The Trillium

Spring 2010

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 administra-tion 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: Peter Eckert Co-editors: Bryan Arneson Cynthia Benz Samuel Cocar Stephanie Margelos Typist: Jasmine Kojis Cover: Paths to an End by Christin Bayba Title Page Artwork: Trillium by James Allen Class of 2004 Faculty Advisors: Cliff Williams, Production Kristin Gumminger, Editorial

Copyright © 2010 This material may not be reproduced by any means, in part or in whole, without written

permission from the authors. April, 2010

CONTENTS

CATHY HARVEY Haiku: Heart and Soul CHRISTIN BAYBA Reaching for Heaven BRYNNE EATON Ode to the Lincoln Memorial SAMUEL COCAR Spender: President Poem SAMUEL COCAR Wrestling with Mnemosyne KELLY NEWLIN The Balance JENNIFER BAUTISTA Rocking Chair JOY HILLYER Calamity Strikes the Calm JOY HILLYER A Fleeting Statement BRYNNE EATON Falling KELLEY GOEWEY Starlight JOY HILLYER Isolation Beckoning JACOB CLARK Broken Promises of Better Times MATT BUDZYNSKI The Door LYLE ENRIGHT The Ghost in the Machine HANNAH MERRIFIELD Pieces of Hope

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________________________________________________________________ 4 • THE TRILLIUM

CATHY HARVEY

HAIKU: HEART AND SOUL

Comfort My Heart

When my heart is hushed And time stands still in my soul

I can hear God’s voice.

Early Morning Hours

While all others sleep He quietly fills my heart

Like a gentle dove.

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CHRISTIN BAYBA

REACHING FOR HEAVEN

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BRYNNE EATON

ODE TO THE LINCOLN MEMORIAL “In this temple, As in the hearts of the people For whom he saved the Union, The memory of Abraham Lincoln Is enshrined forever.” Seated at the top of a hill, A blanket of white stone surrounds him. Wise but weary eyes Face the world below. A pressing shame He did not know How the world in front of him Would grow. In the reflection of his eyes, The battle not yet won. The blood-stained fields Drenched with sacrifice, And the world remained blind. Had he seen the end Of the fight for peace? The end had only begun, Discrimination to increase. A nation torn, but strengthened with hope. Lincoln’s leadership never to cease.

________________________________________________________________ FALL 2010 • 7

SAMUEL COCAR

SPENDER: PRESIDENT POEM Smoke-filled rooms have not cut back their occupancy since our new boss galloped in. Moth and rust destroy. But perhaps to pin it all on one would miss the point (sharp as it is), although some would love to see his shoulders bear up under the weight of human

discontent— that marble-crusted mantle, that rippling seismic spine of

tectonic tilt: a heaving heap: of bills and bad will. His flag-wrapped figure hides someone: a suspect silhouette, riding the right angles of his collar, jacket, jeans; stealing every pixel of the picture-perfect scenes. Commanding at the helm of bombers, tanks and

submarines. But standing on the sidelines, We can only consider. And consider. Think, watch, weigh, reassess. One step forward, one regress. Reconsider, redetermine: read the Times, then read a

sermon. Quantify, calculate: process, predict, tabulate. From his palace, always flaunting. In the balance, ever wanting. We won’t burn his court in effigy; we’re just rooting for the referees.

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SAMUEL COCAR WRESTLING WITH MNEMOSYNE I wander in the wilds of my memory: self-styled wilderness of mild delights soft in beauty, spare in frights. And I dance with nymphs and naiads, hold converse with stately dryads. I turn inward. Abruptly I withdraw from the merriment I saw. In that silken spiral weave, my whole self I reconceive: reknit my bones like brass, my flesh more comely, and leave on the dewy grass the footprints of some truer man. I try to stand—

unbuckled ‘neath the ponderous woe unfolding up, unbowed I go.

I draw my sword against the Sun: Will I cleave its rays in two? By no mortal thing undone! I strive against the stars, the moon. Some fresh part of me, now made bids my saber hum the heartsong. Though new burdens are on me laid, and I am yet unproved, with labors long.

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KELLY NEWLIN

THE BALANCE

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JENNIFER BAUTISTA

ROCKING CHAIR

________________________________________________________________ FALL 2010 • 11

JOY HILLYER

CALAMITY STRIKES THE CALM

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JOY HILLYER A FLEETING STATEMENT

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BRYNNE EATON

FALLING The sounds of summer send her into a sweet diversion; Bike rides on country roads with not a care in the world, Hair dancing in the wind—p e r s p i r e. Thunderstorms keep her trapped inside; the bullets of rain

beat against the window. She heads off into the changing world; the leaves crunch

beneath her feet. Jack-o’-lanterns flicker in the night of the dead. Cold pale skin supersedes her once vibrant tan. Purple skies open and pour white powder, withering away

the lonely flower. Another tear is shed by a child who won’t receive any

presents. A pile of bright confetti left on the floor; drunken people

passed out on the couch. Nature’s paint bursts from the ground—brush strokes of

r e b i r t h. Children explode with laughter as they decorate the

sidewalk with pastel chalk. Birds flying back home, rebuilding their nests in the

budding trees. Lemonade stands beneath a weeping willow tree. A bittersweet sentiment washes over her as she packs up

the last cardboard box, staring into the empty house. In her eyes a sparkle shines with each season of h o p e.

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KELLEY GOEWEY

STARLIGHT The lights in lonely form go by, A silver pattern in the night, A silver pattern in the sky. The lights do turn and I can try To catch and keep this burning light. The lights in lonely form go by. The beauty moves my heart to cry To the One who breathed the sight: A silver pattern in the sky. They are far, He is nearby! Unto Him I take my flight; The lights in lonely form go by. At His feet, then, I will lie, And all around me at that height— A silver pattern in the sky, The lights in lovely form go by.

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JOY HILLYER

ISOLATION BECKONING

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JACOB CLARK

BROKEN PROMISES OF BETTER TIMES ‘Cause I am a rust-belt son of a bitch. Only knowing the toil and pain of hard work. Feeling like I was born to run. Driving alone down Thunder Road. Like listening to the radio, the forgotten thrill of anticipation, desperation, longing, hoping, and waiting for the boys of summer to return. Needing badges of honor and marks of pain. Black tattooed lines sinking into my skin. Going downtown. Remembering railroad tracks, guided by flowing, full electric lines, moving north and south. Unable to reach Chicago or Milwaukee. Instead, drinking at the Green Town Tavern. An awkward cacophony of symbolic dirges sung by silent smokestacks. I am a quarter past dead. A man with too soft hands, unskilled to rage against this dying world. Forgetting God-forsaken goals that I will not need. This, this is my night at Gethsemane.

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MATT BUDZYNSKI

THE DOOR

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LYLE ENRIGHT

THE GHOST IN THE MACHINE Retreat, review, remember, Recollect, reminisce, re-timbre The orchestra. I come away, I disembody, I hover behind my eyes And re-tune. The noise is frightful; How long it has been! I leave my body to keep it whole, Leave my life to soothe my soul And to rediscover you, my beautiful: New instruments I’d never know— Passionate, and tribal, Raw against the bow. Percussive swells and tidal Mysteries of wonder— My precious, what have you done? Old melodies driven under, But a masterpiece, this one: Tune low, deep cello, Like lightning in a slow, dorsal arc That drives me upright, Makes the viola in my shoulders tremble, Delightfully stricken in the back and I am thrown outward, and open. At my arms, the chords split. The cords split, they come alive, Instructing violins at my finger tips With shrill draws of thread, I perform My ability To create.

________________________________________________________________ FALL 2010 • 19

We are a symphony Written by a sonnet. We are notes Within an opus Sung by a Word. Created to create, Written into the piece That we might write the rest. This is your instrument, dear one, These harp strings are my heart strings— Please softly, gently, play your heart’s desire Out through the ghost in this machine.

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HANNAH MERRIFIELD

PIECES OF HOPE