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Of Tangents and Cicadas

A Collection of Poems from English 353 | Fall 2014

Edited by Harry Schaut

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Anthology_Final.indd 1 12/5/14 11:24 AM

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Index A Acknowledgments, 23 Artsen, Arlo, 13 Autumn’s Breath, 9 B Bain, Rachael, 19 Bautista, R.D., 4 Brightly Twinkling Above Our

Heads, 11 Burts Kust, Sarah, 16 C Catacutan, Aly, 8 Cold: A Smash Sonnet, 12 Complacency, 6 F Fool’s Gold, 7 G Guardian Angel, 8 Girls Don’t Like Boys, 5 H Hilgart, MyKayla, 7 House, The, 19 J Johns, Jamie, 22 Justifications, 13 K Kelley, Allison, 3 Kindergarten, The 22 Koch, Mikaela, 9 Kougl, MacKenzie, 15 Kuckkahn, Makenzy, 11

L Lace Parachute, 3 Landowski, Zakary, 21 Lenius, Kendra, 2 Loucks, Katie, 20 Love is Not, 2 M Maas, Erich, 17 Margeson, Emily, 10 O Observation of a Blunt Mind, 21 P Phillips, Stacy, 6 Q Quit That Beat, 15 R Rambling Boy, 4 Red Delicious, 16 Real Nothing, 17 S Schaut, Harry, 18 Schutz, Korey 5 Smitala, Mariah, 12 T To My Socks, 14 V Vosters, Becky, 14 W Weather, The, 10 Who Are You?, 20

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“Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things that escape those who dream only at night.” –Edgar Allan Poe, Eleonora

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Table of Contents

Introduction ........................................................ 1 Love is Not ......................................................... 2 Lace Parachute .................................................... 3 Rambling Boy ..................................................... 4 Girls Don’t Like Boys ........................................ 5 Complacency ...................................................... 6 Fool’s Gold ......................................................... 7 Guardian Angel ................................................... 8 Autumn’s Breath ................................................. 9 The Weather. .................................................... 10 Brightly Twinkling Above Our Heads .............. 11 Cold: A Smash Sonnet ...................................... 12 Justifications ..................................................... 13 To My Socks ..................................................... 14 Quit That Beat .................................................. 15 Red Delicious ................................................... 16 Real Nothing ..................................................... 17 Don’t Inhale ...................................................... 18 The House ......................................................... 19 Who Are You? .................................................. 20 The Observation of a Blunt Mind ..................... 21 The Kindergarten-Box Top Collection Day...... 22 Acknowledgements ........................................... 23 Index ................................................................. 24

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Acknowledgments

I’d like to thank UWSP Printing and Design for generously printing these booklets so quickly. A warm thank you goes out to Rachael Williams for creating the awesome and quirky cover art. A big thank you to both Professor Pat Dyjak and Professor Gail Folkins for helping in the creation of this booklet. And finally a huge thanks to the Fall 2014 class of English 353 for putting up with my incessant emails and for submitting their wonderful poetry that made this anthology possible.

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Jamie Johns The Kindergarten – Box Top Collection Day The children move in single file with their offerings to the cause. They eye each other cautiously, wondering who has more, who has less, to give. Out of caring and sharing they are thrust into a world that has set them at each others’ throats for the sake of glory and rank. But they don’t know it yet. One child has tried her very best, and has ten tiny slips to her name. She proudly gives them all away, and feels accomplished just to have done it herself. The next child comes forward, with gallon-bags of them collected by her father at work the previous days. This second child gains the ultimate reward – a bicycle, for all her hard work. “Be like her, and try harder, other children,” says the one who is in charge of teaching this group of 5-year-olds how to survive in the real world. Sharpen those childish eyes to daggers, make claws of those unblemished hands – you may lose a battle here and there, but the war has just begun.

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Introduction

So why is this anthology titled Of Tangents and Cicadas? Well, those of us in English 353 probably know the answer, but to those that don’t I’ll try to clarify the seemingly random title.

I suppose it started with a misinterpretation of a poem where someone thought the subject was about cicadas causing the class to guffaw and an inside joke was born. I guess it’s one of those “you-had-to-be-there” moments. Anyway, that explains the “cicadas” bit, and one can probably assume that the “tangents” isn’t about the line that touches the curve of a circle; no, those in English 353 have the affinity to go off topic. And though these tangents may have caused the class to go a bit off course, they provided some great Tuesday night “high-on-donut-sugar” memories, memories that may have even sparked some of the poems in the upcoming pages.

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Kendra Lenius Love Is Not Love is not psychopathic. It does not choke you,

Mutilate souls, Contort wills,

Drown hopes and aspirations in the deluge Of jealousy and fear.

Love does not rage and manipulate with guilt and anxiety.

Most of all love does not, Even for the smallest offense,

Seek revenge.

Love is not white lies And linguistic acrobats in a verbal dance.

No settling for almost truths. Love is not the

paralysis Of the tongue after the wrong

word is casually spoken. Or a taboo name from the distant

past Mentioned

in passing. Love does not use its retraction as a weapon.

There are no if you, than I

You made me doesn’t exist. You don’t know how good I am to you

never escapes your lips.

Love does not demand you be grateful for its presence. Love doesn’t demand a goddamn thing.

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Zakary Landowski The Observations of a Blunt Mind What’s the point of talking? When we live in a world of unwanted complexity Where flashy superficial speech is supposedly the mark of intelligence… What happened to actually talking about the things that matter? Not casual everyday garbage. As hard as I try I cannot turn my ears off like I would a TV set. Nor can I prevent myself from observing these conversations play out. I am watching people blab on about their lives and my tediously made observations are always the same. When these people do speak they wave their hands around like they’re constantly swatting flies. Is it truly necessary to speak and wave your hands around like they are desperately trying to cast some spell? Is that supposed to be sign of intelligence? I don’t have a damn clue why they behave in such a fashion. The words that spew from their mouths have such complicated meanings sometimes I wonder if they themselves know what the hell they are saying. Such complicated speech only paralyzes me with confusion and makes me loathe to speak. It only makes me prefer stone cold silence more than this annoyingly complex noise issuing forth from these people. How can they believe that suck complex speech is impressive? What happened to speaking simple words? To bluntly cutting to the truth of our problems instead of dancing around them with flowery language? The answer never comes to me and as always I brood in silence. Always knowing the obvious answer to a problem but unable to fully explain it. Watching as the answer is given with dancing flowery language. Already in possession of the simple answer but unwilling to explicate to the teacher’s liking.

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Katie Loucks Who Are You?

Who are you? A painter, a builder, an educator, A lifeguard, a cashier, a driver, A barista, a librarian, a politician. What are you? Canadian, Mexican, American, English, French, Spanish, Indian, Afghani, Japanese. Where are you? Brazil, Argentina, Columbia, Nigeria, Botswana, Madagascar, Thailand, Indonesia, Bangladesh. What are you? Blond, red, brunette, Blue eyed, brown eyed, green eyed, Tall, short, average. Who are you? A mom, a dad, a sibling, An aunt, an uncle, a cousin, A friend, a coworker, a loved one. We are workers. We are diverse. We are everywhere. We are beautiful. We are loved. We are humans.

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Allison Kelley Lace Parachute

I fell

But what was deployed was not a parachute Designed to break my fall

What was deployed was a lace parachute A delicately woven, fragile creation

That would kill me once I hit the ground It was created with high hopes and good intentions

Sewn together with false ideas of what it means to be loved But I still believed in it

Even after its holes got bigger before my eyes And even shortly before it burst

I still hoped And now look at my lace parachute

I’ve used it to mend my wounds

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Rachael Bain The House Boyhood games of adventure Exploring, running, bounding Wending through hills and hollows Breaking through the wood, The Meadow. A House standing solitary In the golden light, contrasting against the gloomy pines The House unlike any other, no pathway nor road. Towering turrets, elaborate trim, brightly colored and grand. Resembling their grandparents’ childhood homes. Calling in the desolate space The door with its brass lion knocker hangs ajar Nobody home though the scent of gingerbread hangs in the air. Old fashioned gas lamps line the ornate wallpaper Gilded flowers and vines intricately knotted Mahogany floors echoing their footsteps Heavy furniture anchoring Persian rugs One boy cries out in delight A room filled with toys, a carousel horse stands magnificently in the corner Playing the day away, nobody arrives. Finding a cellar lined with jewel colored preserves A lady’s dressing room, a vanity lined with brushes and rose scented creams All silver glass, pale marble and pink velvet The room lined with thick crimson curtains. The sun begins to set, A chill running through the House, Quickly stealing back home, A tall tale to the terse parents. The next day, children in the lead, Seeking this legendary House Prying parents in stride. The Meadow settled still solidly And the House that was not there Mystified parents watching their bewildered children Picking up little Bud’s cap gun that’d he’d dropped on the journey back Grass ruffling innocently in the icy breeze.

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R.D. Bautista Rambling Boy Twisting phrases in tight spaces Replacing embraces that once Placidly embraced my accepting heart Through the dark Light crack The Horizon Like lightning Through the Thunderous Thump Still stuck during this intermission Of remission of having the privilege Permission of locked arms During dark void nights. Enthralled in the black halls of the Dungeon she left me in.

No keys. No Virgil.

My own Dante’s inferno. Through the seven deadly years Collected:

Memories reflected Feelings rejected

With strikes that stick With no cure nor Medicine Unattended left mending Through my own sheer will.

“Be still my Beating heart!” I remembered when my words carried weight, Now they are just pointless status on your news feed.

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Korey Schutz Girls Don’t Like Boys

If you get down to the truth of it all girls don’t like boys; girls like cats and money.

No man can compare to that lil fur ball because they’re just so darn cute and funny.

Cats and cash are all they really desire because men are assholes and idiots. They’re only good for changing a tire

and let’s face it most of them are bigots. Cats are a girl’s greatest company

and the money is for security. Having a cat is their destiny

Because what’s cuter than a small kitty? So what is a fellow supposed to do?

Duh, become their cash cow and start to moo.

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Harry Schaut Don’t Inhale To the walker Tight tendrils twisting terse at my lungs. Lungs which shudder at the smoking curse that walks in front of me. I mutter, I cough. The tar guzzler turns, glances. “Get over it,” she scoffs at me. To the professor He walks in to greet the class “Sorry, I’m late, I had to go

across the street to smoke.” Prof complains about how he can’t smoke under the

NO SMOKING sign anymore. The class laughs. My forced smile just as forceful as the Prof’s cough in mid sentence: wheezing catching breath in between Whitman and Yeats.

To the neighbor Wafting stink soaking the pipes of the sink, the floor, couch, wall, every essence. A complaint with a landlord’s lordly reply: “we’ll look into it.” Fresh air for a moment, but the smell creeps up playing peek-a-boo. Another complaint, this time no reply. A notice on the neighbor’s door:

NO SMOKING they must have missed the memo. From the lungs “No smoking” the twins plea. Second hand smoke has claimed another victory. They sigh and exhale one tight inhale as asthma fights oxygen. Oxygen loses to tar, tarry bronchi shrivel

black.

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Stacy Phillips Complacency The sparkle in your eyes used to hang on my every word, now I’m lucky if you remember the engagement I mentioned just hours ago. Times where we would dance in the moonlight on your tailgate are long past. I’m Lucky if you’ll twirl me in the kitchen while we finish cooking our Thursday night hamburger helper.

I’m guilty as well. I used to love listening to your soft gentle voice, tell me an anecdote from your long day at work. Now I wish you would just get to the point. Seems like one day we just grew accustomed to each other like you grow accustomed to a new lamp in the living room. Glad that it’s there when you need something to turn on, but not as attentive when it collects dust.

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Erich Maas Real Nothing Moon walks away west feelin’ real high and

mighty, leaving behind him a trail of smoke. The trees are all humping each other

in tall rows by the house, and the cat that won’t come down from those boughs watches

the trees humping and thinks to himself: “What a real wonderful world.”

I eat pistachios like candy, And I walk on the shells real hard all day, and sometimes I break a few under my foot like glass breaks under

a voice. But a lot of them don’t break. Them just lay there real quiet, and I’m tired of listening to myself.

I eat chemicals like pistachios, and they taste real fresh like Swiss chocolate. My bowler hat has a dent in it, and the guy standing underneath my trucker hat drives a car, and my beanie sags real low like my coin purse, and all the while my clock is melting. I don’t much like to eat candy, for my words taste so much sweeter. My finger shrivels under my ring, but I can’t see it shrivel under my ring, unless my ring gets lost in the real tall grass by the house. And I’m real tired and the more I say, the more nothing much ever gets said.

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Mikayla Hilgart Fool’s Gold Never trust a man who applies more hair product than you do.

I know. He probably told you he always stared at you

a little longer. He probably told you that you’ve been

unnoticed, unappreciated

for far too long. But it’s just fool’s gold.

He doesn’t know what he wants, and he never will. Let him sit and fester in his Versace cologne and pretty, false words. Tell him to wash his hair and never look back.

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Sarah Burts Kust Red Delicious I met the devil today, he was standing in the produce section of the grocery store. He was beautiful. Standing there by the fruit, his hair freshly coifed, suit crisply pressed. I asked him what he was doing and he simply shrugged, raising his hand as he offered me an apple. His hand was pale and firm, yet his face kind and gentle, stony eyes gazing over my body, it made me feel naked before him. I, of course, refused his offer, and we went our separate ways, neither one of us the wiser, though perhaps neither the better.

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Aly Catacutan Guardian Angel Rice, heavy Filipino accent and your booming laugh. The only memories of you that remain in me. I was young, I didn’t realize. I’d greet you with a hug and a kiss but that was the extent of it. I left you with my dad, aunts, and uncles With your booming laugh that honestly always frightened me. At least they could understand Your heavy Filipino accent that confused me I know you loved me. I can see it in the way Your eyes lit up. The smile on your face. Your fragile, tender kisses Lightly brushing my cheeks. But how can you love what you don’t know? You’re gone now and I have nothing left to remember you by except for your Frightening laugh and our quick greetings. Are you watching over me in heaven? I’d like to think so. But why would you since you Have better options.

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MacKenzie Kougl Quit That Beat Quit that beat, Slow your roll, hold your horses, and put a cork in it. Seriously, quit that beat. Yeah, I’m lookin’ at you. You, over there. Windows rolled down, smug look, nodding your head, and it drives me nuts. Quit that beat, or the only beat you’ll hear is the steady beat of my war drum, when I lose my shit. I’ll bump that beat right back at you. Gotta beef? I’ll butcher your beat with a beat of my own. You’ll flip me the bird when you screech away, but I’ll just smile and wave.

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Becky Vosters To My Socks If one hundred feet lined up in one long curving row standing at attention heel to heel and toe to toe every last naked foot I could cover. Oh the colors those feet could discover. From sparkles to stripes to small polka dots to skittles and tie dye and green leopard spots. From white to black to orange to blue to knit to fuzzy and Christmas too. Some end at the ankle and some at the thigh, some are cut for certain shoes and some go knee high. Some are designed for the runner or other athlete and some are a bit thicker to warm up your feet. Some are like gloves made just for your feet, Some are designed to lessen the heat. Some are made without a pair. Socks, socks they’re everywhere!

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Mikaela Koch Autumn’s Breath Pressed up against the windowsill she gazed out Her green eyes glazed over the passing of time, A red leaf danced a slow number down the hillside, it was free falling through the air, floating, breezing, waltzing its way through the valley while the song wind blew. Finally reaching the bottom where the crick winds left, then right, then left again until it reached her small log cottage, just big enough, but cozy enough all the same. The smell of apple pie wafted its way through falls sweet song, There were pumpkins in the garden for children to carve, daylight brought the comforts of fall. Daylight brought ease, at least until nightfall. He bursts through the door six o’clock on the dot, expecting his feast. Her pale ivory skeleton cheek bears yesterdays dinner. Mashed potatoes too lumpy, and a steak too well done. Jack on the rocks, he’s been sober all day, two drinks down and the monster of fall breaks out. His hand raises to strike, one blow-two, and she falls and falls… and falls…

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Emily Margeson The Weather.

Wet droplets all around, patches of light break

through my blinds followed by

worrisome abrupt sounds. I am awakened by all this

chaos. I see that my frightened state is just worrisome nature.

Howling hits my double pane glass outlooks. I sink back in my armchair,

drink my glass of red. I just want to sit. and not think about leaving the cozy blanketed seat. The wolf like calls continue and I get used to this hum.

My world covered in white. Small little droplets hit my

hair, nose, lips, eyes, anything uncovered.

Leaving me damp after my walk, clothes soiled from the arctic world

outside. Warm beams beat down on me. I become dampened in sweat. Little beads all over my body, but I’m not uncomfortable. The heat brings optimism to the community, hopes for a plentiful harvest.

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Arlo Arntsen Justifications Just when I thought I was all right and free, Unbeknownst to me, you were there waiting. Sure, I was distracted…I hurt my knee. To miss you there in front of me running. Intense, nervous, afraid to make errors. Full of youthful vigilance… me in bed. I was struck so hard, filled full with terrors, Couldn’t believe after…struck in the head. A shot from behind I could not avoid. To fall from grace, fell to someone so young! I cried and fell into the deadly void, On the ground dying, face up to the sun. Not moving, eyes closed, like Sleeping Beauty. So that’s how I died in Call of Duty.

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Mariah Smitala Cold: A Smash Sonnet I feel the grip of winter tightening beyond the hold a bear has on a fish. My loofa feels cold when I get in the shower and the frost creates a blur like the edges of a projector. Wonder on the faces of a band of children, marching along the street holding wrenches. A passerby watches them with me. They are fearless in the face of winter. I have lost the song of the finch, and the sky turns black too early. No time for outdoor tom-foolery; can’t eat my waffles on the porch. The heat of the sun is becoming lost as summer’s reign is ending.

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Makenzy Kuckkahn Brightly Twinkling Above Our Heads In the city we can often forget what accompanies the darkness at days’ end. With lights and noises all around our minds are occupied and the distant lights are forgotten. They shine so brightly for us all to look up and see. All we need to do is pause and breathe to enjoy the scene. The hustle and bustle of everyday tasks drain us of our energy and when the day ends, it’s often times we fall straight into our beds. What if we took that extra second to look up and realize there’s beauty; whether it is day or night. We are surrounded by so many wonders, will we ever see what splendor the night provides?

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