California State University (CSU): Open Journal Systems

Coleman, Richard

At l ant ic  
Richard Coleman 
She was explai n ing to me the f iner poi nts 
of agricu lture, the sustai n i ng of life 
on n utrients, ferti l izers, and the 
moist feel of healthy sod. 
Plucking the thin shoots of prairie 
grass, s l i pp ing them between her l ips and whist l ing 
the wind in  from the f ie lds.  
She stands, raises her arms to the express ion less 
sky, the turncoat mounta ins, the 
butte with 49er names carved 
deep in its layered sandstone; 
she says there' s a heart beating out there, 
a fra i l  touch of sp i rit in the cacti, in the scru b, 
in the speed ing dance of l izard. 
She says that when she had her fi rst chi ld it grew and wandered 
precariously across the rotted fences, and there was 
always that fear that someday it wou ld  fa l l  i nto 
the newer barbed wire. And one day it 
did. Then she d ro ps her laden arms, f i l led with 
specie of memory, and po ints aga in, 
east. Out there, she says, out there 
rides a scarred man on the atlantic. 
4 


English

Atlantic

Bailey, Robert

A Divorce 
The red light 
Of very late 
Afternoon fills 
The study 
No lamplight yet 
Just a young girl 
In an ancient chair 
Staring through 
One end 
Of her life 
23 
Robert Bailey 


A Divorce

Webster, Virginia

B osto n G raveyard 
Virginia Webster 
The dead nest here, earth s hadowed 
stirring on ly for the chatter of squ i rrels  
visit ing from the Common. 
It 's the f i rst th i ng you feel 
along Beacon Street: graveyard sti l l ness. 
S i lence is  a cap over city concrete, 
sky long bu i ld ings evaporate into tombstones 
etched with sku l l s  and faces. 
Sitt ing among them I stare; 
a progression of g rey markers laced with shadows 
of black s pi res from the graveyard gate; 
onward to the moving outl ine of cars 
beneath a rough edged horizon. 
Squ i rrels  come here to burrow 
in wri nkled leaves. Pigeons coo. 
A g i rl traces the face of an angel 
from a ti lted stone. 
Later we walk out together. 
She shows me the charcoal rubbing.  
"He seemed so sad to be looking away" she said. 
" M aybe now he can see outs ide." 
She turns the angel to the city 
hold ing h im i nto g rey l ight. 
· I tell her out there is our  world ,  
Here we can on ly v is it death. 
" Let h im v is it l ife," she says. Lett ing go 
Thi n  paper catches wind 
a tombstone r is ing in  l ight. 
69 


Boston Graveyard

Lawson, Mike

Quaker  Prayer 
When G randma said 
Thanksgiving grace 
I l i stened 
to the bal lgame 
tu rned down. 
When Dad asked 
to jo in  hands 
i n  s i lent prayer, 
eyes shut, 
I smelled green bean steam, 
heard Uncle Don wheeze, 
held h i s  hand 
for the fi rst time; 
prehistoric sagging skin 
on smal l  bones, 
moist pal m, 
a counterpoint pu lse. 
I squi nted a look. 
Staring at me, 
he stuck out h i s  tongue. 
Dad said, "Amen . "  
2 4  
Mike Lawson 


Quaker Prayer

Eisenberg, Gregg

* 
Cregg Eisenberg 
the axe wasted in the cl utter 
once i abandoned it. 
chucked i n  the bushes i let the screen door 
slam beh i nd me. 
now i wal k  the streets 
stoppi ng to hear 
the noise of a room - touch my palm to the cool bricks 
i have watched my hands turn soft 
and pale i n  the artific ial  l i ght, 
no more hacking away at logs by lampl ight 
no spl i nters i n  the dark 
but a weak fee l ing as i wander 
for the house is not sealed 
and the beams not secured 
and the tools rusted in the yard. 
ch i ldren peruse my house 
when i am not in . 
approach and touch its corners 
peek through the rattl ing wi ndow 
see my d ishes on the floor 
and the sandpaper and the buckets to catch 
leaking rai n  
bru ise themselves on protrud i ng nai ls  
and scatter when i appear -
fol lowing fam i l iar markers in moonl ight 
(boots dragging i n  the d ust) 
33 
Dec. 2 3, 1983 
Ann Arbor, M I .  


the axe wasted in the clutter

Comenas, Cathy

Uncle Rich\u27s Pet Parrot

Burns, Mike

chickens, in two parts 
1.  
each morning 
before the frost is gone 
I rise, dress, and toss the tennis ball 
off the back porch 
Barney, 75 pounds of retriever, 
chases through fallen oranges, tangerines 
brings it back 
his lolling tongue speckled with dirt, dried leaves. 
in the tool shed out back 
thirty chicks scurry beneath warm lights 
their new feathers 
in this second week 
begin to cover the red and yellow down. 
this morning 
I woke to a broken routine 
Mike Burns 
the frost was gone, no sun had risen, rain was falling 
in scattered flurries 
and one chick had died 
long before dawn 
its body stiff and cold. 
I tossed it into the barranca 
falling away into the pepper trees and ferns 
behind the coop. 
some wild animal will complete the cycle. 
that was the sixth I'd lost 
in this short two weeks 
but there is only a slight hesitation 
as I count the remaining chicks 
count the eggs they will lay 
the golden drumsticks 
we will barbecue in the fall. 
52 
NORTHRIDGE REVIEW 
2. 
the final post of the new coop 
stands in the ground 
its knees anchored with concrete 
sweet arms, their fresh cut lengths of douglas fir 
stretch out, tip to tip 
finding the next post. 
a tin cup in my right hand 
the coffee grown luke-warm 
I stand in the fading light, 
watch Dan drive one more nail and imagine: 
the wire mesh 
hanging as a gossamer thin sheet 
between cat and chicken, 
counting the eggs 
golden brown roundness 
gathered up in the straw basket. 
a squawk from the shed 
reminds me, look over the new chicks. 
finding a white leghorn 
held tender in Barney's mouth, 
I leave egg counts 
for another day. 
53 


chickens, in two parts

Review, Northridge

Northridge Review 
Questionnaire 
1. Do you have certain habits which help you write or methods 
of communication which you find more effective than others? 
No. 
Court Despair. 
Denise Levertov 
Poet, author of Candles in Babylon. 
Wallace Graves 
Fiction writer, author of Trixie. 
The consistent habit of writing every morning, as a 
first thing - before brushing teeth, before breakfast 
- wherever I am, is one I wish I had - I recommend 
it to myself. "Method of Communication " belongs to 
the advertizing industry. 
May Swenson 
Poet, author of lconographs. 
In common with other poets, I prefer to write in my 
own "space, " a little upstairs room that looks out over 
the winding dirt road below. I like to warm up to write 
by answering a couple of letters from friends. But I 
can write elsewhere; I have begun many a poem on 
the back of a boarding pass en route to a reading or 
workshop, & I always pack work along to pick at in 
the empty hours in motel rooms. I prefer a typewriter 
& now have a very small electronic one that will run 
on batteries! 
Maxine Kumin 
Poet, author of 
Our Ground Time Here Will Be Brief. 
Writing a poem or two warms me up/gets me started 
when I'm reluctant to work at other forms. Music to 
suit my mood provides a conduit. And if I am particu­
larly "uptight, " a hot cup of coffee and a couple of 
"hits off a joint" really stoke the old coals. 
Wanda Coleman 
Poet, author of Mad Dog Black Lady. 
The most important factor in writing, given some liter-
56 
NORTHRIDGE REVIEW 
acy, is discipline. You have to shut yourself away from 
family and friends and things you'd rather be doing 
and do it. 
Jack Smith 
Columnist, author of Cats, Dogs, and 
Other Strangers at My Door. 
2. Do you think writing can be taught? How have you learned 
what you know as a writer? 
I think writing can be taught, but only to other writers. 
Students come into my writing workshop without a 
clue and I can't teach them squat. Other writers, 
though, might just need a little nudge or another point 
of view so in that way I can teach them. I've learned 
what I know as a writer by making mistakes in my 
writing; if I were a carpenter, I wouldn't have a finger 
left. 
Ron Koertge 
Poet, author of Life on the Edge of 
the Continent; Selected Poems. 
a) To talented people certain things about writing can 
be taught. b) By reading and writing. 
Denise Levertov 
Workshops were important when I started writing. I 
took several poetry workshops with Ann Stanford 
when I was a student at CSUN, as well as Independent 
Study sessions. This was a great help: an opportunity 
to show my work to a "real" writer, one I admired. I 
think it's important to have idols and to read a lot of 
poetry. Cultivating friendships with other writers is 
important too, or has been for me. 
David Trinidad 
Poet, author of Monday, Monday. 
The craft/function/execution of writing can be taught. 
The art of writing {like the art of anything) seems to 
be a gift/habitation/compulsion/obsession. 
Wanda Coleman 
Writing can't be "taught" but a workshop, seminar or 
classroom can provide a nurturing environment for 
beginning writers. Ciardi once said that the teacher is 
"a hired sympathy" and I agree. My own beginnings 
in workshops have convinced me of the worth of group 
criticism and response. 
Maxine Kumin 
3. Who do you consider to be your audience? Are you reaching 
most of the people who would be interested in your work? 
57 
Northridge Review/Questionnaire 
My audience is anyone who believes he can learn 
about himself by watching a trained dog perform at a 
circus. As for reaching the people interested, I would 
say, "When the writer is ready, the people will appear. " 
Wallace Graves 
Too much concern for the demands of a general audi­
ence leads to popular art forms, popular culture, and 
fads low in content. On the other hand, a lack of 
audience awareness often leads to work that is self­
serving, murky and self-involved, to work that often 
excludes even a sophisticated audience because it is 
grounded in personal rather than universal symbols. 
Many very good poets and writers seem obsessed with 
the craft of writing, as if this provided a real alternative 
to writing for everyone or just for oneself. So we have 
lots of poets and writers writing for other poets and 
writers. The great writers know the trick: they take the 
same stale sit-com gag, change it enough to make it 
seem original - but not so much that the audience 
no longer recognizes in it something universal - and 
present the old dud wrapped in wonderful, artful lan­
guage. Shakespeare knew how. I don't. So I write for 
myself, or rather the part of myself that's beyond fool-
in g. 
Greg Boyd 
Poet and editor of 
Asylum magazine. 
a) Anybody who reads my work or comes to hear me. 
b) No writer can know that - besides, there is the 
possibility of posterity, always an unknown. 
Denise Levertov 
I'm my best audience. As far as reaching people, since 
poetry attracts a very small minority of the people who 
read, how can "most of the people" be reached? Any­
way, my poetry is so simple and easy to read that 
anybody I reach is pretty much interested. Who ever 
"figured out" a Ron Koertge poem. 
Ron Koertge 
4. What distinguishes your writing from that of others and makes 
it valuable? 
I've invented some new "forms" - or rather, I've let 
the poems, in the making, lead me into invention. I 
don't worry about being valuable. I prize individuality, 
and hope to avoid being influenced by others. 
May Swenson 
If my writing is valuable it is because I try to make it 
58 
.... 
NORTHRIDGE REVIEW 
clear, and because I write about life as we live it. 
Jack Smith 
My craftspersonship as well as my vision/voice and 
unique dogged stubbornness. 
Wanda Coleman 
Not for the writer to say. 
Denise Levertov 
I'm always pretty much me; that's distinguishing (in 
the fingerprint sense) and valuable because I'm gifted 
in a single area - writing. It's fun to be around (or to 
read around) someone with talent. I have a fairly light 
heart and my poems often make people laugh. Surely 
that's valuable. 
Ron Koertge 
5. Could you comment on your works-in-progress or anything 
you have recently finished? 
I have a new collection of poems just published by 
Viking (I think they are keeping it a secret) called THE 
LONG APPROACH. The jacket says that these poems 
deal with increasingly public themes, and I guess that 
is so. My vision seems to be rather more apocalyptic 
as I grow older; the world seems more troubled, our 
chances slimmer. But I hope some of the darkness is 
redeemed by wit. Ripeness may be all, as Lear says, 
but humor saves us alive. I also have a collection of 
country essays waiting in the wings, and I hope very 
much to go back to writing some short stories. There 
is a balance in moving from genre to genre for me. 
Maxine Kumin 
I am interested in Pop Culture, especially subject 
matter from the 60's. Girl groups, comic book charac­
ters, television and films, etc. I recently wrote a piece 
in the voice of Barbie (the doll). 
David Trinidad 
I'm writing a long narrative poem in which I leave 
home to live in a Banyan tree. I become a monkey, 
and my companion is a cockatoo. It's a playful serious 
poem which speculates on (and finds) the purpose of 
life. (Now that I've talked about it, I may not be able 
to finish it. ) 
May Swenson 
I've begun writing short fiction again, attempting to 
imbue this form with the same sort of intensity found 
in my poetry. I think I've got it - finally. And this 
59 
Northridge Review/Questionnaire 
satisfies me like a sonofabitch. 
Wanda Coleman 
A writer's comments on his own work are fix-it jobs 
- futile efforts to repair an edifice which didn't come 
out right the first time. Silence is grandly underesti­
mated in our society. 
Wallace Graves 
60 


Questionnaire

Ackerman, Stuart

stuart ackerman 
As Fl ies to Wanton Boys 
"As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; 
They kill us for their sport . . .  " 
-William Shakespeare 
The Tragedy of King Lear, IV. vi.38-39. 
It had been six days since Sancho had consumed water. Usually, 
his i ron wi l l  could keep h im alive through great periods of d iscomfort. 
The problem was that h is wi l l  needed water in order to work properly. 
He had read accounts of thirst in which people's tongues swelled up 
in thei r  mouths, but he  had never conceived of i t  happening to h i m. 
His legs were weak, his vision was blurry, and he almost regretted 
going without water, but not quite. 
Even though it was rather painfu l ,  Sancho knew he was obl i ­
gated by h is own internal code to go without water. The less water 
he drank, the more the women and chi ldren could have. The thought 
of dying to save women and chi ldren kept h im going. "Sancho 
Vasques," he fantasized, "a true martyr, and rescuer of kindred 
spi rits, died of thi rst today in the Eternal Bliss Savings Bank  vault. 
The two mothers and five chi ldren who were trapped with h im,  six 
days ago, are alive today thanks to Sancho." 
Six days before, Sancho had taken his wife Louisa, and their 
three chi ldren, Louis, Louise and Lois, on a small outing. He needed 
to go to the supermarket in order to buy disti l led water for the i ron 
and some beef jerky and potato chips for the poker game that night. 
Whi le in the Eight Items or Less lane, Sancho's pocket pager started 
beeping. 
"Darn it all ," he said to h is wife. "I just can't get away from those 
airplanes!" 
" Ignore it," Louisa suggested. "You've been working at the 
airport long enough to miss one call. Besides, you've been at it for 
seven days straight. Spend some time with us." 
Sancho nodded his head and cl icked off the pager. "Even an 
air traffic control ler should be able to get away from those ai rplanes 
sometimes," he said. He si lently thanked God for h is job. "I'm not 
going this once. I 'm going to escape those planes this once." 
After leaving the market, and buying a gumbal l  for each of the 
93 
chi ldren as a reward for being seen but not heard, Sancho got an 
idea. He thought that since the bank was right next door, it m ight be 
nice to let the chi ldren see the safety deposit box he had just pur­
chased. The inside of the vault seemed l ike an enriching learn ing 
experience to Sancho. 
The safe was new, as was the bank. The floor was sti l l  an 
uncovered slab of grey concrete. The stain less steel safe deposit 
box doors, sti l l  covered with a sl ight film of dust, l ined the four walls. 
They reminded Sancho of tiny drawers in a tiny morgue. 
Sancho set the disti l led water and snack foods in the center of 
the floor so he could get the key from his pocket. As he carefully 
searched through loose change, l int wads, and other keys, a woman 
and her two ch i ldren also came in to look at their safe deposit box. 
Sancho ran his fingers through his bent, charcoal colored hair. He 
was slightly resentful because another family was engaging in what 
he thought was an original idea. 
It was then that Sancho heard the loud deep roar that could 
only be emanating from a low flying 747. He remembered the fami l iar 
whine shattering concentration in the control tower. But this was the 
center of town, nearly ten mi les from the airport. There was only one 
explanation. Sancho looked out the vault door to confirm the horrifying 
reality. As it were, through the bank window, he could see the 747 
heading d i rectly at him. Someone shouted, "Run!" 
"No, you can't escape," Sancho said. Without a cogn ition or 
hesitation, Sancho closed the safe door and locked it. He yelled for 
the women and chi ldren to get to the back of the vault. The ensuing 
crash threw everyone to the ground. A concrete beam dropped from 
the vault roof, d ividing the vau lt i nto a quarter on one side, and three 
quarters on the other. Grey clouds of concrete dust stifled the air 
and refused to settle. A l ine of white l ight broke through the roof 
where the concrete beam had fallen. Sancho grasped his head at 
the temples. His ears wou ld be left r inging for the better part of three 
days. 
Sancho stood up and walked over to sit down on the beam, in 
the l ight. Twisted wakes of convoluted dust followed each footstep, 
then eventual ly settled. Sancho had to now do some quick figuring. 
He realized that everyone i n  the bank was probably dead. Therefore, 
no one cou ld know they were in the vault. Sancho thanked his God 
that fate had provided enough beef jerky and potato chips to feed a 
small army. He thanked the powers that be for the two gal lons of 
dist i l led water. In h is thankfu lness, Sancho rubbed the throbbing 
black bags beneath his eyes. He stood, and vowed that he would not 
strike the women and chi ldren for complaining, nor would he drink 
any of the water that cou ld quench their fantastic thi rst. 
Sancho often paced about looking at the pale chi ldren prone 
94 
on the floor. None seemed to mind the suffocating dust as much as 
he. Louis, his oldest, was stretched out next to a ful l  bottle of water, 
but didn't drink. Sancho knelt next to the boy and uncapped the 
bottle. He propped up his son's head, and poured some water in his 
mouth. It trickled slowly down his throat. Sancho stood, proud. 
There was no conversation in the dusty darkness. There was 
no l ight, save the shaft that pierced through the four  inch hole in the 
cei l ing ,  ten feet above. Sancho knew that this must be qu ite a de­
pressing experience for the group, but he wished that someone 
would break the awkward si lence. He decided that this had gone on 
too long, and became determined to quel l the paralyzing fear. 
Sancho positioned h imself on the opposite side of the concrete 
beam, in  the one quarter side of the vault. He aligned h imself d i rectly 
below the shaft of l ight. It reflected off the dust in and around h is hair, 
and made the area around the top of his head glow. The black bags 
below h is eyes were h igh l ighted and his four day sparse beard 
looked thick and full in the darkness beneath his head. He hoped he 
looked imposing and persuasive here, and began to speak. 
" I  know you are all frightened," he sermonized at the motionless 
group. "But we now have a chance to demonstrate our faith." Sancho 
stood and spoke down to his companions, pounding on the beam 
with his fist when he made a point. "Remember when the Lord led 
the Chi ldren of Israel from slavery under the Pharaoh? They had no 
food, no hope. Just l i ke us.  They were hungry. But the good Lord 
provided. He dropped bread from the heavens. Al l  the Chi ldren of 
Israel had to do was have faith. If we have faith, we wi l l  be saved." 
Sancho cl imbed back over the beam and sat down against the 
vault wall. A cocoon of dust surrounded his prenatally positioned 
body. He was proud of his attempt, but wished for a greater re­
sponse. 
He looked at Louisa, lying across from h im.  Her wide grey eyes 
shone g lass- l ike through the d iffused l ight. Sancho saw only fear in  
them. 
Sancho leaned against the vault door, then sat down. He wished 
he had answered his pager in the market and gone to work. That 
wou ld have prevented the suffering. But he thanked God for the 
chance to show his faith. 
At long last, Sancho could feel the vibrations of the emergency 
rescue team working on the vault door behind h im.  Soon, he could 
hear them. Before long, there were nearly deafening cutting noises 
and prying sounds. The lock c l icked, qu ite undramatically, as molten 
sparks flew into the opening. Bl inding l ight spl it white across the 
vault. 
Sancho yelled for the chi ldren to stay away from the swinging 
door. Three paramedics entered. Sancho d ropped to his knees and 
95 
gave thanks for being saved. "Thank-you for saving us." He swallowed 
the words as he fell to the floor in relief and exhaustion. The d isturbed 
cloud of concrete dust settled on h is back. He finally closed his eyes, 
and slept. 
After what seemed l ike years, Dr. Pistil approached the press 
conference podium. Curious reporters flung unrefined questions at 
her in a bel lowing flurry. They grew silent as she opened a prepared 
statement "Sancho Vasques was admitted to 'Our Lady of Eternal 
Forgiveness Hospital' at eleven-thirty this morning after being pulled 
from the wreckage of Fl ight 333. He was not aboard the plane, but 
trapped in the bank vault that the plane impacted. He is suffering 
from severe dehydration, and, while in serious condition, he is expected 
to make a full recovery. I'm open for questions." 
Cigarette smoke wafted from the reporters l ike a smoldering 
fil le� yel lowing and dimming the T.V. camera l ights. A reporter deep 
in the belly of the group shouted to the doctor, "Why was he not 
suffering from hunger, as wel l  as thirst?" 
"Mr. Vasques had a great deal of beef jerky and potato chips in  
the vault with him." 
The crowd g rumbled, reaching an apex, then qu ieted. A po­
lyester clad reporter in the front row spoke next. "Is there any validity 
to the report that there were also two gallons of water in the vau lt 
with-" 
"It's difficult to speculate, but after speaking with Mr. Vasques, 
it is clear to me that in some odd altruistic gesture, or macho type 
sacrifice .. . I don't know ... M r. Vasques was saving the water for those 
in the safe with h im. Apparently, after the crash, he went on as if they 
were still l iving ... Feeding the chi ldren water, speaking as leader, 
acting as protector ... He even went so far as to save water for those 
he thought needed it more than h im.  That, I think, is why he suf­
fered." 
Sancho turned off the television press conference with the 
remote control beside his bed. He reached for his pitcher of water, 
but in his weary state, missed and brushed open the window curtains 
it sat near. A shaft of blue-white l ight broke through, into the hospital 
room, and shined in Sancho's eyes. They compensated for the intensity 
of this l ight, and he saw the room grow dark. He could barely perceive 
what looked l ike swirl ing storms of concrete dust above h im,  then 
settl ing about him in the room. He heard the silence that he heard in 
the vault. 
He reached again for h is water, but cou ldn't find it with the sun 
in h is eyes, and the room dark. Sancho saw another l ight as the door 
inched open. A silhouette stood in the opening, then entered the 
room. Sancho realized it was an orderly. Sti l l  s i lhouetted, the orderly 
closed the curtains, then stepped back out of the room. Sancho's 
96 
eyes adjusted back to normal, so he reached once more for h is 
pitcher. He emptied it i nto h is cup and drank, hoping to wash the 
salty taste from his mouth, and the memory of his family from his 
mind. 
97 


Not a member yet

Atlantic

A Divorce

Boston Graveyard

Quaker Prayer

the axe wasted in the clutter

Uncle Rich\u27s Pet Parrot

chickens, in two parts

Questionnaire

As Flies to Wanton Boys

Untitled

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