15

CHRISTOPHER MCCAMMON LOVE’S PARANOIA I say it seems a little less than fair To take a lonely lover unaware: I stirred my tea Innocently— And then glanced up to find, Against my anguished mind, Sinatra and this coffeehouse in close conspiracy! He sings of wee small hours all alone My wretchedness in knowing you are gone … I must be sure To make secure My windows and my door, The cracks along my floor, He’ll have to look elsewhere tonight to find a muse de jour!

16 • THE TRILLIUM

MARIE MOBERG AUTUMN Leaves are changing, leaves are falling, There’s a nip in the air. Indian summer has come gone Autumn is finally here. Time for planting, time for sowing, The soil must be tilled. Gather the wood for winter’s warmth, The pantry must be filled. Winter’s knocking at our door With chilly weather ahead; Bring out the down-filled pillows And Grandma’s featherbed. Autumn’s a time for reflecting On memories of summers past; When days are shorter And sleep gets longer Autumn has come at last!

FALL 2002 • 17

JAMES ALLEN THE SOUND OF SILENCE

18 • THE TRILLIUM

ANN EBERHARDT NIGHT TRAFFIC White eyes pass me by, ignoring my presence. With a trivial muse they guide, forward proceeding with red-eyes mocking behind them, eyeing me with droopy lids and Occasional Farewell Winks. I nod to this line of continual eyes streaming in the black, pouring lifeless light into the murmurs of the night.

FALL 2002 • 19

CANDACE JOY DOW SPEED LIMIT

20 • THE TRILLIUM

AMBER ELSTS STRING I slipped my finger through the loop Again. The tiniest cotton threads Slid off, resting in my palm’s curves. Sashes of brilliance in their own accord Merrily dipping, tripping along my skin; They wrapped themselves together for a laugh.