Calliope Winter 1959

Calliope (1954-2001) Volume 5 Issue 1, Winter 1959 Article 1 Winter 1959 Calliope Winter 1959 Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.wmich.edu/calliope Part of the Creative Writing Commons Recommended Citation (1959) "Calliope Winter 1959," Calliope (1954-2001): Vol. 5 , Article 1. Available at: https://scholarworks.wmich.edu/calliope/vol5/iss1/1 This Complete Issue is brought to you for free and open access by the English at ScholarWorks at WMU. It has been accepted for inclusion in Calliope (1954-2001) by an authorized editor of ScholarWorks at WMU. For more information, please contact wmu- [email protected]. Calllope We1te111 Mlclll9t111 IJ11/11e11/ty Wl11te1 1959 Clllllope "Western Michigan University's Literary Magazine" Volume V, Number I Editor Richard B. Hauck Assistant Editor John E. Rathbun Business and Publicity Mary Ann Williams Make-up Advisor Allen T. Conn Faculty Advisors Mr. Edward Callan Dr. Phillip Denenfeld Poetry Editors Bryce L. Forester Judy Swartz Prose Editors Julie Picken Peter Green Cover Design Charles R. L eeman The Staff Grace Bailey, Lynn Clapham, Tom Donovan, Tom S . Evans, Ann Farnell, Fred Gaulzetti, Karen Gernant, Bob Gesell, Jeanne Giardina, June Gosseaux, Sandra Hinckley, Pauline Hylkema, Sandra Keeney, Pauline Kisler, Charles Leeman, Pat Leeman, Ellen McDougal, Dean Malmstrom, Harry Robinson, Janet Seager, Cary Shields, Bill Strong Address: CALLIOPE, Box 20, Western Michigan University Student Center, Kalamazoo, Michigan. Contributions to CALLIOPE may not be reprinted without permission of the the publishers. All students of Western Michigan are encouraged to contribute to CALLIOPE. This publication is supported by the Student Council of Western Michigan University Contributor• DISCOVERY, Pauline Hylkema 3 A POEM, Max Steele 4 CHOICE, Joan S. Popke 4 AND THEY STILL STAND, j m p 5 THE TROPHY, Bill Strong 6 OF WHEN AND WHY FOR, Peter Green 11 THE FLY IN THE WINDOW, Robert J. Schneider 12 AND THEY WERE DESTROYED, Cary Shields 15 NIGHT WALK, Peter Green 15 BASED ON A NEGRO SPIRITUAL, Phillip D. Adams 16 THE LADDER, Bob Ford 17 (VISTA), Max Steele 21 SANDSCAPE, Milton Suboski 22 LOVE SONG FOR EARLY VISION, Richard Hauck 23 SILHOUETTE, Phillip D. Adams 24 A POEM, Max Steele 24 THE NIGHT BUD FOUGHT, Douglas Hodgman 25 MONOLOGUE IN A MINOR KEY, Peter Green 42 A POEM, Max Steele 42 A POEM, Max Steele 43 TO WEBSTER, Mary Ann Williams 43 WILLIE PAUL, Donna Love 44 ONE AND ONE, Fred Gaulzetti 44 2 DISCOVERY Pauline Hylkemo It was already 7 : 00 on an evening in the late fall when it begins ~o get dark before suppertime. "Outside, Ma," he begged again and again. Finally he brought me his too-small jacket, dragging it on the floor from the hall to where I stood at the kitchen sink. "Outside, Ma," he said again. I drew my hands across the apron, picked him up and lifted him in front of the window. "It's dark outside-and cold." "Outside, Ma," he said again. I zipped him into his jacket, snapped his cap, and buttoned my own sweater over the damp apron. He wasn't afraid as I carried him into the dark, though the wind creaked in the big elm and bore through my sweater as I stepped around the house. Surely he would change his mind. "Want to go in the house now?" "Sandbox," he said, and I could see by the light of the swaying street lamp the sparkle of his eyes, "Sandbox." I set him down in the driveway and we walked hand in hand to the back yard where the play bars hung naked in the night air and the doghouse towered larger than usual in a fearsome silhouette. "Andy, new house?" he asked, pointing at the vacant shell next door. "Yes." "Mike, new house?" this time with a rising inflection. "Mike's moved to the new house-and Jerry, too," I added, anticipating the next question. He pulled me toward the sandbox and I sat on the edge of it while he sent an exploratory finger into the cold and dirty sand. "Cold," he said, looking at me quizzically, "Cold." He came over and settled himself in my lap; I felt the cold from his cheeks in front of me in the dark. We sat for several minutes lis- tening to bare tree branches rubbing against each other, watching the swaying shadows cast by the streetlight rocking in the wind and smell- ing the smell of cold earth. I shivered. "Cold," he squealed, putting his hands against my face, "Cold." He didn't protest when I picked him up and carried him toward the house. Once back in the warm envelope of the kitchen he slipped down and ran, jacket dangling half on, half off into the dining room corner where a begrimed elephant lay face down in the wheelbarrow. "Cold," he said, winding the elephant in an old hanky, "Cold." 3 as the spigot is turned coffee becomes down and we drink of the cup some with sugar some with cream some without and we live on because . .. Max Steele CHOICE I have been so long alone, Sequestered. Life has dimmed away. Isolation buries me. Endless time becomes the day. Long ago were turbulence And tempests, and I had to pay For leaning toward the frenzied storm. Endless time becomes the day. Caution knocked at muddled brain, And I exchanged my fine display Of feeling for a blind reserve. Endless time becomes the day. I know quiet, and my hell Is meted out. It leads the way For stark insensibility. Endless time becomes the day. Joan S. Popke 4 AND THEY STILL STAND . (a dialogue of one) Three still stand, Sir We have not conquered them all. Yes, Sir, we tried- There is something holding them. It is as though they were statues; They stand so stalwartly. Sir, can they be the ones We've heard of ... Of course, Sir, I realize it's a myth, But Sir they just won't die. We've fired a complete round of ammo At each of them- Three won't fall Sir, it's eerie the way those three Stand there among the dead. No, Sir, they still have not fallen ... Yes, I'll go out there, Sir. I'll try Sir. Sir, they're dead. But they just Stand there--Statues among the dead And Sir, they're smiling- How can they be happy in death? Sir, there is nothing after this life Is there Sir? I understand, Sir. Yes, .I will. I will remove them before the rest See those smiles . , Can't have the men believing in a myth That would destroy our Purpose--our civilization . But Sir, I still can't see Why they believe . Imp 5 THE TROPHY Bill Strong The crack of a screen door slamming shut rolled over the valley and was swallowed up by the tree-covered hillsides. A man had emerged from a small cabin which huddled near the base of a hill. The cabin was ringed on three sides by a stand of tall pine trees and faced toward a meadow-like clearing from which the fog was just now departing. The dampness and cold of the early morning caused the man to shudder involuntarily, then he threw back his shoulders and breathed deeply of the crisp, cool air. Jason Woodruff was feeling very much the rugged individualist this morning. "Ah ... this is the way to live," he said aloud and formed in his mind the picture he woud describe at the club. He ~avored the feeling of power which came over him as he stood alone in the morning quiet. Standing on the porch of the cabin, arms folded over his chest, rifle held under his arm pointing downward, clad in the red wool of the hunter he looked like the man of distinction in a whiskey ad. Only a slight paunch, now concealed by the heavy wool hunting jacket, and a hint of grey around the temples gave evidence of Jason's fifty years. The huge frame and strong hands which presided so ably over the conference table looked equally competent in the role of the hunter. He paused long in his contemplation of the countryside. His gaze took in every detail which he etched in his mind, forming the eloquent phrases he would use back in the city. His fancy wandered and he could see the admiration in the eyes of his young secretary as he described the adventure. A rustling in the woods to his left caught his attention and he glanced in time to see a cotton-tail rabbit bound from the woods and disappear in the tangled underbrush bordering the field. Stepping down from the porch, Jason thought to himself that the rabbit had nothing to fear from him, he was after bigger game. As he had told the boys at the club, he'd settle for nothing less than the biggest buck in the woods this trip. He could imagine the head and polished antlers of the deer mounted over the fireplace in his den. He walked slowly along the edge of the field, crunching the fallen leaves underfoot and skirting the brambles which caught at his wool trousers. The frost, leaving the ground, made the going difficult and several times as he climbed the hill his foot slipped and he grabbed at the brambles to catch himself. The sting of the thorns ripping into his palms infuriated him and suddenly the good feeling of the morning was gone. "Damn it, someone ought to get those things out of here." Jason swore as the frost-smooth earth kept slipping from under him.

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