Reflection of an Autumn Willow on the Shore

I think this is finally done. Gee, only took me a month. Please, tear it apart if you can (not literally, you sophist prose Nazis!):


She's aged, and waves in dying splendor,
Reaching fingers to the waters
And retreating them, an anxious gesture;
Moved by life unwitnessed
Save the brushing of my cheek.

A shame to see your wasted days
Of silent self-reflection
Paled by self-depravity,
While reaching hands of the righteous Sun -
Unconditional - hold you high.

What mirrors life's finality
But ashen waters, turbulent?
Moved by life unwitnessed,
Teemed with life
At depths we find unfathomed.

A gentle shade from pining limbs is
Lost. The casting clouds revolt,
And waters lose their colors -
Superficial as they are -
To reveal a battled monument.

What mirrors life's finality
But masking waters, ignorance?
A veil that drapes reflections
Of your aging limbs -
Your inconvenient fate.


-Tod Kreider

Untitled

Dancers: fleeting green 'midst breeze,
Worth but the spoils man perverts.
Lions dance on concrete paths;
How pure their roots, O Son of Man?

I measure death with every glimpse.
How fallen to perceive in't life
When left for refuse, iron parks,
Vacation summers, "Golden Years."

Come, 'nigh, O righteous Father! As the
Butterfly from hanging womb,
Appropriate the paths gold!

-Tod Kreider

Seeker

I wrote this just now, about my experience last Sunday afternoon, and since Lindsey has been bugging me to post, I thought I would.

Seeker

Wondering
Wandering
Far far away –
Except not far.
Because I can’t get there.
Just walking down a road
Past beauty I can’t touch because it’s trespassing
And no one else seems to see.
Feeling like I’m off to seek my fortune
And wishing it was true
And my car wasn’t parked a block away on a little dirt road off of Pettis.
My backpack holds everything I need to survive: a Bible, notebook, toothbrush and toothpaste, my cell phone.
Cell phone doesn’t belong on that list.
But I’d feel guilty if I didn’t have it.
I have to concede a little to safety.
And my car keys.
Keys to a car that I’ll have to walk back to, my anchor to the world I’m trying to leave.
The road is on before me all golden in the afternoon light and unfamiliar
So that it asks me to come on and seek adventure.
Does reading books do this to everyone?
Am I the only one that hasn’t grown out of this pretending?
“What do you want to do?” they are always asking me.
I want to go out into the wide world and seek my fortune.
What would they say if I said that, I wonder?
“So you are going to be a teacher.”
It’s a statement, not a question.
The answer is no.
I’m not going to be a teacher. Not how they mean.
I’m not going to be job hunting in the next year, interviewing for a teaching position.
I’m not going to wear a business casual suit.
I’m where I belong, right here, right now.
I turn down a road and find the entrance to a fancy subdivision, Beautiful and forbidding.
I walk past the “Private Drive Residents Only” sign,
Feeling like a vagabond walking into town.
If I kept walking people would peek out their windows,
Watching the wanderer in strange clothing entering their street unbidden,
Suspicious of this shiftless roving vagrant.
When they ask me, I will say,

“I am Joanna, Seeker of Dragons, and I am going to seek my fortune.”

Past Redemption

Lindsey Renée

I have declared myself divine.
And what’s the crime in that?
I tasted, I shared, I fell away
To the paradise of my making.

Twice enlightened doesn’t happen.
It’s impossible – or so I hear.

My Faith committed suicide.
Slit her wrists in a porcelain tub,
Died in water and blood.
I tasted, I shared, I turned away
To the purgatory of my choice.

Twice enlightened doesn’t happen.
It’s impossible – or so I hear.

Fidelity’s not one of my virtues.
Woke up entangled in silk sheets,
Caught in the arms of my prostitute.
I get bored too easy.
I taste, I share, I run away
To the inferno of my desires.

Twice enlightened doesn’t happen.
It’s impossible – or so I hear.


The above poem was an assignment for Creative Writing. The prof has asked us to write a psalm or hymn. I ended up writing a sort of anti-psalm inspired by the voice of “Ballad of a New God” and Mark Jarman’s poem “Question for Ecclesiastes.” I also drew on Hebrews 6:4-6 and Ezekiel 16. Please, understand that it is not to be taken as my own statement of faith. In a sense it is ironic. That stated, what are your thought?

Untitled

A poem I wrote while very caffeinated...heavily edited, of course ~

I experienced the pain of momentum
Upon the back of a Satyr.
He invites a vulgar walk through tepid woods;
Invites capricious nymphs to whisper starlight wisdom
Into the ears of the fruitless.

The trees muffle sounds of ecstasy;
Longing beside the rivers of Lesbos
And crying the chants of pagans and priests.
In vain, I stab my ears
To cast away the Morning’s whispers.

The path before me blocked
By witches of the erotic craft;
The musk of their art a sanguine fuel.
In vain, I burn my eyes
To cast away the Morning’s shadows.

Which sin, I ask you, is for worse:
To cast away my gifts for grace,
Or drink of the Morning’s quenching cup?
I’ve chosen the path my fathers shaped;
What good am I now to this Kingdom?

- Tod Kreider

The Exploits of Cricket

Nichelle Engles

My brand new 1990 Honda Civic with manual shifting was fondly dubbed Cricket after the first time I drove it. It got that name, not because of its continual ability to hop across intersections (especially when by brother drove it) but rather because it was like the Noisy Cricket out of Men in Black or Jiminy Cricket in Pinocchio.

When I got my car, there was only one slight problem with the situation. It was in New Mexico and I had to get it back to Michigan where I go to school. For the entire summer, I drove my car to and from work day after ceaseless day during rush hour traffic. Together we made it through the stop and go moments with more grace than would be expected from a new stick shift driver and a persnickety car. When my summer finally ended, I loaded her up to head to college.

My father and I successfully crammed two extra large suitcases, four large boxes, a styrofoam cooler, a stuffed yellow duffle bag, and a television in the back of Cricket. This mess was topped by my father’s small, yellow day bag with his clothes.

The first part of the trip involved driving the three hour detour down to Albuquerque to drop my mother’s 2005 Mini Cooper convertible with a supercharge off at the dealership (do you not see the difference in the quality of the cars?). The trip to Albuquerque was uneventful, but once we reached there, we wandered through back roads and construction sites for about a half hour until we got to the dealership. Through this all, Cricket ran like the little champ that she is.

Cricket and we successfully made it through our unplanned detour around the back roads of Albuquerque and headed on through the rest of New Mexico’s rolling hills, topless plateaus, and little gullies. We then hit the flat, uneventful, boring Texas Panhandle. There was nothing but grass, a few windswept trees, and some homesteads for about 300 miles. From there, we cruised through Oklahoma, which is about as beautiful as the Texas Panhandle. And through it all, Cricket was a happy little car despite the miles that we crammed on her. At the end of the day, we reached the Missouri state line and settled in a little town for the night.

The next day, Cricket decided she did not like the lush, green rolling hills of Missouri, so she threw a temper tantrum. Every so often as my father or I was cruising at about 75 to 85 mph with the rpms at about 3.5, Cricket would hiccup. This resulted from the rpms dropping from 3.5 to 0 and then jumping back up to 3.5. The side effect was a very unpleasant jolt and a backfire from the muffler. The jolt was similar to what the car makes when a poor stick shifter is driving and cannot shift between first and second gears. This jolting and backfiring continued all the way to Rolla, Missouri.

I never realized what a pretty little town Rolla, Missouri is and I do not ever want to see or hear of it again. My father and I spent half a day in the sweltering Missouri weather courtesy of Cricket’s hiccups (the backfiring stopped once the muffler was replaced). And the results of having two different mechanics look at her was that, well, nothing was really wrong with her at all from what they could see.

Therefore, in spite of Cricket’s unwillingness to proceed another mile (because as soon as we hit the highway the hiccups started again) we drove onward. About every two hours Cricket would be given a rest and we would take a bathroom or food break. After a while, the jerks were a customary part of driving and we made it to Indianapolis by 10:00 PM. With about five hours left of driving, my father and I decided to make a final push for Michigan to finish off our last 1,000 miles.

Cricket protested, jumped, squealed, and in general just complained the whole rest of the trip. But she made it in one piece, all the way to the mechanics. There, once again, they could not determine the cause of her ailment. I have just racked it up to the fact that I have an ornery car.

Even now, once in a while she just will not work. After practice one day, she refused to start. She started just fine in the morning, but when there was an audience of two teammates of mine, she would not start. After about five minutes of trying to start her, with my teammates laughing, and me being thoroughly embarrassed, she finally started and ran fine.

In the same way, on the way to church at 8:20 in the morning, she began to jerk and jump (not due to bad shifting, but her rpms). She made it to church, sat for an hour and a half, and then did not act up for the rest of the day. Ornery and definitely not a morning car. That is what my loyal, three toned, 1990 Honda Civic dubbed Cricket is classified as by all who know of her exploits. But she still runs, so long may she run, and may she never leave me stranded.

A Challenge

"All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know."
Ernest Hemingway

The members of this blog have increased, yet it seems that each of you is either lacking inspiration or time. For those of you lacking inspiration, I would like to challenge you to follow Hemingway's words and attempt to "“write the truest sentence that you know."

Hopefully, this will begin an engaging dialogue that will spur more.

A Poem for fun by Christian Somerville

“Art I Like… and Some I Don’t”

A Dali comforts me
And a Monet, in its own way
Pollock too, if I’m in the mood
Van Gogh I know like a child knows its mother
(Though I still need to read what he wrote to his brother)

On Leonardo da Vinci, there’s no need to convince me.
He’s simply superb, though one time I heard
That when reading Dan Brown, Leo’s corpse turns around
And spins in its grave from conspiracies made
Not being clever or funny, but just made to make money.

This makes me quite sad, and it’s really too bad
That that movie did well – must we all go to hell?
Who knows, but we might if such things were as trite
As they sometimes appear as we sit and drink beer
By the glow of a tube as our wits it deludes.

I don’t want to imply that TV should die
(Nor do I think that no one should drink).
All I meant to say – in my roundabout way –
Is that what should we expect but a diluting effect
From a culture-spreading medium of the culture-dreading tedium?

It deludes and dilutes, so why shouldn’t we be brutes?
Life’s simpler that way, when you don’t know Manet
From Picasso, and I’m not sure that I know
What I’m saying anymore, but I wouldn’t visit the Sistine Chapel
Just to stare at the floor.

A New Beginning

The CU English Society desires to connect writers on Cornerstone’s campus both through the weekly meeting and through this blog. The blog provides an opportunity for aspiring authors to share their work, ideas or inspiration with other authors. All interested participants may post short stories, book reviews or any other thought provoking entries they would like and will be able to receive comments from their fellow writers.

I am very excited about this blog and the many possibilities that it has to offer. Though there is one thing missing: a good title. The CU English Society Writing Group is both wordy and boring. Through the months of September and October we will be taking suggestions for an alternative title for both this blog (the site address will not change though, I promise) and for the actual Writing Group. If we have enough contributions than by mid-October we may hold an election for the best possible name.

The English Society also hopes to publish a literary magazine each semester. In previous years Cornerstone University had a literary magazine but it was discontinued, largely because of the small number of contributors. We are hopeful that Cornerstone University is now capable of maintaining a literary magazine. Beginning in September and continuing through November, the English Society will be accepting submissions from students, alumni, and staff.

Lindsey Renee

English Society President

Loving the Mess

Lindsey Renee

For a short while in middle school, I thought that rain couldn’t touch me, at least it couldn’t soak me. The idea came to me one day on the school bus. Though I had walked through pouring rain, and was surrounded by peers who resembled drowned dogs, I seemed to be relatively dry. I easily shook off the rain on my clothes and hair. Comparatively, I hadn’t been touched by the rain. Therefore, I concluded that this might be one of my super powers or a little divine blessing to make me stand out. Eventually, I realized that this was a perception problem. I was not as impenetrable as I had thought.

Ever since I can remember, I’ve been coming up with impossible little fancies about myself, like this, that I decide to believe. I humor them for as long as possible until something happens that I can’t ignore. Until I find myself absolutely drenched and have to revise my previous conclusion.

There are moments that I put effort into keeping up these pleasant delusions: moments when I really try to be the person that I have decided to be. Recently, I’ve been attempting to pretend that I am a minimalist, arguing that that I am not one to accumulate things. I’ve attempted to convince myself that my eventual apartment could be one of those beautiful sparse, modern lofts. You know, white walls, some colored vases, black stands and simplistic furniture. That would be the life: minimal, simplistic. I could do it.

Maybe if I were someone else.

I’ve never been able to help accumulating things. My room is overflowing with books, nick-knacks, papers, art supplies, projects, material and, of course, the other things generally found in a females room: shoes, clothing, and jewelry. I have a small but growing collection of eccentric purses. Soon there will also be four little garlic plants on my window sill along with Prospero, my beautiful ivy plant.

No matter how many times I go through my room and throw things out and reorganize, my room continues to overflow.

Over the last four days, I became convinced of this fact that I will never be able to have the sparse flat I've been fantasizing about. My parents and sister have been gone, therefore, I have had the run of the house. Until Sunday evening it seemed as if there had been an explosion of Lindsey. I had the paintings that I was commissioned to do on stone lying throughout the entrance way. My computer and the books I planned to read along with other miscellaneous papers were strewn about the living room along with a workout book and hand weights. The kitchen became the resting place for my paintbrushes and the painting I’ve been working on for myself. As I rushed to contain the mess to my room, before my parents and sister arrived home, I realized that I would never be able to conform to the simplistic vision in my mind.

I've thought about throwing it all away— besides the necessities, of course.— I can’t do it though. The simplicity I desire would require getting rid of my art supplies, material, thread, buttons, lose articles from my high school AP English and Creative Writing classes, all the little gifts I have received from little Beth and Jessica of Louisville... I would have to give up all my hobbies, which are my joy, my passion and a source of side income. I would have to let go of precious items that remind me of loved ones and wonderful places. I can’t do that. But, sometimes, I still want to because it would be simpler.

Another fancy that I've been harboring is the idea that I could live a hermit-ish life. On my own, with as few attachments as possible: a relationship minimalist. I imagine being almost entirely free of this feeling of responsibility toward the people that I love.

There have been moments when I've tried to make this fantasy a reality. My senior year in high school is a perfect example. I decided that I had enough friends and I would make no more! Somehow, I botched that plan and made almost an entirely new set of friends. Just as I cannot help accumulating stuff, I can't help but attract beautiful, unique and incredibly difficult people. There is Jessica of Louisville (who I’ve kept in touch with since 8^th grade, despite the seven hours separating us), Lisa the devote misanthrope at Purdue, Ray soon to be of Western Michigan University, Gothic Watters of CVS, Karla the proud, young mother, and the list goes on. I really don't know how this happens. I am not really a very nice person. I am self-absorbed and proud. I require a lot of space and I talk a lot. I play favorites and only pour effort into very select friends. And, someone I pour a lot of attention into one year I often won’t the next year. I am a homebody and sometimes it takes a lot of effort to get me out of my house. I am also stubborn and full of opinions. I am a regular pain in the butt.

I am pretty shocked that people put up with me in general. I feel blessed and grateful that God has gifted me with these beautiful, strange people who love me despite all my obvious faults. Their love and friendship have seen me through many struggles and I’ve been privileged to have been able to be with them through their own. Yet, sometimes I still want to simplify my life. I want to dissociate.

As I think of this fantasy of becoming a relationship minimalist, of dissociating from the people in my life so that I might feel free, the Old Man 's wisdom from “Into the Woods” runs through my mind:

Running away- let's do it,
Free from the ties that bind.
No more despair
Or burdens to bear
Out there in the yonder.

Running away- go to it.
Where did you have in mind?
Have to take care:
Unless there's a "where,"
You'll only be wandering blind.
Just more questions.
Different kind.

Where are we to go?
Where are we ever to go?

Running away- we'll do it.
Why sit around, resigned?
Trouble is, son,
The farther you run,
The more you feel undefined
For what you've left undone
And, more, what you've left behind.

We disappoint,
We leave a mess,
We die but we don't..

I've begun to realize that these fantasies have been born of pride and laziness. Pride because there is nothing fashionable about a room full of clutter—not even artsy-bookish clutter or caring deeply about others. Laziness because I get tired of having to clean my room all the time because with so much stuff simply living in it for two days makes a decent mess. Dusting is also absolutely horrible. Laziness because I don't want to have to put so much time into my friends. Calling requires effort, not much effort I’ll grant you, but effort especially when I can be content alone reading or painting or watching a film. Yet, just as I know I would feel miserable without my hobbies, I also would greatly feel the loss of my friends who keep me grounded. Who stop me from being entirely selfish. Who challenge me to be more and to compromise. Who force me to have fun somewhere other than my house. Who fill my heart with joy and mouth and head with new stories to share. Whose idiosyncrasies are so unique and beautiful that I cannot help but adore them.

Hopefully, this weekend has crushed these fancies entirely. Maybe, now, instead of pouring my energy into my minimalist fantasies, I will learn to simply love the mess that is my life and put the effort into maintaining it.

Quotes for July

“Myths and archetypes are alive and well and living in my apartment.”
Carl Jung

"I am always at a loss to know how much to believe of my own stories."
Diedrich Knickerbocker (Washington Irving)

“Most writers regard truth as their most valuable possession, and therefore are most economical in its use.”
Mark Twain

Writers aren't exactly people.... they're a whole bunch of people trying to be one person.
F. Scott Fitzgerald

Appeasing my Conscience

Reading André Bernard’s book reviews in “The Kenyon Review” bring back the shame of my last review for The Herald. Rushed and in no particular mood to write, I forced a review of The Poisonwood Bible. Having read the novel nearly two years ago my memory was hazy. My words were hardly compelling and barely focused as I was more concerned with my deadline then with my words. I even confused my description of the characters. To appease my own conscience I would like to take this time to re-write my review of Barbara Kingsolver’s The Poisonwood Bible.

Of the Dark Continent

Lindsey Renée

The first time I picked up Barbara Kingsolver’s The Poisonwood Bible was at the end of my junior year in high school. I read it for my Advanced American Literature class. For our final assignment, my teacher brought in a throng of contemporary literature from varying genres and required that we choose one book to read and present a brief, informal presentation on to the class. Her hope being that this assignment might remind us that literature is enjoyable, after the many “boring” books that we had been condemned to trudge through. I quickly devoured the first book that I chose and, while the rest of my class struggled to finish the assignment before the last day of school, I asked for another. She lent me The Poisonwood Bible. I both loved and hated it.

While there are some novels that slowly draw your attention, waiting till possibly the middle of the book before you are unable to set them down, Kingsolver captured my attention from the first page. She tells her tale through the mouths of the wife and four daughter of Nathan Price, a Baptist missionary in the Congo. From the beginning chapter, the narrative had a haunting quality. The narrators serve as a catalyst to draw the audience into the novel, and yet while they intensify the reaction they are also consumed in the process: drawn in and captured. The Poisonwood Bible is empowered by their voices, their burdens, their deepest thoughts and emotions.

In many ways, Kingsolver’s narrative is reminiscent of Alan Paton’s Too Late the Phalarope, which also relies on a deeply emotional, personal narrative to relay a multi-layered and complex tale. Similar to Too Late the Phalarope, Kingsolver’s novel is not without a political agenda. Her passion for the Congo’s history clearly comes through the pages, as does her research. Her novel portrays the deep white scar that marks the Dark Continent, which is continually aggravated.

Though the beauty and depth of Kingsolver’s tale touched my heart, I was also often outraged at her presentation of Christianity. Though, I will admit that it most likely reflects her experience with Christians. I could not help but be angered and frustrated by Nathan Price who serves as the antagonist in The Poisonwood Bible. His character is hypocritical, blindly legalistic and cold hearted. He is the embodiment of the “white man” who had oppressed, enslaved and raped Africa. Even the other mild presentations of Christianity within The Poisonwood Bible do not reflect the essence of the Christian faith. Kingsolver’s understanding of Christianity is appalling, while at the same time entirely expected since it reflects the common face of Christianity in the world.

Two years have passed since I first read The Poisonwood Bible. Kingsolver’s novel is now a piece of my growing library. Readers of this novel must read her words critically,giving her grace when reading passages that seem to discount their faith and with the ability to be understanding, having an open mind to learn but not be hoodwinked by her words. Each reader will be mesmerized by the beauty of her prose, amused by the variety and quirks of her narrators, and moved by her heart for Africa.

Writer Quotes

“Literature adds to reality, it does not simply describe it. It enriches the necessary competencies that daily life requires and provides; and in this respect, it irrigates the deserts that our lives have already become.”

--C.S. Lewis

“The novelist is like the conductor of an orchestra, his back to the audience, his face invisible, summoning the experience of music for the people he cannot see. The writer as conductor also gets to compose the music and play all of the instruments, a task less formidable that it seems. What it requires is the conscious practice of providing an extraordinary experience for the reader, who should be oblivious to the fact that he is seeing words on paper.”
Sol Stein, On Writing, p. 8

“Write while the heat is in you. The writer who postpones the recording of his thoughts uses an iron which has cooled to burn a hole with. He cannot inflame the minds of his audience.”
–Henry David Thoreau

"All water has a perfect memory and is forever trying to get back to where it was. Writers are like that: remembering where we were, what valley we ran through, what the banks were like, the light that was there, and the route back to our original place."

--Toni Morrison

"A writer begins by breathing life into his characters. But if you are very lucky, they breathe life into you."

--Caryl Phillips

This afternoon I discovered a blog titled simple WriterQuotes. Since inspiration is key to writing I thought that I would share the best quotes that I found on this blog. Hopefully these will encourage you.

Addendum:

In the introduction, I neglected to mention that during the 2006-2007 school year the English Society will be publishing a quarterly literary magazine, which would be printed and distributed before the end of each term. In previous years Cornerstone University had a literary magazine but it was discontinued, largely because of the small number of contributors. We are hopeful that Cornerstone University is now capable of maintaining a literary magazine. Beginning in mid-summer and during the school year the English Society will be accepting submissions from students, alumni, and staff.

Our hope is that this blog will be a means of gathering submisssions or at least connecting with possible contributors so that the literary magazine will be a success. Interested participants may also become a part of the committee which will select the stories to be published in the magazine. Keep checking through out the summer for more information.

Lindsey Renee

English Society President

An Introduction

Though the Cornerstone University English Society was not very active during the last school year, we hope to change that during the coming 2006-2007 school year. Currently, the society plans to host holiday readings on CU's campus and to offer a weekly writing group.

During these summer months the society would like to connect individuals who would be interested in the English Society writing group through this blog. The blog provides an opportunity for aspiring authors to share their work, ideas or inspiration with other authors. All interested participants may post short stories, book reviews or any other thought provoking entries they would like and will be able to recieve comments from their fellow writers.

I am very excited about this blog and the many possibilities that it has to offer. Though there is one thing missing: a good title. The CU English Society Writing Group is both wordy and boring. Through the months of May and June we will be taking suggestions for an alternative title for both this blog (the site address will not change though, I promise) and for the actual Writing Group, which will being meeting in late August/early September. If we have enough contributions than by mid-June we may hold an election for the best possible name.

Also, if you are concerned as to what the intention of this blog is my suggestion is that you visit http://www.burnsidewriterscollective.com/. Though this website is much more elaborate it can give you an idea of what the eventual goal of this site is.

As this blog gains readers and contributors we will begin to post online opportunities for writing contests and other writing opportunities that we stumble across.

Lindsey Renee
English Society President