loll LYDIA BROUGHT IN A DOZEN EGGS the corning community college literary magazine staff, 1970-71: maureen adams keith ammerman joseph caparulo michael gilmartin andrew lofquist james lytras henry moonschein sharon morris david paul marian rezelman TABLE OF CONTENTS R. Charles Ringsmuth Cover design entitled “Did You Eat My Shoo-Fly Pie?” 3 Joe Caparulo “Salvation” 3 Joe Caparulo “What Would You Have” 4 Paolo Valli Drawing 4 James Lytras “And I Will Try Again” 5 Joe Caparulo “Sir In a Square Somewhere” 6 James Lytras “Oh Shepherd, My Shepherd” 6 Edward Gustina “The Lonely Man Lives” 7 Paolo Valli Pen and Ink Drawing 8 Joe Caparulo “To the Truth and a Dear Woman 9 Paolo Valli Pen and Ink Drawing 10, 11 Paolo Valli Art Work 11 Joe Caparulo “The Bird” 12 James Lytras “Seasons Select” 12 James Lytras “Think Back” 13 Joe Caparulo “Country Yard” 13 Edward Gustina “The City” 14 Paolo Valli Pen and Ink Drawing 15 Joe Caparulo “Spring” 16 Edward Gustina “River Bed” 16 Paolo Valli Pen and Ink Drawing 17 H. Marts J. Marts T. Jeriorski “Columbus Day Senryu” 18 Chris Dennis “The Dragonfly” IS Janice Mecum “Sunrise” 19 Chris Dennis “Fat OF Freddie” 20 Chris Dennis “Balladge of Fudged Duddy” 2 SALVATION Strike up the band! Salvation is on the way Turn tada, O happy day! Gaze down upon this scene and laugh. Those blessed masks! For as all were awaiting the glorious entrance, again He passed by. Go about your seperate work; Do not drift too far too soon But mark, Keep those instruments well in tune. — joe caparulo WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE What would you have if you chucked out all the stylized silver-romantic passes in conversation, the night out acting; rosies, posies and ribbon bowed packages, forced expressions of emily postness, buttering up with the old folk; having a ball of a time all of the time and jabbering and squealing about nothing on the plastic phone of calls? Just pile it all into some remote barrel labeled: of what need Now kiss her lips and reach the sky with the one you love, forever. Yes, you love and love and love and love and love cannot be proven only doubted. — joe caparulo 3 AND I WILL TRY AGAIN — James Lytras come and sit my dark haired one and I will try again. Shall I use words? But then, my words fail to reach my target and merely vibrate in some distant organ. The long charade to communicate, translate, relate. Until my mords are centuries old and the dust blankets them in sleep. Shall I use my Body? From our awkward shells we feel the thoughts but there are still many miles to go. (Can we reach the yolk without breaking the shell?) My prize is much too precious to be captured so easily. My green eyed lady sends her love in words and her gestures reveal her thoughts. I have shielded my inability with laughter and my love with acts. But I will remain always if only to try again. SIR IN A SQUARE SOMEWHERE Sir, faithfully steering his company Towards the hole in stripes and weary stars, Cuts by being on delivery For the journey bearing scars. Chorus: Oh covenant: A moment’s waiting is much too long For a bird with hampered wings. The royal majesty’s throng of disciples: Blindly acting When that time has come; Their next turn — A most unholy corner. Eventual happenings will quake with rave Those who have failed to save; Hearts now ponder a new resolve So the wheels continue to revolve. Chorus: Oh! Thy mind is full of stuff Whose quiescence I have dubbed blind, As naked from blessed countenance; Crippled to thy body’s own crutch And gouged most rightously in heart’s vein. Seething are thyself and cast on’t Is once faired homeland. Yea, this soul Of mine doth yearn to enrich thee with Everlasting, oblivious void in which You’ll be at company from good’s own reward. I retreat from you Sir, containing No intention of thought for sal loss; But striving ahigh I, we — embonded, Lightened by this stand to conquer Forego like swift spring of spring To drown thyself and alike: Thy babbles hath met thy brook! Having torch in mouth straight His course abides not hate Or any dreading curse, Yet be awake for all too worse. Sir, perched on a towering pedistal, Centered in a square somewhere Gave out a triumphant chuckle As the wheels in speech turned to swear . . . — joe caparulo 5 OH SHEPHERD, MY SHEPHERD — James Lytras Oh shepherd my shepherd, where have you gone? Did you lose me as I have in the towers of trash whose neon of blue-green-red-orange-yellow quivers its messages in spasms of one..two...three..one...two...three. Did I wander too far into the darkness where the broken bottles mix freely with dog urine. Too far behind the trash can world of half chewed bones and the relics of a foul-breathed, long forgotten antique of man. Oh shepherd, do I insult you with my tales? Can you see what I see and feel what I feel? It was my brother who sentenced me and my friend who forgot my face. Have you forsaken me? The nails of sin pierce my flesh harnessing me to my fate. I remember when I could quench my thirst with water but now I reach for wine only to find that it has rotted to vinegar and spit it out in disgust at myself and my life. THE LONELY MAN LIVES — Edward Gustina I spent an hour in my coffin today. Shut off from the other worlds. And in my mind I wept. Self-pity is a good thing. And in the grave, It nourishes the worms That clean my bones. An hour long meal. Such a treat. For an hour, my mind Dined on sweet meat. And I slept. For a lonely man There’s only one friend to turn. Shake hands, Suicide, For together we burn. And there’s no one to tell That a lonely man lives In his own lonely hell. 6 7 TO THE TRUTH AND A DEAR WOMAN elizabeth moy lived on a crusted road made by those who owed a quantity of joy to elizabeth moy so freely they sought and will evermore to knock at her door for which they near fought too cheap to be bought elizabeth moy couldn’t bear the load made by those who owed a quantity of joy to elizabeth moy she now lies to bed at peace, holy engraved haunting those who paved; who never thought or said they too would be dead — joe caparulo 8 9 By The His whiteness-Pierced The darkness. By tall The His Glowi Black Nowh I am The Too I see On old basket. Leaves, Branches, Trunk® > SEASONS SELECT — James Lytras Winter waiting fast asleep white and grey all crystals from the Gods cover the graves of tomorrow Fall turn around and where did it go the spark fades go to sleep I’ll wake you when the time comes Summer love me love you time will tell try to catch the yellow ball of the sky THINK BACK — James Lytras Symbols I have collected and not noticed. Since the day engraved on the first half of the tombstone. Now they gather around me as new faces hung out to dry. The pen became another finger. Idle. Leaping at electric commands! Feeling! Feeling pain and pleasure . . . it has known both. My events are bridges connecting the time between yesterday & tomorrow. Some have been wasted and others lost. Others better forgotten. Like old friends the earth has taken. The bottles lie empty near the lamp. A showcase of frustration. A dismal array of apologies. A file of “unfortunate circumstances”. Be merciful selfish past. Reach out your hand and take us back. Let me see if there were better symbols blindly pushed aside. Let me try. Let me see. Spring good morning how long has it been sing your how long will it be song 12 COUNTRY YARD THE CITY Golden rod grain Not quite the same As when it met, in gay The laying few Of years I once knew. Sky over sand; The barren land No longer hot sun, full moon Just filled to the brim In ashes and tin. Look at the rat, Pleasingly fat Chewing chewing in cans There we did play By lights and calm bay; Shabby and gray The day slips away Remaining waste for good. No body stands Made by the diggers and planters of men. Kicking the cans At night the rat chewing, The rat lives on chewing. And in this city The ice people dwell. And glide thru’ countless Corridors of dog yellowed Snow. With coal for eyes And ice for hearts They see each other In total darkness And love like silent Mannequins of Frozen selfishness. To reach for them is futile To touch one is pain Like tying off your hand Letting no blood flow To a once living part. To love one . . . suicide. For there is no endless Flow of blood In my veins That I can bleed My self dry To wash another clean. — Edward Gustina — joe caparulo 13 14 i—t. O rt» P n p •-t c o 2 a> cn a n> 3 W w 07 cn 3^ f5' "H- 5* Crt rT °E- a- D * O i-f < 3 zr n O) ■-i Hr? TO ^r 3* r-t p a- cn 3“ p r~t 3 n 5‘ o TO « 15 SPRING RIVER BED — Edward Gustina A typical Monday The kind that follows Sunday. A day like any other Death. A morning like any other Lifetime. The sun woke me up Shining in my Ears hear a bird Flying Across my Tears cried for me Hah! Maybe it’s not An ordinary day. Maybe I’ll look outside This year. I get off the straw And look through the Bars in my window. Eleven bodies Floating In the river. Odd . . . The river’s usually Dry this time of year 16 COLUMBUS DAY SENRYU* The wind is the sky My eyes are blue. Pretty boy, pretty boy Why were you born? The gazing eye falls through The world, and falling Does nothing but fall. The moon was right The sled held the wolves At bay And no one was asking why leather Books were in that year. Culture people in the margins Who dare not write Need words on their foreheads. The tree in the mind Drops its fruit In forbidden places. Screen of perversion Hides many silken images. Many silken images are masked Under the name perversion. The many faces of The Dharma. To those who take refuge in it, What misfortune. Mountains see the sky When their base is known. The karma cloth is complete The void is all shelter When the roots become the base. — Hud Marts Joan Marts Tom Jeriorski *Senryu is a Japanese verse form in which several authors alternately compose a series of linked verses. 17 THE BALLADGE OF FUDGED DUDDY — Chris Dennis Juan hot sprink day Fuddy Duddy Clabbered from his ’ol cracky bed and wobbled on down to his flower bed to find that awl his blowers were dead. Soobing, Cuddy Luddy stumbbled on a crysanthemam, and feel write down upon his am, Pore Buddly was in quiet a mesh He’d fallen doon on a prickley besh Afther pricking out the uckly burrs Suddly scrabbled back up the steps An clumbded inn his bed and slept And wilde hee slept, he spored and snored And dreamted of moor and more and more the morale of this storby is is not to munkey weetha blower or else yule bee shure to lose yore power So rember knot too getg oot of beds ore yew wheel git tha awefull dregs . . . 20