Table Of Content^:
/-V
This issue of SKYLARK
is dedicated
to the memory
of
Robert E. Nichols, Jr.
Copyright © 1996 by SKYLARK
All rights in this book are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without the written permission of the author or artist except in the case of
brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
SKYLARK is published annually in the fall. To subscribe or to submit manuscripts, write to the address below.
Purdue University Calumet
2200 169th Street
Hammond, Indiana 46323-2094
Phone: (219) 989-2262 Fax: (219) 989-2581
Printed by Largus Printing, Munster, Indiana
Cover: Dale Fleming
STAFF
SKYLARK
Anniversaries Editor Gordon Stamper
Poetry Editor Christine Shrader
Prose Staff Virginia Deweese
Reinhard Fritz
Kristin Jensen
Young Writers Editor Shirley Jo Moritz
Editor in Chief Pamela Hunter
Collecting The Years Faculty Advisor Charles B. Tinkham
Secretary Laura Ruben
From past engagements
and canceled meetings
we carry our baggage
some more than others
handled by all
in very different fashions
loosely dropping the good
as we pick up the bad
READERS
with fists clinched tight
we walk into the weeks ahead
Ted Calvin, Virginia Deweese, Reinhard Fritz,
with the usual turmoil
Pamela Hunter, Sam Huston, Linda Jansak,
nipping at our heels
Kristin Jensen, Chris Mauch, Shirley Jo Moritz,
—Sara L. Holt Kathleen Natiello, Laura Ruben, Christine Shrader,
Nipomo, California Gordon Stamper, Henry White and Patricia Wilson.
1
BENEFACTORS
James Yackel
PATRONS
Peggy Bachman Saul Lerner
Dennis Barbour Arlene Russell
Jane Campbell Margaret A. Stack
Michael Greenwich Charles B. Tinkham
Phyllis Greinwald Irene Tuckey
Bernard Holicky Alex Vasquez
(in memoriam)
Jean Carlson
Mildred Hunter
DONORS
Leo Bryant Janet Jackson Nancy Stamper
Marilyn Cleland Ulrike Jannausch Pamela Sutko
David Detmer Mark Mabrito Lance Trusty
Lois Gamble Zenobia Mistri Terry Walker
Cyndy Gribas Pat & Virginia Robert & Sharon Wilt
Henry Hosek, Jr. Weihua Ruan William R. Wright
CONTRIBUTORS
Jimmy Downes Carol Schmidt
Elizabeth Edwards Adele Wiening
Tom Ryan Lynn Wigmore
Eugene Schlossberger
2
Anniversary
It’s that day
of remembrance
of fresh flowers drawn
from the garden
placed on a silver platter
given to me while still in bed
It’s that day
of special memories
of a tight white dress
and what was underneath
of spanking black tuxes
not quite fitting right
It’s my anniversary
who cares which one
my special hours with my love
come tonight
amidst vanilla fragrance
and a hot bath
My anniversary for my special day
is a special time unto itself
—Kathleen L. Neebe
Aliso Viejo, California
TABLE OF CONTENTS
B
i
r
d
s
b
James Yackel, Chancellor’s Message 4 y
J
a
y
By Invitation 6 e
W
a
l
Poetry and Prose 28 la
c
e
Zapotec Woman 61-66
Anniversaries 84
Young Writers 100
Index 120
For Robert E. Nichols, Jr. (Inside back cover)
3
SKYLARK IS 25 YEARS OLD!
F
1 or most magazines of its kind, that is more than a lifetime. Yet, Skylark appears to be as fresh and as energetic as are
the current contributors to this Silver Anniversary edition. For Skylark has always suffered under the happy onus of youthful,
new, and yet-to-be-fully-fledged ideas about writing, about people, and about life.
A
l \ major strength of Skylark over its twenty-five-year history has been its diversity. It has presented a diversity of ideas,
styles, artwork, authors, and artists. It has truly reflected the diversity of the northwest Indiana community from which it took
its beginning. It has also reflected the wit, wisdom, and sense of quality and quality control of its seasoned and veteran advi¬
sor, Professor Charles Tinkham.
I-^i et us salute this silver anniversary edition of Skylark, and its longtime advisor. It and he represent the best of and by our
students, our community, and our Purdue Calumet.
JAMES YACKEL
Chancellor
4
Skylark’s 25th Anniversary
w
e are heirs of the millennia
from humanity’s cultured past.
Wherever there has been a pursuit
of the fragrance of roses
or the perfection of equations,
there is Heritage,
whether ancient or lineage
or recent of discovery.
A
s recipients of history’s largesse,
we must salute our progenitors,
we practitioners under the banner
of roses and stars.
We bear the torch of enlightenment,
as well as stares and scorn
of immured ignorance.
T
1 oday’s people of good will
so cherish these values
that they will sacrifice
hearth and fire,
capital and savings,
comfort and well-being—
that the general good be served.
They are today’s noblemen,
today’s aristocrats of the soul,
whatever their daily walk may be,
for there is no other aristocracy.
Skylark welcomes their legacy
as monuments to art.
—Henry White
Crown Point, Indiana
O
f
c
BRO
(for Jimmy)
I
by Tom Ewart
met him one night in a neighborhood But I’ve got no amp.” Nina dropped by my place. She was splitting
dive, one of those no-frills dumps on “No problem, Bro. Plug into the PA sys¬ for her home in the oil fields of west Texas.
the wrong side of town. He was in the tem. It’ll put you into the house, and we can In tow, she carried a big belly and a redneck
middle of a set when I came in, so I mix you through the monitor for us.” He she’d met at the bar, some guy in a flannel
parked myself at a table front and cen¬ pointed to the speakers on their poles and to shirt and alligator boots. Opening my door,
ter. Over a shot of Jack and a bottle of Bud, a small cabinet on the floor near his chair. she thrust the big Martin D-28 acoustic into
I settled in and watched him work. I went and got my guitar, a cheap imitation my hands. “Here, this baby’s yours now, I
He sat on a bare wooden chair, hunched Strat. Drawing up a chair on the small corner guess; no one else knows him like you do.”
over his guitar. His left hand grabbed a fist¬ stage, I plugged in. Together we fiddled with My newly adopted child needed a handle,
ful of chords, while his right hand scythed knobs, setting tones and levels, and then we something like B.B.’s Lucille. Well, what
with a firm yet delicate flail against the chaff set sail from there. else could I call him? I named him Bro.
of the strings. One skinny leg anchored his e, I like to dance around the After he got out, my man bummed around
axe to his chest, while the foot of the other frets, scratch and sniff, wail Boca Raton, hanging with a social worker
pistoned with a thump against the hardwood and riff. It’s what I do instead he’d met in a sex-offenders’ program. They
floor. He turned his head to one side, like a of singing; if you heard me, got married, and then he stopped writing or
chameleon hiding out as he sized up his you’d know why. That night calling, and for all I know he disappeared
inner demons. When he sang, he closed his we clicked from the start. I’d accompany back into the swamp. But I’ve still got Bro.
eyes, squeezing them tightly shut, and him while he sang, adding little fills at his A barrel-chested son of a gun, he’s a shot
wailed into a mike off his right shoulder. pauses in the lyrics. Then I’d spin out a lead, and a beer with dark mahogany sides and a
His voice was a blue moon in a starless something off the top of my head. When I fine barley top. He’s got a clear presence and
sky; it was rye whiskey in a cold night alley. slid out, he’d hop back in with one of his an even balance, something between the
Scratchy and hoarse from too many Camels, hummed lines, all the time staying rock solid snarl of a cornered dog and the aching
it was deep, so that it climbed out running as on his big acoustic. I’d pick up his idea in sweetness of a dove.
it landed, and ripped into the guts at the heart harmony, and we’d travel the steps of the ven now, I often take him down
of the song. It was perfect for the tunes he chord progression together, like Dickie and from the shelf, sit on the couch,
did, stuff by the Eagles; America; Neil Duane on a midnight ride. Near the end of and cradle him in my arms. We
Young; and Crosby, Stills, and Nash. the set, I noticed we were breathing togeth¬ moon together over our fate. I
He was working his way through Helpless er, one voice through two speakers. remember one tune we did
as I grooved in my seat. The chords he We went on like that for two years, every every night: Cocker’s With A Little Help
played were strong and simple, and he had a Sunday afternoon, kicked back at his place From My Friends. He’d shut his eyes, twist
catchy, off-center approach to the music. or sometimes mine. His wife, Nina, made his face off to one side, and begin to sing, a
Once through a chunk of lyrics, he would tortillas, while we drank and smoked and did hoarse frog’s croak gaining strength:
hum a lead where a mouth harp might play our thing. Every so often we went public at
one over his rhythm. He was very good at the bar, but mostly we did it for ourselves. What would you do if I sang
out of tune; would you stand
what he did. I’d never felt so in tune with someone else in
up and walk out on me?
On his break, I approached him at the bar. my life.
“Your stuff sounds great, man, really tight.” Then he went South, to break new ground
No, Bro, I wouldn’t do that to you. It’s hard
He took my hand firmly, as if it were the at a friend’s camp in a Florida swamp land,
enough as it is to find someone to breathe
home chord in his strange progression, and and he ran afoul of the law big time, some¬
easy with. Just c’mon home, man; I miss
pumped it. “Thanks, Bro. You play, man?” thing to do with sex and drugs but no rock
your hum in my inner ear.
“Yeah, some lead, fills on the tails, comp ‘n’ roll. He wound up serving eight of fifteen
for others, you know.” years in Rahway, claiming all along he was
“Great! I’m getting lonesome up there; you framed. We wrote each other a lot, about a
got an axe here, Bro?” little of this and mostly that. Tom Ewart lives
“Yeah; as a matter of fact, it’s out in the car. One night about a year into his sentence, in Worcester, Massachusetts.
Created for the 25th anniversary issue of SKYLARK, this section is a collection of recent work by past contributors.
The editor and staff wish to thank these fellow artists and friends for their faith and encouragement in the
publication of our literary magazine.
7
Cg)
Leprechauns
»
I wonder if it’s really true
That way deep in the night,
Leprechauns are busy
Painting flowers bright....
And are they in the country
Fluffing up the wheat,
And plumping up the apples
To make them extra sweet....
My backyard is growing bars of gold, It must be quite a number
elbowing the broccoli and the rhubarb, Of the little folk and like.
Spending time at riverbeds
outshining banana peppers and summer squash. Shining fins on pike ....
I wanted some for snacking, What energetic workers,
They purple-tint the grapes.
but the bars were much too hard to chew. Dress the tiny shamrocks
The last time I watered them, In their emerald-colored capes
They must sleep in the daytime
they gleamed back at me, As they’re always out of sight,
the sprinkler spray whistling, Resting in their niches
• Until they work again at night.
branding them possessively,
certain of their future worth. —Virginia Borman Grimmer
Schererville, Indiana
* * *
Oh, Gold, let me stand here
and savor your potential,
you heavy treasure, you jeweler’s joy.
Shakespeare, You’re All Wet!
Soon you will be packed in styrofoam
and shipped for shaping. Why can’t I seem to write a simple lovesong
Mag Mile matrons To the quintessential lover of my life—
The “prince” I saved from frogdom with my kisses,
will simper over your ripeness, Who then promised to adore me as his wife?
caring little for your roots.
Love is not what Shakespeare promised in his sonnets,
I’m the one who’ll grab you So, I try to grab the “gusto” when it knocks;
when your time comes. But, when I beseech, “Oh, wherefore art thou, Romeo?”
Romeo tosses me his dirty socks!
I’ll separate you
from all your field mates, Gold. Minus balconies, our “castle” boasts a ladder,
There I perch with outstretched arms and blushing cheeks;
So think about your lot in life— Whereupon my “prince” just tosses up a squeegie,
all the soft throats, And cautions, “Don’t forget, dear, Windex streaks!”
pulsing wrists, and fleshy ear lobes What were you thinking, Shakespeare, with such folly,
you’d be privy to — As to promise love would come from one sweet kiss?
You knew that “prince” would start to croak at midnight,
if only you’d grow up! And belching would be his idea of bliss!
—Sandra Goldsmith —Beverley Top a
Chicago, Illinois Crown Point, Indiana
8
