DigitalCommons@C.O.D.

A presentation containing formal, iconographical, and historical analyses of a 14th-century triptych connected to John Grandisson, the Bishop of Exeter from 1327-1369, which is in the collection of The British Museum. The formal analysis focuses on the structure of the object and what it is showing. The iconographic analysis focuses on the meanings of the images carved into the object. The historical analysis focuses on the geographic origin of the triptych, the life of Bishop Grandisson, and the possible origin of the object\u27s materials.
Faculty Sponsor: David Ouellett

Prendergast, Joseph

John Grandisson Triptych

Gollnick, Shawn

The Prairie Light Review 
Volume 44 
Number 2 Spring 2022 Article 12 
Spring 5-1-2022 
On Waiting 
Shawn Gollnick 
College of DuPage 
Follow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr 
Recommended Citation 
Gollnick, Shawn (2022) "On Waiting," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 44: No. 2, Article 12. 
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol44/iss2/12 
This Artwork is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It 
has been accepted for inclusion in The Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For 
more information, please contact orenick@cod.edu. 
A Lake, Not an Ocean 
Matthew Kimball
While the waves become restless, and the air wilder, 
You must remember the wounds possessed prior. 
The lake may be less serene, 
But it lacks the darker ocean’s green. 
The size is something that shouldn’t be mistaken, 
No matter how hard you are forsaken. 
The problem seems big at the moment 
But it shall not leave a large atonement. 
The light hidden behind clouds shall be seen, 
To the ports, you have been. 
On Waiting, Shawn Gollnick
9
1
Gollnick: On Waiting
Published by DigitalCommons@COD, 2022


English

On Waiting

Lindhardt, Becky

The Prairie Light Review 
Volume 44 
Number 2 Spring 2022 Article 31 
Spring 5-1-2022 
The Fathoms Below 
Becky Lindhardt 
College of DuPage 
Follow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr 
Recommended Citation 
Lindhardt, Becky (2022) "The Fathoms Below," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 44: No. 2, Article 31. 
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol44/iss2/31 
This Selection is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It 
has been accepted for inclusion in The Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For 
more information, please contact orenick@cod.edu. 
The Fathoms Below           Becky Lindhardt
    
       A stone blended in with the exterior of a cliff, waiting for any unfortunate 
pressure to dislodge it from its pliant home. Among sturdier stepping stools, there 
was no evidence that revealed how insecure this stone really was. Even the wind 
glided past the stone, incapable of uncovering its unstable nature. The stone was 
large, with a triangular shape. Its surface was smooth, but the edges were sharp 
enough to cut the hand of any climber that dared to clutch it. The longest side of 
the triangle was exposed to the outside world, while the point opposite was buried 
into the rock wall. That tip, however, did not create enough traction for the stone 
to stay in place, should any strain be placed on it. 
      The stone was stuck near the top of its barren cliffside home. Any sign of 
vegetation was gone from the harsh sun’s heated incubation of the cliff’s side. The 
gray rocks on the cliff were speckled in parts where the light drizzle of a coming 
storm darkened the crust with rain. The sunlight had been covered with dark rain 
clouds; its rays absorbed by the condensation. 
     A third of the way up the steep bluff, two figures sprawled against the wall, 
trying to avoid a fatal fall. One figure was a bit higher than the other, his dark-
haired head turned down to his companion, wincing from a raindrop hitting his 
scalp. His feet held securely to the cliff’s stones; his hands severely grasped two 
points on each side of his head as if he was able to steer the cliff with his grip. 
The stones under his exposed hands dug into his palms like wooden splinters. The 
storm clouds had appeared out of nowhere, though did nothing to cool the already 
boiling rocks below. It was like the clouds were taunting the two climbers as they 
made their way slowly up the crag. The bottom climber struggled with finding 
a solid point to apply his weight; his blinding, white-blonde hair blown into his 
face by the abrupt wind. Sweat and rain mixed together on his forehead, forming 
a cooling stream down his eyes, yet also obstructing his vision. The smell of ash, 
sweat, and dirt kept his nostrils in a constant scrunched up state. His partner, who 
seemed quite nimble, kept looking back down, making sure the other did not slip. 
     “Stay close to me,” the nimble man said, his soft-spoken voice booming off the 
rocks. His voice was hoarse but still quite pleasant, as if lack of hydration did not 
obscure the fruitiness of his tone. It was comforting, like a father reassuring his 
child of a safe journey. Of course, the blonde was more concerned with his shak-
ing arms than being able to follow the path of his more agile counterpart. While 
the dark-haired man had the strength to lift himself up fairly easily, the blonde had 
barely enough muscle to reach up to the next stone, let alone put all his weight 
onto it. After a while, both were able to reach a ledge halfway up the cliff for a 
rest. Much to the nimble man’s surprise, the blonde had barely slipped at all. But, 
with most of their energy depleted, the second half of the climb would certainly 
be more treacherous. Plus, the fact that they were even higher off the ground made 
their potential fall not only fatal, but cataclysmic. A plunge from that height and 
countless rocks would jog loose from both the impact and the echo of its sound. 
     The short bout of drizzle ended, replaced by more ominous storm clouds that 
seemed to darken the higher they got. It was surely becoming night, though nei-
ther of them could see the sun’s position from their vantage point. The slope they 
rested on was the only way they could find that made it fully up the mountain. 
Everywhere else, there was either the remains of a rock slide, even steeper cliffs, 
24
1
Lindhardt: The Fathoms Below
Published by DigitalCommons@COD, 2022
or the rocks were just sharper. So here they were, climbing the sheer cliff of a 
mountain that was definitely not safe but, perhaps, a slower death than the other 
possibilities. The nimble man had been searching for someone, or something, in 
the night. It had called them both to the cliff, but the only way to get to it was to 
climb. 
     After catching his breath and resting his screaming limbs for a few minutes, the 
blonde watched as the nimble man stood up, eyeing the rest of the cliff. The dark-
haired man nodded, as if reassuring himself of the course, and jumped up to grasp 
a secure-looking rock. He began to climb, and the blonde silently followed. The 
sky lit up as lightning struck somewhere to their right. Thunder crashed so loud-
ly that the cliff shook with its sound. It began to drizzle, but the drizzle quickly 
turned into rain and then to a downpour. The climbers’ grips became much more 
slippery, though the water finally allowed the stones to cool, and steam rose from 
any spot where a raindrop fell. It took what felt like forever, but the dark-haired 
man finally reached the top of the cliff, his entire body soaked from the deluge 
of water. The rain obstructed his ability to see more than an arm’s length away. 
He wanted to help his fellow climber, but he could not do much while blinded by 
water. 
     The blonde’s eyes were squeezed shut against the stream engulfing his face 
as he gingerly felt his way higher up the cliff. He closed his eyes against the 
exhaustion, and when he opened them again, he was in the ocean. His arms and 
legs wailed, not from climbing, but from violently attempting to tread water. The 
remains of a boat floated around him, waves lapping the broken shards of wood. 
The blonde gasped for breath, but every inhale brought water in with it. He tilted 
his head down to see how far above the ocean floor he was. The sea was dark, 
however, and he could not see the bottom or anything else below the surface. The 
bright, twinkling stars reflected all around him as if the sea was just an expansion 
of the endless night sky above. He tried to swim towards a bit of wood that floated 
close by, but his arms felt weighted down and his legs could barely kick. 
     “Are you alright? I’m coming, don’t worry!” 
     The blonde’s head snapped around until he spotted a shoreline in the distance 
where a figure stood and waved vigorously to him. He tried to wave back, but 
his arms clenched the board tightly, refusing to let go of the lifeline. A sound 
behind him warned of a coming wave and he turned just in time to get muffled 
by it. For a few moments, he was pummeled by an onslaught of fatal liquid, his 
lungs protesting against the pressure. After the wave passed, he gasped for air; his 
face freshly cleansed by the ocean’s spray. The blonde turned back to the shore 
where the dark-haired man had begun wading towards him, his arms showcasing 
the strength it took to push himself out into the sea. Another wave overtook the 
blonde, this one even worse than the last. He could barely keep his head above the 
water afterwards. His breathing became shallow and panicked as his limbs grew 
numb. The physical exertion had finally taken its toll. He floated on his back, his 
face the only thing he could keep above the lethal height of the emptiness below 
him. He closed his eyes, listening to the crashing of the waves around him. 
     The nimble man knelt on the side of the cliff, squinting his eyes against the 
constant flow of water cascading down his face. He leaned over, just in time to see 
a hand reach up and grasp a stone. Suddenly, the rock slid from the cliff’s wall and 
the hand, still grasping it, fell with it. 
25
2
The Prairie Light Review, Vol. 44, No. 2 [2022], Art. 31
https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol44/iss2/31
       A wave that seemed to reach the meeting point of the sky and its aquatic reflec-
tion overtook the blonde and swallowed him whole. The lights from the stars went 
dim as the numbness of his limbs quickly spread to the rest of his body. He sank 
lower and lower to the ocean’s floor; his eyes opened to the horror of watching 
himself drown. He wanted to try and swim up, but his body would not allow it. It 
had given up. Knowing this was the end, the blonde closed his eyes and let the sea 
consume him. That is, until he heard a splash from above. 
     The dark-haired man quickly stretched his hand back over the cliff and grabbed 
the wrist of the other climber. Fingers trembled against his arm as he hoisted his 
shivering compatriot towards him, adrenaline coursing through his veins. Once 
both were safely on the top of the cliff, the rain let up, as if it had been waiting for 
them to finish their feat so it could reward their hard work. They breathed heavily, 
both from exhaustion and from relief. That stone had looked so secure, but its 
false sense of security almost led to a horrible, untimely end. The blonde nodded 
at his rescuer, a silent “thank you” exchanged in between gasps of breath. He lay 
there as sharp rocks bore into his back. He gratefully let the fresh, sweet air of the 
dry clifftop enter his lungs. The air was sticky, however, revealing the aftermath 
of the thick rain that had pummeled them as they trekked up the mountain. The 
dark storm clouds now dispersed to reveal the clear night sky, sprinkled with 
millions of stars. 
     The blonde dared to look over the precipice as he tried to regain his sea legs. 
The bottom of the cliff was nearly invisible from their height, though the crevice 
that had once held the stone that made the blonde fall was shroud in deep shad-
ow as if it knew how nearly fatal its resident had been. The once putrid air was 
washed away by a crisp draft from the mountain. The lingering humidity was 
the only factor that remained in proving their harrowing feat. The smell of sulfur 
was replaced with the smell of wood and something more distinct. The scent was 
sweet, almost too sweet. The delicious aroma of freshly baked cookies and warm 
hot chocolate wafted its way towards them as if beckoning them further into the 
mountain. 
     “Wesley.” A voice called, bouncing around in his head. “Wes, you need to get 
up. Please.” 
     Wesley opened his eyes, his clothes soaked and his body shivering. He looked 
up at the face of his father, whose dark hair was plastered to his forehead; his 
eyes filled with concern. Harlan wiped Wesley’s hair away from his face in relief, 
a gold band on his finger twinkling against the starlight. Wesley coughed as he 
tried to breath, water expelling itself from his lungs. He could feel the coarse sand 
under his body as seashells pushed into his back like sharp rocks on a mountain. 
The sky was a dark blue, its endless array of sparkling lights shining on the glassy 
water underneath. Towards the moon, the remains of a small ship sank, half of its 
hull hidden underneath the blanket of water. Somewhere over there, Wesley knew 
that jagged rocks pointed up from the depths like treacherous stalagmites in an 
underwater cave. The sharp points of those rocks had been covered by the thick 
waves that had caused them to crash. Wesley’s father had tried to steer the boat 
away, but the storm pushed them into the rocks, blinding their vision and making 
it impossible for them to see each other until it had passed. 
     “Papa?” Wesley asked, his young voice frail and frightened. “Where are we?” 
--- 
26
3
Lindhardt: The Fathoms Below
Published by DigitalCommons@COD, 2022
     On the other side of the island, a woman stood; her hands wrapped around the 
rails in front of her. The white, painted lighthouse where she was perched shot its 
light onto the dark waters ahead. The beam searched for any boats that happened 
to wander into its path. The woman spun a thin, gold band on her finger, anxiously 
watching for the shadow of a boat to hit the light meant to guide it. She stayed 
there, all through the night, barely giving herself a second to blink. On the other 
side of the lighthouse was a tall cliffside with a house perched on the flat top of 
its precipice. The abode glowed in a soft light as the sweet smell of chocolate 
slowly died away into the hopelessness of twilight. A table was set for three in 
the kitchen with rich mugs of hot chocolate and scrumptious cookies set on the 
counter for dessert. The food chilled as the night grew colder and the candles 
dimmed as the wind carried the damp sea breeze through the opened windows. 
But the lighthouse shone on without a flicker. The bright light of hope peered into 
the darkness, waiting, and watching for any kind of life in the fathoms below. 
 
Chiaroscuro Model of David, Angelo Mendez
27
4
The Prairie Light Review, Vol. 44, No. 2 [2022], Art. 31
https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol44/iss2/31


The Fathoms Below

Marrazzo, Morgan

The Prairie Light Review 
Volume 44 
Number 2 Spring 2022 Article 49 
Spring 5-1-2022 
Holy Ghost 
Morgan Marrazzo 
College of DuPage 
Follow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr 
Recommended Citation 
Marrazzo, Morgan (2022) "Holy Ghost," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 44: No. 2, Article 49. 
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol44/iss2/49 
This Artwork is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It 
has been accepted for inclusion in The Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For 
more information, please contact orenick@cod.edu. 
Run 
Carlene English
My head slips between the cracks and corners of fragmented cement.  
Woven in the ground, my body is secure. Pulling and never letting go.  
It isn’t clear where my feet are pounding, just steady thumps synchronous with 
the heart that feeds it. Wind gently sweeps my skin, flourishing as the earth spins
    rapidly.  
Thick as blood, my sharp exterior slices its compact arrangement, splitting the 
world in two yet binding the realm beneath me.  
Like a knife that melts through the soft flesh of fruit and halts at the tough armor 
   of its pit.  
Salty sweat trickles down at the wind’s abrasion, yielding the fruits of labor. 
Holy Ghost, Morgan Marrazzo
49
1
Marrazzo: Holy Ghost
Published by DigitalCommons@COD, 2022


Holy Ghost

Beaudin, Emily

The Prairie Light Review 
Volume 44 
Number 2 Spring 2022 Article 62 
Spring 5-1-2022 
A Love Letter to the Moon 
Emily Beaudin 
College of DuPage 
Follow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr 
Recommended Citation 
Beaudin, Emily (2022) "A Love Letter to the Moon," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 44: No. 2, Article 62. 
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol44/iss2/62 
This Selection is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It 
has been accepted for inclusion in The Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For 
more information, please contact orenick@cod.edu. 
A Love Letter to The Moon Emily Beaudin
Like a single silver gleaming eye,
Standing out upon the gloomy night,
Glistening brighter than all the stars in the sky,
Yet much softer than any artificial light.
She is my company when nights turn long, Staying with me when minutes turn to hours,
 She has no voice, yet she sounds like a song, She knows no time, but she blooms 
like a flower.
With her by my side our time is always fleeting. Her beauty and reassurance a 
forbidden sight,
That I don’t get to see till the sun starts retreating, When daylight fades into the
harmonious night.
Femininity, Radiant, and a beauty so true.
You may ask what her name is,
 Well I call her the moon.
Ascension John Ogan
On a blue and green marble floating through space
It has taken a few billion years for us to get here. 
In that time we have learned there is more to being human than just being here. 
It is our consciousness and kindness that keeps us here. 
With our minds like no other, we have more than just life. 
We can understand how and why things are and build in and beyond the sky. 
But all we do does not matter if our kindness ever dies.
Our purpose stops if we choose to hate or despise or despair. 
Out in the cosmos, in the infinite space, 
What we send forth– matters.
Dusk (at right), 
Madeleine Church
56
1
Beaudin: A Love Letter to the Moon
Published by DigitalCommons@COD, 2022


A Love Letter to the Moon

Tsogtgerel, Davaajargal

The Prairie Light Review 
Volume 44 
Number 2 Spring 2022 Article 72 
Spring 5-1-2022 
Coffee Break 
Davaajargal Tsogtgerel 
College of DuPage 
Follow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr 
Recommended Citation 
Tsogtgerel, Davaajargal (2022) "Coffee Break," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 44: No. 2, Article 72. 
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol44/iss2/72 
This Selection is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It 
has been accepted for inclusion in The Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For 
more information, please contact orenick@cod.edu. 
SO
LA
C
E
Coffee Break, Davaajargal Tsogtgerel
64
1
Tsogtgerel: Coffee Break
Published by DigitalCommons@COD, 2022


Coffee Break

Jameel, Briar

The Prairie Light Review 
Volume 44 
Number 2 Spring 2022 Article 73 
Spring 5-1-2022 
The Garden of Eden Is Beneath My Feet 
Briar Jameel 
College of DuPage 
Follow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr 
Recommended Citation 
Jameel, Briar (2022) "The Garden of Eden Is Beneath My Feet," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 44: No. 2, 
Article 73. 
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol44/iss2/73 
This Selection is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It 
has been accepted for inclusion in The Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For 
more information, please contact orenick@cod.edu. 
The Garden of Eden is Beneath My Feet
Briar Jameel
 
I dream of abundance
Spend my hours fantasizing
About a future unknown.
Meticulously planned,
As if daydreaming will ensure a life free of suffering.
 
So, today I remind myself of my finiteness.
I will gaze upon the winter sunset with awe.
Perhaps I am already abundant.
Full with all that I need.
Solitary, 
Davaajargal 
Tsogtgerel
1
Jameel: The Garden of Eden Is Beneath My Feet
Published by DigitalCommons@COD, 2022


The Garden of Eden Is Beneath My Feet

The Prairie Light Review 
Volume 44 
Number 2 Spring 2022 Article 74 
Spring 5-1-2022 
Solitary 
Davaajargal Tsogtgerel 
College of DuPage 
Follow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr 
Recommended Citation 
Tsogtgerel, Davaajargal (2022) "Solitary," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 44: No. 2, Article 74. 
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol44/iss2/74 
This Artwork is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It 
has been accepted for inclusion in The Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For 
more information, please contact orenick@cod.edu. 
The Garden of Eden is Beneath My Feet
Briar Jameel
 
I dream of abundance
Spend my hours fantasizing
About a future unknown.
Meticulously planned,
As if daydreaming will ensure a life free of suffering.
 
So, today I remind myself of my finiteness.
I will gaze upon the winter sunset with awe.
Perhaps I am already abundant.
Full with all that I need.
Solitary, 
Davaajargal 
Tsogtgerel
1
Tsogtgerel: Solitary
Published by DigitalCommons@COD, 2022


Solitary

Merrick, Tegan

The Prairie Light Review 
Volume 44 
Number 2 Spring 2022 Article 75 
Spring 5-2-2022 
Honey Sweet Gold 
Tegan Merrick 
College of DuPage 
Follow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr 
Recommended Citation 
Merrick, Tegan (2022) "Honey Sweet Gold," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 44: No. 2, Article 75. 
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol44/iss2/75 
This Selection is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It 
has been accepted for inclusion in The Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For 
more information, please contact orenick@cod.edu. 
Honey Sweet Gold  
Tegan Merrick
My head is full of lead
Somebody unscrewed my skull and loaded it with gold bars
Closed it up and
Took a flame to my face
Like a welder molding iron
Glassblower with his white hot coals
Burning and burning until my skin melts off
And my hair goes up in flames
Till there’s nothing left of me
Besides a skeleton
Leaking honey sweet gold
Yellow is a Great 
Color, 
Mandy Knight
66
1
Merrick: Honey Sweet Gold
Published by DigitalCommons@COD, 2022


Honey Sweet Gold

Church, Madeleine

The Prairie Light Review 
Volume 44 
Number 2 Spring 2022 Article 78 
Spring 5-1-2022 
Rotunda 
Madeleine Church 
College of DuPage 
Follow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr 
Recommended Citation 
Church, Madeleine (2022) "Rotunda," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 44: No. 2, Article 78. 
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol44/iss2/78 
This Selection is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It 
has been accepted for inclusion in The Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For 
more information, please contact orenick@cod.edu. 
Rotunda 
Madeleine Church
I pass under ancient arches, leaving a boundless night behind me.
I hear the echoes of secrets quickly forgotten.
It was such sounds as Sister whistling like she still had the teeth of a six-year-old,
or my dog barking, even though he’s been dead now for years, 
or Grandpa chuckling in his whimsical way.
He’s been gone the longest.
Gone too are the old smells, sounds, and colors.
Cicadas don’t click the same anymore,
brownies don’t stick to my tongue like they used to,
the red velvet couch isn’t as soft as when we first got it;
 
But I now enter a rotunda.
Spiraling a round table, my family is gathered.
Grandma, the last matriarch, sits at the helm, shining proudly.
She welcomes me in her wise and warm way.
I take a seat.
My spot has already been prepared. 
Everyone opens their arms to me, and I open mine to them.
 
But this ceremony is not limited to welcome.
Even as I arrived, there was one leaving.
As I sat down, Aunt stood up, and walked through the far Northern door 
   closing it
loosely behind her.   
Grandma told me not to mind it.
Aunt doesn’t mean to leave in a bad way, Grandma says, she’s just gone to the
other room for now.
Even the pitless stomach we came from is only another room. 
We all take turns passing through.
68
1
Church: Rotunda
Published by DigitalCommons@COD, 2022


College of DuPage

Not a member yet