.....

magaziÿ

of

qalrznfÿi_ae

TABLE OF CONTENTSMONTAGE

The Literary Magazineof Quinnipiac College

Volume One, Number Four

STAFFElizabeth Barnard

Leslie BarnesEllen Carreiro

John Chamberlain, Jr.Jim Demaio

Deborah DorioStephen O'Reilly

Mark Johnston, Faculty Advisor

We dedicate this issue of Montage to Mark Johnstonin appreciation of his support acd encouragement.

PageMoon Birth ................... Linda Hall .................... 2

One Again .................... Linda Hall .................... 3

Looking Down at the Years ...... Linda Hall .................... 4

The Days Before the Fire Storm ... Margit Ewert Kaye ............. 5

To My Rocking Horse ........... Jennifer Ellis .................. 9

Season ....................... Stephen O'Reilly ............... 10

Textured Life .................. Stephen O'Reilly ............... 11

Cotton Candy .................. John R. Chamberlain, Jr .......... 12

Soliloquy ..................... John R. Chamberlain, Jr .......... 13

Because ...................... John R. Chamberlain, Jr .......... 16

Dawn ........................ Randy Olear .................. 17

Soldiers of Sound ............... Keith Chapman ................ 18

Cycle of the Devil's Stones ....... Keith Chapman ................ 19

Fast Food Lives ................ Chris Tagatac .................. 20

Growing Up .................. Chris Tagatac .................. 21

Rock Found, Rock Lost .......... Bill Kiely ..................... 22

On an Amber Evening .......... Judith Posmpack ............... 22

Acknowledgements .......................................... 23

MOON BIRTH ONE AGAINThe glowing horizon heralds her birth.The full-mooned fetus is pushing upfrom her dark, nether gestating orbit.She's crowning and swelling at the wave's edge

rising beyond the warm churning blacknessof her laboring mother, the sea.She is huge at first, climbs haltinglyand seems to shimmer from her gross distension.

Becoming ever brighter with each space second,her soaring delivery is at last achieved.Becoming ever smaller in her certain ascension,she begins her arc across summer's heavens.

Her gleam runs like butter down gentle wavesand lends a life to her father, the night.

Liÿ2da J. Hall,Adult Degree Program

We all stand and waitin the back of the church.

I'm getting married.

Again.A travesty in white weed

unwilling, yet resigned.How can I tread the aisle

with a father many years dead?Mother says, "Let me do it.

Give you away."

As if once hadn't been enough,

she wants to do it again.I'm afraid.

This time it will last.We walk to the alter

as she leans on me.

Her left foot drags behind,our only attendant.

I am hers nowand she is mine.

We are one, again, untilDeath does her part.

Linda J. HallAdult Degree Program

23

LOOKING DOWN AT THE YEARS THE DAYS BEFORE THE FIRESTORM

He's lying on the floor on the yellow oval rug,the big one that is usually his dog's domain.The evening paper is open to the comic section.Of course, that's still the first thing he reads.He is only fourteen and just not that interestedin the news of the world's latest daily dilemmas.Looking down on this half boy/half man I experiencesuch contentment and pride in what he has become.This almost adult who thinks he knows so much alreadywhen in truth he has yet to become aware ofall of the hate, deceit and horror in the world.This almost adult who is a study of planes and angles.Long thin legs stretching into black, white sneakers.Narrow, nothing, jutting hips any girl would enW.A bony, bent elbow, slender arm and upturned palmsupport his worry-free, smooth child's face

whose innocent eyes have yet to cry about orreally see anything of great meaning or sadness.His tears have been only those of childish disappointment

and abraded skin.Some say he looks like me, others insist he favors him;but I can see he is too far grown to be compared.He is, finally, all his own and should not be shared.

Linda J. HallAdult Degree Program

It was a sunny July afternoon. My mother opened all the windows of herfashionable apartment, placed her elbows on one of the wide window sillsand inhaled the gentle warm summer air. She observed the people whowalked by, three fights down: Young mothers pushing baby carriages, school-childrenrunning busily down the street, a white haired old couple, perhaps in theireighties, the woman helping the fragile man across the lively Diirerstrasse.Everything looked so peaceful in Dresden this day. It was hard to believe thatGermany was at war, in World War II. Of course, if one took a closer look atthe people of the city, one would soon see that there were no young ormiddle-aged men among the crowd; they were all fighting in the war at var-ious locations in Europe and North Africa. Another almost daily reminder ofthe war was the air raid alarms wailing mournfully at all hours of the night.Usually, as today, as the alarm's shrill monotone sound pierced the night, mymother wakened me, lifted me from the crib, carefully wrapped a soft blanketaround me, grabbed a bottle of warm milk and carried me down into thedamp cellar. There we sat for many long hours among forty-four other houseoccupants, mostly young mothers with their small children. Among themwere ten babies cradled in their mothers' arms or being cuddled and rockedendlessly back and forth on their mothers' laps. Mr. and Mrs. Thieleman, the

only elderly couple in the cellar, whose only son, Peter, was fighting in Russiawere extremely fearful that Dresden would be bombed as so many otherGerman cities had been -- Hamburg, Bremen, Berlin, K01n, Stuttgart... '*I

think we have nothing to worry about," my mother said in her soft, soothing

voice. "The Fuhrer declared Dresden a city of the injured yesterday. Nothingwill happen to our City. The Russians, British and Americans would not dropbombs on a city where only the injured seek shelter in one of the city's fivehospitals and the rest of the occupants were only women and children and afew old men." The air raid alarm sounded again, three long tones and oneshort, meaning the danger was past, and the relieved, bone-tired people

wearily made their way back to their flats."Und jetzt spricht der FUhrer" (and now the FUhrer speaks), the German

announcer intoned on the radio. My mother automatically turned up thevolume. Hitler's voice sounded shaky, his speech was very brief. He talkedabout a "minor" defeat of the German army at Vitebsk, Bobruisk and Minsk

(European Russia) on July 3, 1944, and announced that he had replaced theGerman Army General Model in Russia with General Ernst Busch. For awhile my mother was totally motionless. Her husband, the father of herthree-and a-half year old little girl, was fighting the Russians at Vitebsk. Shehad last heard from him six months ago, just before his division entered intoVitebsk. Was her husband dead? Had he been taken prisoner by the Russians.>

The doorbell rang once, twice, three times. My mother hastily tucked a little

rubber elephant into my arms and ran to open the apartment door. FrauMuller, her young next-door neighbour was there, her youthful face filledwith unmistakeable joy. She was so overcome with excitement that mymother had a hard time understanding her, until she repeated, "Frau Ewert,mein Mann ist zuhause. Er hat Sonderurlaub vom Militar bekommen. Ermÿ3chte mit uns beiden spÿtter sprechen." (Mrs. Ewert, my husband is home.He got a special leave from the military and he wants to talk to both of uslater on.) My mother was puzzled that Helmut MUller had gotten a specialleave from the military at a critical time like this when every man was needed

so desperately.Helmut Muller greeted my mother without a trace of a smile in his face.

His light blue eyes were surrounded by large, deep blue and greyish circlesand his cheeks were sunken, giving him a ghostly appearance. His voice wascracked, like that of a boy whose voice is just changing into that of a man's.He spoke slowly, reluctantly, the subject obviously painful to him. "FrauEwert" he said, grasping my mother's left hand, "I must talk to you and tomy wife about what I am doing, about my duties in this war at the concentra-tion camp in Buchenwald and" - he faltered, "when the time is right, please

pass this information on to other people."Helmut looked straight up toward the white ceiling as he began to speak

softly. "The Buchenwald concentration camp is located on the Ettersberg(mountain) about twelve miles from the Goethe and Schiller City Weimar(middle Germany), in a hilly, wooded countryside. The camp opened its doorsin 1937 to political inmates, a year later to robbers, murderers and criminalsof the underworld. This very same year I received orders from the Army toassume my duties with the SS at Buchenwald. In December of 1938 commoncriminals were not being committed, but large transports jammed with haplessJews (German, Polish, Czech, French, Belgian and Russian) were broughtalmost daily into the camp. Many of these people were tortured in the mosthorrible ways and then murdered in cold blood. I have orders to take part inthe shooting of these helpless human beings as soon as I come back from thisspecial leave. 1 once witnessed a small, fragile Polish woman who was sevenmonths pregnant being severely beaten by two brutal SS men until her backwas bloody and torn. Frau Koch, the middle-aged overweight wife of themuch-feared German Commandant of this concentration camp collectsarticles made of human skin. She has in her possession a special lampshadewhich was made from the tatooed skin of a young man who was brutallymurdered by her husband." Now Helmut paused, held on to his wife's hand

tightly and said in a strained, shallow voice, that he would not go back toBuchenwald. He would not murder innocent people. He could no longer facethe half-naked prisioners who looked like skeletons, tottering painfullyaround the camp as though on stilts. This was not a prison camp for crimi-nals where he was carrying out routine duties for the Ftihrer - it was a placeof starvation and horror, inhuman brutality, degradation and suffering. Therewas a long, almost painful silence in the small, simple living room of thisyoung couple. For everyone knew that the refusal of any military order would

mean sure death by a firing squad. My mother felt weak and helpless, forthere was nothing she could do or say to ease the pain for either side. Finallyshe broke the deathly silence by saying - that people like him were the trueheroes of this war, people who were brave enough to refuse to obey theinsane orders of the Ftihrer and his henchmen. Then she recalled somethingHitler had said in one of his speeches, just before he came into power in1933. "Gebt mir zehn Jahre und ihr werdet Deutschland nicht wiederer-kennen." (Give me ten years and you will not recognize Germany any more.)Ironically this might prove to be the only election promise he would fulfill.Of very little consolation were the once so meaningful words of the famouslate 18th century German poet, Friedrich Schiller, which Helmut despairinglyrecalled. "Ans Vaterland, ans teure, schliess doch an, Das halte fest mit dei-nero ganzen Herzen, Hier sind die starken Wurzeln deiner Kraft." (Cling to

the land, the dear land of thy sires, Grapple to that with all thy heart and soul!The power is rooted deep and strongly here.) But there was no more "dear

land of thy sires," not for these three young people of the Dtÿrerstrasse inDresden and not for any of the innocent victims in the German concentra-

tion camps who were cruelly tortured to death.

My mother did not get back to her apartment until 2:00 A.M. She wasunable to sleep, tossing back and forth in her bed, wondering why so manypeople would willingly follow Hilter's orders, murdering innocent people,women, pregnant women and children, even babies. The moon was castinglong bright beams through the bedroom windows, where my mother couldsee the outlines of some books in the family library. Behind five, large brownleather bound volumes by the great German philosopher Hegel, she hadhidden three volumes of her favorite German-Jewish poet, Heinrich Heine's

Sÿmtliche poetische und dramatische Werke. It was illegal now to possessHeine's work and my mother's heart ached at this thought. What a great lossto society to destroy the works of such a great thinker! The Nazis were stillsinging Heine's famous "Lorelei" but now, below every printed text of hissong, was "Author unknown." A gun shot rang out next door and then deadlysilence... It was 4:00 A.M. now. My mother silently said a prayer forHelmut's soul. He was only twenty-four years old. Within a few minutes anambulance arrived, followed by the Gestapo and five SS men in uniform. Theneighbors who opened their apartment doors, including my mother, wereordered in a harsh strident voice by a grim looking SS officer to shut theirdoors and stay inside.

"Frau Ewert! Frau Ewert!" the elderly, gray-haired mailman shouted as hecame puffing up the three flights of stairs to her apartment. "I have a letter

from your husband, and also a telegram." My mother dashed out of theapartment wearing only one worn-out-house-slipper which flapped on thefloor as she ran toward him. Indeed, it was a letter from her husband, which

she tore open hastily, large tears were rolling down her cheeks to know hewas alive! To know he had written this letter! He had been wounded (shotthrough the left foot) at Vitebsk, Russia, just before the Russians took overthe city and he had been transferred seven months ago to an army hospital atStendal. There the doctors were still trying desperately to save his severely

wounded leg. My mother silently thanked God for sparing her husband's life,almost forgetting the telegram which she still held tightly in her left hand. Ithad been sent from Oberschona only two hours ago, 6 A.M., February 13,1945, by her grandmother. "Komme sofort, Mutter schwer krank" (Comeimmediately, mother seriously ill), it read. My mother prayed out loud, "Oh,God, don't let my mother die!" She hastily packed a small suitcase. Frau

Schneider, the vivacious young mother of a small, four year old boy next doorvolunteered to take care of me during my mother's stay in Oberschona (asmall town about 120 miles from Dresden). When my mother bent to kiss

me goodby, I clung, terrified to her legs, kissed her knees feverishly andentreated her tearfully to take me with her. That kind of behavior was notlike her little girl at all; it was a very alien, strange, almost frightening be-havior. My mother felt now that she had no choice. "Let's go and visitgrandma," she said, with as much cheerfulness as she could master. This wasa fateful decision, for it saved my life.

Just a few hours after we left Dresden, on February 13, 1945, the wholecity of Dresden burned to cinders in a firestorm. It was a firestorm beyondhuman imagination. Tons of incendiary bombs were dropped by the EighthAmerican Air Force and the Royal Air Force. The pilots, of course were"just" following orders - orders to create an all-consuming firestorm, to

destroy any trace of human life. The houses burned, the streets burned, every-thing burned. The women and children had no avenue of escape. The oneswho did make it out from their burning cellars died on the streets, a horrible,painful, slow death. The forty-four people in our apartment house in Dresdendied painfully and slowly. The heat of the firestorm was so intense that thewomen and children in our cellar became mummified. The corpse salvagerscould see the bony, shriveled up, grey colored remains of the women stillholding in their arms the little skeletons of their babies. Most of the corpsesstill had hair on their heads. The famous German poet, Gerhard Hauptmann,who was eighty-three years old when he witnessed the bombing of Dresdenfrom the outlying suburb's, said, "Wer das Weinen verlernt hat, der lernst eswieder beim Untergang Dresdens." (Who has forgotten how to cry will learnagain when he sees the destruction of Dresden).

In 1960 my mother and I went back to Dresden for a brief visit. We stoodon the ground where our apartment house once stood. The ruins of the heavygrey stone walls were still there, with patches of yellow and green grassstruggling to survive in the middle. A small, gray frying pan was sticking halfout of the dirt, a dirty arm of a small doll was lying to our left. Was it a partof my doll? Or had it belonged to one of the less fortunate children whoperished here fifteen years ago? I picked up the little arm gingerly. It was asilent reminder of my little playmates who had perished here on the groundwhere i was standing.

TO MY ROCKING HORSE

When I was youngI believed in Santa,And I spoke to my rocking horse, butNow they tell meSanta's just an illusion

And you know horsie can't talk, of course.When I was littleI had mud pie partiesAnd invited my wood horse along, butNow they tell meI'm too old for mud pies,

And feeding my horsie is wrong.When I was young IWas scared of the attic,And told Horse he would never go there.Now they tell meHe won't know the difference

But his eyes have a reproachful stare.When I was littleI read bedtime stories,And horse always listened with care,Now they tell meTo study my English,And to forget about Horsie up there.When I went homeHorsie came into my roomAnd together we had a long talkNow they tell meThis thing's an obsession,

Horse and I laugh, and go out for a walk.

Ma,iÿit Ezcert KayeAdult Degree Program

8 9

SEASONTEXTURED LIFE

Sorrow's leaping reminiscent chill,Experienced while in a glowing sunset vision.Death is frozen, death is nill.Christmas time be still.

Yuletide spirit haunted less sparinglyThan October's dying scream,A half year's tale fromUnearthly rising and foliage boom-bloom.

Dance lightly on life's surface.Leave shallow impressions on its

soft exterior.

Caress the pastel lavenders and salmonsof its tucked, folded edges.

Tomorrow's sunrise felt, not seen.

White dusting the inside of eyelids,And the trembling cut-to-the-quickOf season's greetings smiles on barren sidewalks.

Step/oeÿ 0 'Reil/_7'

English/Mass Communications '84

Time collapses on the memorable day,And sorrow's seat is taken in back.Summer's dream is a distant echo,And the year's troubles are temporarily mislaid.

Enter its dark family. Mingle and tingle.Carefully appreciate reaction, cooperation

and integration.

Breathe deep the inner fragrance,swallow the honey.

Wade, ankle deep, in its bottomless

pooi of mystery.Never fear the dance, nor break,

nor make deep impressionsin its soft surface.

Head held high, kick the thickair of life,

Feel the shudder of relief of thesuffocating.

Tremble at the mumblingsof the dance.

The incomprehensible, yet indispensable,incantatory dance.

Flame at its brilliance,never mock its challenge,

Sigh at its ineptitudes.

StepDeÿ O'Rei/lyEnglish/Mass Communications '84

lO11

COTTON CANDY SOLILOQUY

His whirly machine made a gentle sound,Pink cumulus clouds sprang up from nowhere,But dreams are just sugar and water I've found.

Cloud-hungry kids came from all over town,To watch him weave dreams at the fair,His whirly machine made a gentle sound.

The heavens clotted and swirled in a mound,I thought of snow and my mother's white hair,But dreams are just sugar and water I've found.

Build me a dream that won't ever come down.Let me enter her castle, climb up the back stair.His whirly machine made a gentle sound.

Find me a princess, give me my crown!Buoyant as light we'll skip through the air.But dreams are just sugar and water I've found.

Sweet fair-weather clouds spin me around,And when I fall, I won't blaine him or care,His whirly machine made a gentle sound,But dreams are just sugar and water I've found.

)

}

}

]oh1ÿ R. Chawberlain, Jr.Continuing Ed.

Theodore entered the room slowly, carefully descending the three steps tothe tile floor. Since his illness he took his time when walking. This was hispractice room: the piano lay waiting soundlessly for his hands to knead thekeys into music. It had been fallow for a year and the dust was thick on themahogany top. He ran his fingertips through the dust, rubbed them togetherand watched the dust sift to the floor. Even the magazines lay just where hehad left them on the chair--the old headlines no longer startling. Could ithave been a year? If he had didd, would the world have known? Perhapssome people would know, at least those in the music world. He would notmake a magazine cover, but people would have known.

He shook his head: why are you still thinking this way, he thought, just beglad you are alive. But still, he had expected, as well as the doctors, that hewould die. And yet he had recovered from leukemia, cancer of the blood.Theodore Prostakoff, the concert pianist, a man who gave concerts aroundthe world, the child prodigy who received four thousand dollars every time heplayed--this man had recovered from cancer.

He imagined how the keys would sound if coaxed out of silence. Probablyout of tune, he thought. Even so, he wanted tO sit down, lift up the soundboard and begin to play. But he dared not play--memories too deep would bestirred. He walked over to the window, looked at the trees. He had wanted to

play in the hospital, but lacked the strength even to sit up. He had thought, Iwill never play again. After all, he had cancer, was he not going to die? He

had even imagined them playing a tape of one of his concerts at the funeral,Chopin's Fu,aera/Marc/o, perhaps. It would be appropriate--it was one of hisfavorite pieces. He had imagined it all as a memory, coldly abstracted. And hehad accepted it. Even when he was recovering, sitting up in bed, and he heardthe old men and ladies playing on the battered upright hospital piano (badlyout of tune) he just smiled and clapped when they had finished. He never leton who he was, or his profession--although he winced a lot to hear themplay. Besides, it would intimidate them, better let them have their fun. Buteven more so, he had accepted the fact that he would never play again. All he

had were memories: playing to celebrities and royalty, kings and dignitaries.and filling concert halls. Better keep these, perhaps it would not be long.

Now he looked over the city from his window. A bright haze outlined theirregular rooftops of New Haven. He remembered the days when he hadhovered unconsciously before death in a painful sleep, how the darkenedroom had a violet color. This must be the color of death, he had thought!And he half-heard in a dream his old piano instructor, Mr. Morgan, playingto him powerful and rich melodies. Often when he was young Theodore

1213

would play alongside his teacher. Then the day came when Mr. Morganstopped and said, "Theodore, I have taught you all I know, you must go onand study with Vladimir Horowitz. You will be great someday." But he didnot want to leave him--he loved the old man so, and felt indebted. In thosepainful days he had thought that this is what death must be like--a going onto greater things, greater glory and instruction, but saying goodbye to all hehad known and loved. And he did not want to let it go.

But he felt as if he had died! One morning the nurse had come in anddrawn the blinds, and a fierce light entered the white room. He felt washedand cleansed like a baby. It was a new morning and he was being healed.Slowly his strength returned and hope was always there--like the lightbetween venetian blinds.

Then he walked again, on weakened, atrophied legs, but nevertheless hewalked. He went down the hall, slowly. Such a long hall, he had thought, andI am like an old man! But he knew he would grow stronger. Day by day hisvitality returned. They dropped his medication regularly. After a few monthshe left the hospital.

And now he had returned home. It was the same as when he had left it.His housekeeper had taken in the mail, tended the grounds and kept thehouse orderly. I have taken it all for granted, he thought, as he walked aboutthe old familiar rooms. ;He studied the forms he was accustomed to--the

paintings, the furniture, the oriental rugs and such. Now they all seemedstrangely new. He remembered the stories behind the different pieces offurniture--the antiques he had picked up on his tours in various parts of theworld. How strange, to have been so near death and to return! Now he feltsure he would not take anything for granted. But what would life be like?

The dust was thick on his piano. Are those cat's paw-prints on the top? he

wondered. Not new by any means, just their suggestion, like footprints in the

snow. Again, how strange, to think that the animals had gone on living, as ifhe were just away on vacation. He had expected the world to be different, notto have just stayed the same. No one seemed to have minded that he wasgone. He felt quite alone. He had no wife, his pupils probably had newteachers and his family was far away. He sat quiet above the city. But he likedbeing alone. It was all new.

Outside it was spring. He looked down the street and watched the inter-mittent movements of traffic. Sparrows were making a nest in the trafficlight. Forsythia bushes were in bloom along the sidewalk, and already willowtrees were cloudy with pale green buds. A robin stopped in the pine tree out-side the window. It sang a hopeful song. For me, Theodore thought gladly, ormaybe just to sing. Its song went on, leaping through the glass with a fury.The light from the afternoon sun--hazy and brilliant--also leaped throughthe glass, but in absolute silence. It shone in the dust stirred by his move-

ments. It was a hard light, piercing and sudden. The robin's song seemed toweave in and out of the light, softly and with great ease.

He felt inspired. I may be out of practice, and the piano out of tune, but Iwill try to capture this moment. Life has been good to me: it gives me lightand song. And it has given me more life. He walked to the piano, sat downand raised the lid. Could he play it? He would try.

The first chords came tripping out his fingers and stumbling he began. Oh,he thought, it has been a year! Never had he not practiced for so long. But hewent on, his song climbing, gathering momentum. He felt himself remem-bering his old ways of playing and once again his hands leaped along thekeys. The bird kept singing, accompanying him. A song of rebirth! His bodybegan to fiII with light, a hard and uncompromising light that swept reck-lessly through him, while this song flowed from his hands. It was so fresh,like the smell of a forest on a spring morning. He reveled in the feeling, andfelt somewhere inside him a dawn approaching, sunlight at sharp anglesthrough the trees. He felt as if he were describing this morning: the cleardew on the branches, the earth-scented air and the sunlight like a swift

messenger.

The dust on the piano filled the air, loosened by the thundering sounds. Itfilled the room and made the light much harder and stronger. He felt hisbody go numb with its power. He could trust this nameless light that workedhim deeper into silence the more he played. He passed into an area wherecontrol had left him the chords and rhythms came into him from nowhere,flying into his fingers without any decision. The beauty bewildered him.Never had he played with such ease.

The light and the song came closer and closer, flirting like lovers in thewoods. Then he saw an old girlfriend there between the trees and remem-bered his desire for her. Now he was the light and she the song, and hechased her on strong legs through the forest. She was laughing as the chords

came ringing out. He felt aggressive and strong, playing notes on her heels.She coaxed him on with sly twists of sound, hiding in the silence between thekeys. He came nearer and nearer, or else she slowed, for he caught the looseends of her clothing. They touched and light and song fused into one entity,solid and overflowing. He melted into her arms, kissing and hugging her, aslove funneled down through his head, back, cock and out his feet. Love was

spilling from every inch along his body as the iast ringings of sound dimin-ished in the air. He dropped his head on the piano; his arms and body felllimp. He lay there for a minute, laughing to himself. Then he began to weep.Never had he felt so cleansed!

JobJz R. Chaÿnhe,'laiTÿ. jr.Continuing Education

14 15

BECAUSE... DAWN

Because you lie in the hammock in your white summer dressI wish to cross the porch and talk with you

of nonsense and small and happy things.

Because you lie still as seeds in a milkweed pouchI wish to plunge inside and bring you to the world

or climb within and keep you all to myself.

Because you sway in the hammock like a trellised cocoonI wish to die with you and let your wings

grow around me, pressed in that crowded space.

Because you sleep so quietly, a spider's prey,I wish to steal away your narcotic dream

or have us both wrapped in his silky spit.

Because you make a nest for light in the nighttime breezeI wish to feel your arms and legs encircling me

and the warmth of your laughter and sweet words.

Because you are a nebula of stars in a summer skyI wish to fall forever within your arms

or keep the distance and you always in my mind.

No applauseNo cheeringNo symphonyAWarmGlowingShadowLiquidatingThe DarknessRemoving the starsPulling

Downthe

MoonUp comes the shadow'sOwner.

A fury ball of FireGreets the worldAs its handLightlySlaps the living thingsAwake.

JohJz R. Cham/aerlaiJz, Jr.Continuing Ed.

Randy OlearMass Communications, '86

16 17

SOLDIERS OF SOUND CYCLE OF THE DEVIL'S STONESan army of hammers marchesup and down a set of stringsthe steps of the soldiershold a distinctive rhythm and sound(hitting the sound)no guns to shoot withonly feet to bang down withto make sound on the ground withthe groundsometimes changing to watersometimes changing to airsometimes falling apartsometimes not even thereall this is heardall this is thoughtwithout speaking a wordall this is caughtthe army continuesup through the hillsdown deep into bunkersno bullets are heardonly soundsweet, sweet sound

• .. and the chasm fills with cold silent women

eyes charcoal black with a dull glow inthe center

ice crystals drip from saddened fingersbones crack at disjunct jointslow dark motets scurry from dry course mouthscotton like saliva stuck to the sidesall of a suddenall at once

the wind swirls bycollecting the women into a maelstromsucking them into the skydigesting themthen regurgitating the women onto a dry empty fielda field of light brown dustcoarse when blown into the windand felt on the face

like that of the Oklahoma dust bowlof the 1930's

... and tile silence is felt, not heard

the thoughts empty, not filledthe faces stones

Keith ChapmaÿMusic, '83

Keith Chapÿ)'zaÿMusic, '83

1819

"FAST FOOD LIVES" GROWING UP

--McDonald's can I help you? Yes! you can.

I'll have a PhD.a color T.V.

and an order of fries

Putting the old ones in the new boxWearing the new ones with my favorite soxNo more of the Monday bluesMorn just bought me a new pair of shoes.

A fast food weddingwith a Vegas divorceand 2.5 children on the side

I'll have some plastic contraceptionand a pill for my erectionand a filet of fish

--Excuse me sir, but what are you saying?

Do you remember Mary, the virgin down the streetgave me a child but aborted quick and neatjust like a bloody rag thrown awayEverybody's gone surfin', surfin' USA.

ChH.r TagatacEnglish, '85

Sex between people poiluted by dark tidesSticky hamping elephants with bad report card eyesWhile sex is on prime timelove is dying.

--Excuse me sir, what did you say?

Riding the sardine bus at one fifteenHanging like puppets from our stringsWall street's life, Wall street's my wife

like a chameleon I've become

What I touch and seeTwisted into shadows of societyLove loses its texture and individuality

--Excuse me sir, but would you like anything else?

Yes ma'am hold on!

The fastest change-giver in the worldA trade for something cold and swirledThe man in white who became your friendThe Good Humor Man is coming around the bend.

Put this one around the otherI had better ask my older brotherI try to learn the don't and do's

But I simply cannot tie my shoes.

Lay it on thick but don't tear the breadYou see, you've got to use your head.

First comes the peanut butter, next the jellyThen a sandwich to fill your belly.

They rolled down my cheek like lines on the roadOh no, the truck I wanted seems to be sold

I used to do this every dayCrying was the best device to get my way.

Trying a new food was never so greatI would eat the things I didn't hateMom would say, try some of theseThen I found they tasted like peas.

We're all older now, and all grown up.You stili drink from your favorite cupYou might even say that you're all doneBut to me, it's still a lot of fun.

Growing up that is!

Chris TagatacEnglish, '85

20 21

ROCK FOUND, ROCK LOST ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Its journey was a long one

under wood, around rock, through aquait traveled to sands of yellow, grains of stone,reaching the cove beyond the meadows.

We thank the following, who so generously gave:

the small boy picks it up, wondersits flatness unique, its colors sharpin space it soars above the wet then

dips down, grazing the surface and skippinghome from whence it came.

Student GovernmentDeans Elkins and WoskowKeith, Chris, Jenny, Steve, and John for a successful poetry readingAll those who submitted manuscripts

BiN KielyMass Communications, '83

On an amber eveningA cricket cracks a deafening sound.

The air so silentyet piercing to the ear.

A scant breeze hurries past,crisp maple leaves

How quietHow content

The world is on an amber evening.

Jlldith PostupackMedical Technology, '84

ON AN AMBER EVENING . . .

22 23

Moÿtage has now been around for two full years. We have attained therecognition and the support of the Student Government, and we thank youfor both. Moreover, we continue to get the support of the students, thefaculty, and the staff of the Quinnipiac community. Manuscripts, attendanceat readings, financial encouragement -- all of these demonstrate that themagazine has found a place within the cultural life of the campus.

In addition to thanking the students who submitted manuscripts for thefourth issue, I would particularly like to thank our three graduating staffmembers: Liz Barnard, Leslie Barnes, and Debbie Dorio. Their efforts andtheir enthusiasm over the past two years have been among the principalreasons for the success of the magazine.

I would also like to thank David Martino for his help with the typesettingand printing, and John Chamberlain of the Division of Continuing Educationfor his steadfast support.

The deadline for the next issue of Montage will be around November 1.Manuscripts should be sent to Montage, Box 49, and should be typed on8ÿ/2 x 11 paper. They should bear the name of the author, his or her campusaddress and phone number, and his or her major and year of graduation.

--Mark Johnston

Faculty Advisor, Montage

24