Adelaide Literary Magazine No. 40

Revista Literária Adelaide

Don smiled. Now the light extinguishes and my
nerves hum, like being close to a power line
Thalassemia. An inherited blood condi- on a warm summer’s night. The sheath
tion. From my grandmother. To my mother. around my nerves are worn. Broken. I pic-
To me. I scoured the medical literature: thal- ture small cracks leaking electrons in pul-
assemia, spleen, mass. I ordered an MRI sars. Sunspots flash beneath my eyelids and
and diagnosed my spleen mass as benign. my body pirouettes as I fall asleep.
I laughed at my spleen. I sent a copy to the
radiologist. Told him he was wrong.

About the Author

Robert Burns is a geriatrician and writer. He received a
MA in playwriting from the University of Memphis. His
plays have been produced in New York, Pittsburgh, and
Memphis. His published plays, short stories, and essays
have been published in Annals of Internal Medicine, Journal
of the American Medical Association, Three Element
Review, Punchnel’s, The Sun, and Pulse, and Health Story
Collaborative. He lives in Memphis with his wife and two
dogs, Parker and Woody.

99

THE SAD, IRONIC
FATE OF SULLIVAN

BALLOU

by Frank Emerson

Of all the letters associated with the Ameri- artists including, but not limited to Liam
can Civil War, two stand out as arguably the Clancy and this author.
most beautiful and touching – certainly the
best known. Abraham Lincoln’s poignant, July the 14th, 1861
comforting note to a certain Mrs. Lydia Bix-
by, who had lost five sons to the conflict, is Washington DC
the first.
My very dear Sarah:
Perhaps even better known, and cer-
tainly as poignant, is the letter from Union The indications are very strong that
Major Sullivan Ballou to his wife, Sarah. we shall move in a few days - perhaps to-
Written one week before the First Battle of morrow. Lest I should not be able to write
Manassas, or Bull Run – as it was called in you again, I feel impelled to write lines that
the North, the words are all the more heart- may fall under your eye when I shall be no
breaking when you realize that Ballou did more.
not survive to go home again.
Our movement may be one of a few days
Below is the famous letter in its en- duration and full of pleasure - and it may
tirety. It deserves to be read and re-read be one of severe conflict and death to me.
not only for its bittersweet sentiment, but Not my will, but thine 0 God, be done. If it
also for its sad acceptance of the realities is necessary that I should fall on the battle-
of war and the perception of duty. It was a field for my country, I am ready. I have no
highlight of the PBS series, Ken Burns’ Civil misgivings about, or lack of confidence in,
War. Abridged versions of the letter have the cause in which I am engaged, and my
been preserved on recordings by numerous

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courage does not halt or falter. I know how The memories of the blissful moments
strongly American Civilization now leans I have spent with you come creeping over
upon the triumph of the Government, and me, and I feel most gratified to God and to
how great a debt we owe to those who went you that I have enjoyed them so long. And
before us through the blood and suffering of hard it is for me to give them up and burn
the Revolution. And I am willing - perfectly to ashes the hopes of future years, when
willing - to lay down all my joys in this life, God willing, we might still have lived and
to help maintain this Government, and to loved together and seen our sons grow up
pay that debt. to honorable manhood around us. I have, I
know, but few and small claims upon Divine
But, my dear wife, when I know that with Providence, but something whispers to me
my own joys I lay down nearly all of yours, - perhaps it is the wafted prayer of my little
and replace them in this life with cares and Edgar -- that I shall return to my loved ones
sorrows - when, after having eaten for long unharmed. If I do not, my dear Sarah, never
years the bitter fruit of orphanage myself, I forget how much I love you, and when my
must offer it as their only sustenance to my last breath escapes me on the battlefield, it
dear little children - is it weak or dishonor- will whisper your name.
able, while the banner of my purpose floats
calmly and proudly in the breeze, that my Forgive my many faults, and the many
unbounded love for you, my darling wife and pains I have caused you. How thoughtless
children, should struggle in fierce, though and foolish I have oftentimes been! How
useless, contest with my love of country? gladly would I wash out with my tears every
little spot upon your happiness, and struggle
I cannot describe to you my feelings on with all the misfortune of this world, to shield
this calm summer night, when two thou- you and my children from harm. But I cannot.
sand men are sleeping around me, many of I must watch you from the spirit land and
them enjoying the last, perhaps, before that hover near you, while you buffet the storms
of death -- and I, suspicious that Death is with your precious little freight, and wait with
creeping behind me with his fatal dart, am sad patience till we meet to part no more.
communing with God, my country, and thee.
But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back
I have sought most closely and diligently, to this earth and flit unseen around those
and often in my breast, for a wrong motive they loved, I shall always be near you; in the
in thus hazarding the happiness of those I garish day and in the darkest night -- amidst
loved and I could not find one. A pure love of your happiest scenes and gloomiest hours -
my country and of the principles have often always, always; and if there be a soft breeze
advocated before the people and “the name upon your cheek, it shall be my breath; or
of honor that I love more than I fear death” the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it
have called upon me, and I have obeyed. shall be my spirit passing by.

Sarah, my love for you is deathless, it Sarah, do not mourn me dead; think I am
seems to bind me to you with mighty cables gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet
that nothing but Omnipotence could break; again.
and yet my love of Country comes over me
like a strong wind and bears me irresistibly As for my little boys, they will grow as I have
on with all these chains to the battlefield. done, and never know a father’s love and care.

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Little Willie is too young to remember me long, Sullivan was born on March 28, 1829 on
and my blue eyed Edgar will keep my frolics the outskirts of Providence, Rhode Island in
with him among the dimmest memories of his an area known as the Cumberland, to Hiram
childhood. Sarah, I have unlimited confidence and Emeline Bowen Ballou. The Smithfield
in your maternal care and your development area was especially popular with Ballou rel-
of their characters. Tell my two mothers his atives and became known as the “Ballou
and hers I call God’s blessing upon them. O Neighborhood”.
Sarah, I wait for you there! Come to me, and
lead thither my children. Losing both his parents at a relatively
early age, Sullivan was cared for by numerous
Sullivan aunts, uncles and cousins. For a time he was
educated at the local school. Then, as an
In most of the numerous writings about upperclassman in secondary school, he at-
the letter, there is little mentioned about tended Phillips Academy in Andover, Massa-
the man and the woman. Who were they? chusetts. Upon graduation, he matriculated
What happened during the battle? More at Brown University, back in Providence.
importantly, what happened afterward?
What follows will answer those questions He read for the law while teaching el-
and relate the story of the sad, ironic fate ocution at the National School of Law in
of Sullivan Ballou. Ballston, New York. In 1853, Sullivan was
admitted to the Rhode Island bar and began
Sullivan Ballou was a direct descendent his life in the legal profession.
of Mathurin Ballou, an educated French
Huguenot, who immigrated to America in Sarah Hart Shumway Ballou was born in
the 1640s. Sarah’s ancestor, Peter Shumway, Worcester, Massachusetts in 1836. She also
also from France, arrived with a group of lost her father during her childhood. Her
refugees in the 1670s. The Shumway family family, like Sullivan’s, somewhat well to do,
history has it that Peter was on the same looked after her in different ways. She had
ship as Benjamin Faniuel, whose son, Peter, an uncle who ran what was then known as a
would go on to present the city of Boston, “female academy”. Although there are pre-
Massachusetts with its first centralized cious few details of her formal education, it
market, Fanuiel Hall, which still stands today. is known that she was well read and intel-
ligent. It can be reasonably assumed that
Public service was a long standing tra- even if she did not officially register at the
dition in the Ballou family. A cousin, Jabez academy, she probably did attend classes
Bowen, was married to Sarah Brown, of there. Even though we have no physical de-
Brown University fame. Bowen had been scription of her from those days, she was
Deputy Governor of Rhode Island from recognized as being impartial, courteous,
1778 until 1787. For a time during the Amer- diligent and faithful by her contemporaries.
ican Revolution, he had been an officer in These traits would certainly contribute to
the colonial army. He counted both the her being a desirable catch for a young man
French Count de Rochambeau and George on his way up. By the mid 1850s, Sullivan
Washington as close friends. In later years, Ballou was just that.
Bowen became Chief Justice of the Rhode
Island Supreme Court. In 1854, with only one year of experi-
ence under his belt as a practicing attorney,

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Ballou began what would be a short, yet been swept into office with the Democratic
impressive career in public service when he victories in 1860, sent a telegram that he
became clerk of the Rhode Island House of would raise a regiment of 1000 men, with
Representatives at the age of 25. himself as leader, in answer to the national
emergency.
Somewhere along the line, the paths
of the up and coming representative and West Point graduate and Mexican War
the attractive, proper, young Victorian lady veteran, Ambrose Burnside was named Col-
crossed. On October 15, 1855, Sullivan and onel of the State Militia, with immediate
the 19 year old Sarah were married. command of the 1st Rhode Island. Sullivan
Ballou had been appointed Judge Advocate
In August of the following year, their first of the State Militia just prior to the war.
son, Edgar Fowler was born. By this time
another son, William Bowen, came along According to a table prepared by the
in January of 1859, Ballou was serving as War Department, the state only had to pro-
Speaker of the Rhode Island House. He had vide one regiment. However, in a show of
been unanimously elected to that post in patriotic fervor, Rhode Island immediately
1857. By any measure, the young man was raised a second. With more realistic heads
a success. He was so popular that 1860, prevailing, the men of the 2nd Rhode Island
Ballou was nominated by the Republican were enlisted for three years rather than
Party to run for State Attorney General. Al- three months. A veteran of the Mexican
though he lost, as did all Republicans state- War, the handsome and dashing John S.
wide that year, his future looked bright. Slocum was promoted from Major to Col-
onel and named commanding officer of the
Talk of secession and states’ rights had 2nd Regiment. Slocum had been a promi-
been around for a while by the time of nent attorney and was a nationally known,
Abraham Lincoln’s inauguration on March outspoken abolitionist. As an ardent Union
4, 1861. The talk was loud and about to get man and supporter of Abraham Lincoln,
louder. That Lincoln saw it as his duty to pre- Ballou harbored no doubts as to his duty.
serve the Union at any costs and vowed to He enthusiastically became second in com-
do so in his inaugural address, pretty much mand under Slocum.
guaranteed that there would be civil war.
The only question was how long that war On June 11, 1861, Ballou wrote to his
would last. cousin, Latimer:

Two days after the firing on Fort Sumter Governor Sprague has tendered me the
on April 12, 1861, President Lincoln put out commission of Major…in the 2nd Regiment
a call for 75,000 volunteers who would en- and I have accepted it.
list for 90 days to put down the rebellion.
This was, in fact, the declaration of war. The The regiment trained for about a month
90-day enlistment period was indicative of at a camp outside Providence. On June 19,
the overall naiveté as to the gravity and re- 1861, with Slocum and Ballou at the head
ality of the situation. of the column, the volunteers paraded
down South Main Street to Fox Point. There
According to Harper’s Weekly of April they boarded a side-wheeled steamer and
27, 1861, William Sprague, the 31-year old headed to New Jersey. From Port Elizabeth,
“Boy Governor” of Rhode Island, who had they took the train south to Washington, DC.

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They arrived in the nation’s capital ─ full of camp very much longer. He realized that a
excitement ─ a couple of days later. visit from Sarah was out of the question. He
was awakened to the sobering realities of
The 2nd set up camp just off New York Av- war and to the possibility that he might not
enue, NE, where the National Arboretum is live through it. With these and many other
located today. They christened their bivouac thoughts tumbling over him, he went back
‘Camp Clark’ ─ after the Episcopal Bishop of to his tent, picked up his pen and wrote the
Providence, and settled in to await orders. letter that every soldier wished, indeed still
wishes today, he had written. Once done,
Shortly after their arrival, Ballou wrote he opened his trunk and placed it inside
to Sarah. with the letter he had written earlier. With
that, he went back to the business of pre-
We are encamped in paradise. There cer- paring for war.
tainly never was a more beautiful spot. It is
an oak grove – trees all tall and large and Under the urging of his friend, Secretary
the ground free of shrubs. of the Treasury Salmon Chase, West Point
graduate Irwin McDowell, a staff officer who
There followed several weeks of pa- had never led men in battle, was promoted
rading about for appreciative crowds and to Brigadier General and picked to com-
some little training. Ballou and other freshly mand the Union Forces. Mc Dowell received
minted officers spent their time studying his appointment only after Colonel Robert E.
Hardee’s Drill Manual, trying to learn how Lee had turned down the position, resigned
to be effective line officers. On July 11, Pres- his commission and went south to Virginia.
ident and Mrs. Lincoln paid a visit to the Though his plan to seize Manassas was
camp to keep morale up and to offer en- sound, his hope for a sweeping, one-stroke
couragement and thanks. victory was unrealistic – especially consid-
ering the lack of experience in all quarters.
As in all military camps, nerves were on
end and rumors ran rampant. Speculation Ballou’s fatalistic letter notwithstanding,
about the location of what would be the first most on the Union side thought that the
─ and hopefully last ─ battle of the war cen- confrontation at Manassas would quash
tered on the railroad junction at Manassas, the rebellion in good order. Civilians packed
Virginia, 35 miles southwest of Washington. lunches and made plans to ride out from the
This railhead was of prime strategic value. district in order to watch the proceedings. It
Whoever controlled it would control the flow would be a lovely day’s outing. Then, back in
of materiel into the heart of the Confederacy. Washington, there would be all sorts of par-
ties to celebrate the glorious victory. People
On the 14th, Ballou would write to Sarah were stirred up by editorials and front page
twice. In the first letter, he expressed the stories. Horace Greeley’s New York Tribune
thought that he might be able to bring shouted ‘On to Richmond!’ Why, of course,
Sarah to Camp Chase for a visit as some they would be on to Richmond. But it would
of the other officers planned to do. There just be a mere formality, a mopping up ─
was hope that the regiment would remain just a little walk in the sun.
at Washington for a while, and this was an
accepted practice. In General McDowell’s favor, he did have
some misgivings about the operation and
Later in the day, Ballou learned that in
all probability they would not remain in

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asked the president for more time to train. Than Dear little Yankee Rhode Island
President Lincoln, spurred on by forces
around him that called for a quick victory, Loyal and true, Little Rhody
turned the general down. He reasoned,
“You are green and they are green. You are Bully for you, Little Rhody
all green alike.” Marching orders were given
on July 16th. It wouldn’t be long now. Governor Sprague was not very vague

The 2nd Rhode Island was fully equipped. When he said, “Shoulder arms, Little Rhody.
They even had their own cannon. They were
also perceived to be better behaved, more Reference: “High Road to Zion”, Mathias
steady, and better drilled than some of the Harpin.1976
other regiments. Therefore, they were given
the honor to lead the march out of camp At about 9:15, the regiment had forded
and to be in the vanguard in the movement the stream named Bull Run and was facing
to contact. Accompanying the troops, Gov- Matthews’ Hill on the opposite side of the
ernor Sprague was dressed in military uni- Centerville Turnpike. Shots were fired. The
form and wore a yellow plumed hat. Sitting 2nd Rhode Islander charged up the hill to-
astride a white stallion, he rode beside Col- ward the firing. They were alone at the front.
onel Burnside, who led the advance. This The volume of fire increased. The 1st Rhode
fact alone indicates how loose an attitude Island was put into action in support of the
prevailed at this point. For although he had 2nd. The Confederate fire from Evans’ South
raised the regiments, William Sprague was Carolina Brigade and the 6th Louisiana inten-
still the governor of Rhode Island. He was sified. On the opposite slope and waiting for
a civilian ─ in uniform or not. In fact, one the Yankees were the 8th Georgia, the 4th Al-
month later, Sprague turned down a brig- abama and the 1st Virginia.
adier’s commission to remain in office. In
1863 he would resign as governor, go on As in most battles, confusion ruled the
to become a U.S. senator for 12 years, and day. The 2nd continued to advance and re-
marry Salmon Chase’s daughter, Kate. turn fire. At some point, Colonel Slocum
dismounted and stood atop a rail fence at
The Federals approached Manassas be- the crest of the hill in order to see what
fore dawn on July 21st. was going on and in order to be seen by
his men so that he might rally them. The
The gallant young men of Rhode Island Confederates saw him as well. He was hit
three times: in the ankle, the body and the
Are marching in haste to the wars: head. His men managed to carry their mor-
tally wounded commander off the field to
Full girded for strife, they are hazarding life a hospital that had been hastily set up at
Sudley Church.
In defense of our banner and stars.
It was now about 45 minutes into the
Of all the hosts that New England can battle. At the top of the hill, Major Ballou
boast, tried to reposition some of his troops on the
left flank of what appeared to be the battle
From down by the sea unto highland, line. Eyewitness accounts have it that when

No state is more true or willing to do

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struck, he was on his horse, in front of his outside and buried in a shallow grave on the
men with his back to the enemy, attempting hillside. One week later, after having been
to create some order out of the chaos. Sul- comforted in his final days by Episcopal
livan never saw what hit him. It is believed Chaplain John F. Mines of the 2nd Maine,
that it was probably a rifled cannon shot, Major Ballou passed away. Orderlies re-
from a battery of Lynchburg Artillery. The moved his body and laid it to rest next to
shell blew a hole 7 inches in diameter Slocum.
through his horse’s body and reduced his
right leg to pulp. Severely wounded but Back in Washington on the 24th, Colonel
alive and conscious, Ballou was removed to Burnside filed the following report.
the Sudley Church hospital, where his man-
gled leg was amputated. Our loss has been very severe. The
Second Regiment particularly
By late in the day, Confederate reinforce-
ments had arrived by rail from the valley of suffered greatly. The death of Colonel
the Shenandoah. They advanced in force Slocum is a loss not only to
and managed to turn the right flank of the
Federals. The Yankee line collapsed and all his own State, which mourns the death
but evaporated. Along with it, hopes of a of a most gallant and
short war evaporated as well. The 2nd Rhode
Island lost 93 – killed, wounded, or missing. meritorious officer, who would have
done credit to the service, while
As it was reported by General McDowell,
the battle turned from a mere defeat into his prominent abilities as a soldier
a total rout of the Union troops. The road would have raised him high in the
back to Washington, made worse by a
driving rain, became clogged with a disor- public estimation. He had served with
ganized, panicked exodus of carriages full me as major of the First
of congressmen, reporters, ordinary civilian
men and women, and of course soldiers. Regiment Rhode Island Volunteers, and
The only reason why the Confederates when he was transferred to a
didn’t pursue was that they were nearly as
disorganized as the Yankees. Nearly, but not more responsible position I was glad
quite. that his services had been thus

The Rebels did surge back and re-took secured for the benefit of his country.
the Sudley Church hospital. Dr. James Harris His associate, Major Ballou,
came out with a white flag to surrender the
field hospital, its staff, and its complement of the same regiment, was deserving of
of wounded to the victorious Confederates. the highest commendation as a
Colonel Slocum and Major Ballou were
among those left behind in the hospital. brave soldier and a true man.

On July 23rd, Colonel Slocum, who had By March 19, 1862, the Confederates
been lapsing in and out of consciousness, had withdrawn form the area in order to
succumbed to his wounds. He was taken help counter General George McClellan’s
Peninsular Campaign. Union troops were
able to return to Manassas. Accompanying

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them was Governor Sprague and an en- was full bearded and brown haired. The
tourage of seventy. They were on a mis- realization of what must have taken place
sion to retrieve the bodies of those Rhode horrified the now suddenly silent party. To
Island boys killed in the battle and hastily quote Dr. James B. Greeley, of the 1st Rhode
buried. They were to be returned to their Island Cavalry, who was among the exhu-
home state for proper interment. Among mation detail:
Sprague’s group were Josiah Richardson,
John Clark, and Tristan Burgess, who had Pretty obvious what happened. The 2nd
been privates in the 2nd Rhode Island. They Regiment cut up those Georgia boys rather
had voluntarily remained behind at Sudley badly, and they were sore at Slocum, the
Church to tend to the wounded and had commanding officer. They just got the
been paroled back to the North. wrong body.

It was Richardson who directed the ex- Another theory holds that although the
humation party to the spot where he had Confederates were indeed ‘sore at Slocum’,
participated in the burial of Slocum and it was more for his well known stance as
Ballou. The men dug first for Slocum. They vocal, adamant abolitionist in the ante
found loose earth but no body. bellum days than for any of the damage he
had done to their ranks. Further, according
Standing nearby, was a young black girl to eye witnesses, it was troops from the 21st
who lived in the area. She told them that Georgia who wreaked their vengeance on
Colonel Slocum had been dug up by some the unfortunate Ballou. The 21st was not on
Georgia boys, who then decapitated him, the field at the First Manassas. It appears
burned his body and used the coffin to bury they were acting on behalf of the 8thGeorgia,
a Negro civilian who had been killed in a re- who did indeed fight there and were in di-
cent skirmish. She pointed out where the rect contact with the 2nd Rhode Island.
body had been burned. The fact that the
ashes were still there indicated that this Governor Sprague spoke with a woman
act had taken place fairly recently. There who had acted as a nurse at the Sudley
were human bones in the ashes. There was Church. She further testified about the dep-
no skull. Ironically however, in the nearby redations committed. She also presented
bushes, there were some clothes ─ two the governor with a lock of hair, which she
distinctive shirts ─ such as a Union officer claimed to have cut from the major’s head.
might wear. Governor Sprague, who had
known both men well, was certain that Sullivan Ballou’s skull was never found.
these had not belonged to Colonel Slocum, Colonel Slocum’s body and the remaining
but to Major Ballou. Private Richardson bones of Major Ballou were gathered up,
agreed with the Governor. as were those of as many of the regiment
that fell that day as could be located. The
The party returned to the site of the personal effects of the two officers were
grave and dug for the other coffin. At just collected and readied, along with their re-
two feet, they struck wood. Opening the mains, for the trip back to Rhode Island.
box, they found and were able to recognize
the remains of 37-year old Colonel John There is one more ironic twist to the
Slocum. It was Slocum, alright. There was no story. Major Ballou’s trunk was opened in
mistaking his bright red moustache. Ballou order to place what remained of his uniform
inside. Sitting where he had placed them on

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July 14th were the two letters Sullivan had Sources:
written. Neither one had been mailed! It
was Governor Sprague’s sad duty to hand 1. The War of Rebellion: A Compilation of
carry what became famous as “The Sullivan the Official Records of the Union and
Ballou Letter” back to Smithfield where he Confederate Armies, Series I, Vol. II, p.400
personally delivered it to the grieving Sarah.
2. Brown University Alumni Quarterly (Nov.
But there is just a bit more. When Gov- 1990): pp.38-42
ernor Sprague gave the letter and Sullivan’s
effects to Sarah, she already had in her pos- 3. Virgil Carrington Jones, Gray Ghosts and
session other letters from him. This would Rebel Raiders, (New York, New York; Ga-
not be unusual save for the fact that they lahad Books, 1956), pp. 66-73
were all dated after July 14th , almost up to
the point of his entry into battle. For some 4. R.U. Johnson & C.C. Buel, ed., Battles
reason, Sullivan chose not to mail his beau- and Leaders of the Civil War,(Edison,
tiful letter. Maybe he meant it as a last will: Hew Jersey; The Century Co, 1883), Vol. I
in testament to his love of life, of God, of his
country and of course, his family. Maybe it 5. www.pbs.org
was meant to be read only after his death.
It was certainly meant for Sarah’s eyes only. 6. Wikipedia
Such was not to be the case. And, in final
irony, we are all luckier for the fact. 7. The History Net

This loving couple, whom we know 8. William Safire, Freedom; A Novel of
through the strength and beauty of one Abraham Lincoln and the Civil War,
letter, has come to symbolize the conflicting (Garden City, NY; Doubleday & Co, 1987)
feelings of duty, love, honor, and country.
Sullivan and Sarah have no descendents 9. www.bessel.org
today. However, that wonderful, marvelous
letter speaks for us all. Maybe, therefore, in 10. www.sullivanballou.info/book.html
some way, we are all descendents of Sul-
livan Ballou. About the Author

Sarah never remarried. Eventually she Frank Emerson: “I’m a freelance writer
left Rhode Island and moved to New Jersey specializing in history, humor and folk
where she lived quietly with her son Willie music. I’ve been published on sites and
until her death in 1917 at the age of 80. At in magazines and publications such as
that time, she and Sullivan were reunited Military History Now, Chicken Soup for
when she was laid beside the remains of the Soul, Learning through History, Bend
her beloved husband beneath a fine obelisk of the River and On Patrol. For five years I
in the Swan Point Cemetery in Providence, was a researcher/writer for Remilon/Study.
Rhode Island. com. I am the co-author of Wythe County
Virginia during the War Between the States
and Clean Cabbage in the Bucket and other
Tales from the Irish Music Trenches. I am
the author of Frank Tells Tales and Wythe
Bane Graham, 8th Virginia Cavalry, C.S.A.:
Letters and Narrative of a Son of the Old
Dominion.”

108

THE PASSION

by Tracy Mann

Jesus is condemned to death Every evening before she went to bed,
Marilu prepared a multi-course meal so
The news came to me from Brazil in the late that Rai would have a hot lunch the next
1970s. The transparent airmail envelope, day while she was at work. She made okra
striped in green and yellow, contained a pre- with dried shrimp and coconut tapioca
monition of a death. Recently returned from cake. Occasionally, friends from the North-
a three-year stint there, I knew that such east would pay a visit but mostly Raimund-
premonitions were not to be taken lightly. In inho was alone in the apartment. One high
the Sertão, Brazil’s huge swath of semi-arid window let in the city’s hazy light.
land buried within the nine states occupying
the continental bulge, the supernatural was In 1974, I was moving counter to Rai-
commonplace. Everyone was a believer. mundinho’s clockwise, trying to get out of
São Paulo and back to Bahia where I had
Rita, one of the seven sisters of my Bra- just spent Carnaval. I liked to drop by his
zilian boyfriend, wrote me that her mother, place in the early evening to catch a whiff
Dona Teresa, awoke one night to the crack of whatever Marilu had put on the stove
of shattering china. Her husband lay beside to braise, enough garlic, onion and cilantro
her, sleep undisturbed. to matar saudades, ease the longing, for
the north. And also to find out if there was
The candle she’d left burning in the blue any family gossip about the boyfriend who
and white saucer at her bedside had fallen was waiting for me up in Bahia. Rai was his
on the floor, extinguished. cousin.

“Raimundinho”, Dona Teresa thought. Dona Teresa had reached for her hus-
band’s shoulder and gently rocked him.
Little Raimundo was the nephew who “Geraldo,” she said, her voice breaking. “Rai-
had left the Sertão for São Paulo. His wife, mundinho is dead.”
Marilu, had a good job there and he spent
his days, legs folded, on a striped mattress Jesus accepts the cross
set on the floor, trying out new songs on his
guitar, singing the old ones that reminded The first time my boyfriend broke up with me,
him of home. Rai was a Brazilian ringer for I had been living with him in Salvador, the
Picasso’s Man with Guitar, spare and down-
cast. The city had consumed whatever effer-
vescence he’d carried south with him.

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coastal capital of the state of Bahia, for about be the way, the path, the road, the under-
two months. It was a hard break but not per- lying principle of the universe.’ The skinny
manent. Two of his sisters, who shared a tiny highway that led us from Salvador north
house with us, suggested a road trip as a di- into the nowhere of the Sertão, though un-
version. We headed inland, first to Serrinha, familiar, felt comfortable, somewhere I was
where their parents and young siblings had just fine to be traveling. A blank slate, open
settled, and then deep into the Sertão to to what would come next.
Monte Santo, a ten-hour drive.
Jesus falls for the first time
I had not come to Brazil in 1973 as a jour-
nalist, a researcher or an academic. I was a I savored the words, Sertão, sertanejo,
self-taught smarty-pants at the tail end of rolling them around in my mouth. Curling
girlhood with something to prove, a blaze my tongue behind my top front teeth and
of anger burning me up with desire to set expelling the tão through my nose. There
my own rules, make up my own epic story. I were other words to learn, too: cangaço,
landed in Brazil under the nominal cover of a Robin Hood-style banditry. When used
a Rotary Club scholarship for high school se- as an adjective, it could be understood as
niors. I was ready to fight to spend my days a pejorative, cangaceiro, a renegade who
there doing something extraordinary. could not adapt to Brazil’s coastal living.
Caatinga indicated the Sertão’s iconic veg-
The sisters had called the Sertão a desert etation -- a white forest, in the Tupi indig-
so I imagined the Sahara, swirling white enous language -- although the landscape
sand dunes blown across a cerulean sky, not was colored brown and sage and smelled
the rocky soil and scrub brush of the Mojave. of distant smoke.
I didn’t have any affection for deserts, land-
scapes for which my own reference point The girls and I packed up a few things
was the Westerns my mother infrequently and were soon bumping down a two-lane
watched on a small black and white tv. The asphalt in a beat-up Bug into Bahia’s myth-
patches of green and occasional rolling hill ical backlands. The sisters had stoked my
surprised me. What they all had in common imagination by telling me about Canudos,
was the emptiness. a settlement nearby Monte Santo, where
a series of battles had been fought by the
Sertão was a peculiar word. If you broke Brazilian government against civilians in
it apart, you could look at it as ‘ser’, to be, the late 1800s. The opposition had been
and ‘tão’, so much. Portugal offered such a ragtag population of runaway slaves, in-
a constrictive orientation; the colonizers digenous peoples and mestizo outcasts
who took possession of Brazil, Angola and unable to unravel where they came from,
Mozambique needed an expansive term to where they belonged. The Canudos rebels
encompass these vast uncharted territories. established an agrarian utopia, a kind of
In its original usage, ‘sertão’ meant ‘un- rural socialism, under the leadership of
known space’. It might as well have meant the messianic Antonio Conselheiro. Where
unknown universe. there had been nothing, together they built
a simple, sustainable community that wel-
I remembered a song that my Sertanejo comed strangers.
friends had written, Ser Tao, the Tao lacking
the diacritical tilde. When I looked up the
meaning of the Buddha’s Tao, I read ‘to

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Their movement was so successful that in Dr. Hamilton Safira de Andrade ran the
1896 a regional police force was sent out to local hospital. It seemed strange to some
put down what was labelled as a pro-mon- that a graduate of one of the best medical
archy rebellion against the nascent republic. schools in Brazil would return to the coun-
tryside to practice. He provided medicine
“In this land, a man is worth nothing un- for patients who couldn’t pay and filled in
less he takes up arms to change his own for the chemistry teacher when the high
destiny.” school couldn’t find one. He owned the best
house and the best stereo system. Hamilton
The government lost the first battle. was as close as Serrinha got to celebrity.

Jesus meets his mother Hamilton inaugurated a youth debate
group in Serrinha, Grupo Debate, which
Serrinha, the gateway to the Sertão, once was affectionately shortened to Gruda-se,
served as the dusty crossroads for columns meaning to stick to, to glue, to adhere, to
of white cattle herded eastward to market. take. He taught the older kids, six out of
During Brazil’s dictatorship of the 1960s-70s, twelve in my boyfriend’s family, about the
Serrinha had matured into a town. It was student movements in France and in the
also a stop on an improvised underground US, played Miles Davis and Nina Simone,
railroad for political dissidents and Commu- explained Marxism and the Cuban revolu-
nist party members. tion. They took the “Gruda-se” imperative
to heart, forming deep loyalties to the man
Dona Teresa, greeted us as we entered who nurtured their future artistic and po-
the family house through the narrow litical paths. “Everything,” my boyfriend’s
hallway that opened up to a combined younger brother wrote me, “that a young
living/dining/cooking area. In one hand person from the country needed to trans-
raised over her head, she held a chicken form idleness into precious time.”
by the neck, a few feathers floating to the
floor. Through cloudy glasses her keen eyes With the charm of a Pied Piper, Ham-
appraised me. She pointed her free hand ilton could tease out a teenager’s intellect,
at me and turned to her daughters, “Does giving all of us who filled his living room
she speak Portuguese?” “I do,” I said, tilting the benefit of the doubt that we were
my chin upward so she would see my spunk. smart, clever, full of talent. He peppered
She made a small grunt of disbelief and me with questions, as if my being from
hauled the chicken out the back door where abroad might bring some new revelations
she would snap its neck and get it ready for or insights about how the world far from
the waiting pot on the stove. the Sertão was getting along. All I had were
half-formed impressions of Black Panther
Simone of Cyrene carries the cross Eldridge Cleaver and the incendiary Austra-
lian feminist Germaine Greer.
My boyfriend’s family arrived in Serrinha
in 1970, the year Brazil became the three- People who were uncomfortable with
time world champion in soccer. They em- the leftist philosophy Hamilton seeded
phasized the soccer. After that, the biggest began to whisper. Why did the tall, sil-
story was Hamilton. ver-haired man spend so much of his time
with kids? Rumors circulated that he must

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be some kind of pedophile. He was jailed deep wrinkles and leathered skin, the phys-
several times, but always for political trans- iography of a life lived in drought. She was
gressions. the only person in Monte Santo related to
no one.
A few years ago I went to the arthouse
theatre in Salvador to see a documentary What was extraordinary about Ermita
about a woman who was killed by the mili- was her music, her ability to play guitar and
tary dictatorship in Bahia in 1970. The film write her own songs. I wondered if her soli-
told the story of Iara, the girlfriend of the tude was the result of her choice of profes-
renown Communist leader Carlos Lamarca. sion. It was difficult, if not impossible, for
Pregnant, she fled from São Paulo north to a rural woman of her generation to be an
Bahia to evade capture by the Department artist and also keep a man.
of Special Operations, Brazil’s secret police.
To my surprise, Hamilton appeared on the My boyfriend’s father, Geraldo, was
screen, tears in his eyes. He said that Iara the one male in the community who sup-
had come to him for an abortion, since she ported including her in the serenatas, spe-
didn’t want to risk the military taking her cial occasions or holidays when men with
baby from her and using it as a weapon guitars gathered in the town square or in
against Lamarca. I think he didn’t perform the door way of a particular household to
the abortion in the end. But he confessed commemorate a significant event. Ermita
that he had hidden many anti-dictatorship was eager to show me her compositions but
activists in his home. Probably one or two she couldn’t actually play them for me – it
had been sequestered there on the nights was Holy Week and she had unstrung her
I went over to listen to Hamilton’s jazz LPs guitar in respect. She motioned for me to sit
and readings of Jean Paul Sartre. beside her on her bed to look through her
well-worn collection of sheet music of pop-
Veronica wipes the tears of Jesus ular songs. They lay in a paper folder which
she opened on top of the naked guitar, bal-
Despite the breakup, I received a family anced reverently on her knees.
welcome in Monte Santo. Few Americans
had passed through the region. Peace Having no children of her own, Ermita
Corps volunteers, I think. People were un- eyed me closely to examine my potential.
certain about what it meant to come from Part of me wanted her to choose me as
outside of Brazil. “What onibus did you take her heir in art, but, even if she did, I knew
to get to São Paulo?”, I was asked. Certain I wouldn’t stay. I was just eighteen and
questions made me wonder if they doubt- other destinations awaited, where, I hoped,
ed whether the world was round. Electric- music and loneliness wouldn’t be my sole
ity was new. companions.

There was great excitement around in- Jesus falls for the second time
troducing me to Ermita. Bone thin, stringy
hair, her printed cotton dress flapping about A large meteorite was discovered near
her, she smiled at me, shy and welcoming. Monte Santo in 1784 by a young cowherd
In her solitary room she stood like an an- grazing his stock. “Bendegó”, Tupi language
cient orphan, face and hands marked by for fallen from the sky, described the great
rock their ancestors had witnessed hurtling

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to Earth. Eleven million indigenous people sugar or solid molasses meant to be sucked
lived in Brazil before the Europeans arrived. until they had softened enough to chew.
Within the first 100 years of colonization, Each room in the house possessed a single
90% died of disease. In 2019, when the piece of furniture – a bed or a chair or a
National Library burned to ground in Rio, table -- as if the residents were still in the
destroying rare documents and archives of process of moving in. One yellowed color
hundreds of years of Brazilian history, Ben- picture of Jesus was tacked to the wall.
degó was the lone artifact that survived
among the ashes. Indomitable. It was be- To pass the hours until the dark de-
lieved to possess magic that would bring scended like a length of velvet, the aunts
the rains to the parched lands. decided that my long hair needed a perma-
nent wave. They set a large plastic tub on
In the second battle of Canudos, in Jan- the table and had me lean backwards so
uary 1897, government forces were once they could slosh on a solution that nearly
again defeated. made me gag. Then they began to twist
each strand onto narrow rollers, pulling my
Those who remained of the battalion hair to the point that I thought they might
limped into the rebel camp where they rip a hunk right out of my scalp.
were received in silence.
As they worked they asked me questions
Jesus meets the women of Jerusalem about their nephew – a ribald interrogation
full of words whose meanings I could guess
Tia Pipia and Tia Vilma and Tia Carminha, at but were outside of my familiar vocab-
my boyfriend’s aunts, owned a large house ulary. Jokey euphemisms for penis and or-
off the town square in Monte Santo. When gasm. Their bawdy talk surprised me.
I entered, they were seated at a large kitch-
en table where a naked bulb dangled over- It was impossible to get comfortable on
head. What did they look like? Canny and my thin pillow, scarf-wrapped head pinched
ready for fun, I am certain. Smoked ciga- by the rollers all night long. The next
rettes. Not sure, but probably. The aunties morning, when everything had been un-
were dressed in mismatched print blouses rolled, removed, and carefully combed out,
and skirts, patterns faded from hand scrub- the aunties led me to a dime-store mirror
bing in the yard, rubber flip flops on their offering a murky reflection. “See,” they said,
feet. I dragged up a chair, scraping the li- with satisfaction. I could just make out a
noleum. small, desultory wave.

There were no men present. We talked My hair had returned to its former state
and giggled. I was urged to taste fruits that by the time I left them, but a trace of sulfur
had to be excavated from prickled skins: and the women’s throaty laughter stayed
Fruit of the Count, green and shaped like with me.
a pine cone, full of tiny buds that were
peeled off and popped in the mouth, seeds Jesus falls for the third time
included. Umbu, another green fruit, was
small and round and caused an involun- In Rio, the authorities became worried
tary pucker like a sour cherry. These were about the persistence of the Canudos reb-
followed by sweets that were mostly pure els. Their self-sufficiency was threatening

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

the latifundo order, the centuries-old sys- would not peer down at my nakedness. It
tem of land ownership the Europeans had was tricky to catch the rhythm of start and
imported to Latin America that protected stop. Start to wet my hair and body. Stop to
the rich and disenfranchised the poor. The soap up. Start to rinse. Stop again. Where
emergent republic had no plans to disman- did the water come from, I wondered. How
tle the privilege of the rich. deep were the wells?

In the third battle, the military went all Jesus is nailed to the cross
out, sending in a notorious commander
known as the “head-chopper” to lead the As our yellow Volkswagen Beetle navigated
attack against the community. Under the in- the unpaved side streets of Monte Santo, I
tense heat, the wheels of the wagon trains caught a glimpse of men on ladders, disman-
carrying the British-made cannons sunk tling skeins of fat colored lightbulbs that had
into the sand. The commander suffered a provided an evening’s entertainment as the
succession of epileptic seizures accompa- first-ever public electric illumination. Their
nied by visual hallucinations. Speech failed removal was a concession to Holy Week.
him.
Dedéga opened his front door wide and
What visions came to him were not re- greeted me with a smile. The caretaker of
corded. Who knows what phantasms may an eclectic collection of objects recovered
have confounded him in the shimmer and from the Sertão, he would give me a tour of
tremble of his terrible mission. the ‘museum’ he had set up in his home. My
host didn’t have the roughness I expected
He was shot and killed on the first day. of a country man. Dedéga’s hands were
smooth, his sharp eyes took in everything
Blessed are those who are persecuted for about me with a considered air. I doubted
the sake of righteousness. whether I was quick enough to match him
in conversation so I kept quiet.
The government failed for the third time.
The artifacts, bequeathed to Dedéga
Jesus is stripped of his clothing by his father, included the accordion of
Luiz Gonzaga, a giant of Brazilian popular
My Holy Week baptism was a shower in a music of the 20th century who was known
wooden shack. by his distinctive leather hat, a bandit’s half-
moon decorated with stars. There were old
Monte Santo was still without running photographs, rusty muskets, crudely fash-
water. To bathe I was directed to a small ioned wood cuts, a battered trumpet that
structure behind the aunties’ house, given had lost its valves, a set of finely polished
a towel and a well-worn bar of soap. A cobbler’s lasts that would have maintained
rickety stepladder led up to the roof where the sharp fit of a pair of military boots.
a man with a straw hat and pants rolled What enchanted me most were the pat-
up to the knee negotiated the weight of a terned porcelain bowls and pitchers and
wooden barrel of water. It was explained the golden trinkets that Dedéga had found
that I would shout for him to pour the water while canvassing the backlands. He told
down through a large hole in the ceiling me they had been abandoned in haste by
and, similarly, yell when I wanted him to
stop. The aunts assured me that the man

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minor Portuguese royalty who had tried -- heads, arms, legs, hearts – hung from their
to replicate their European empire in the miniature rafters. Each represented a peti-
Sertão only to be defeated by the relent- tioner with a sick loved one, or perhaps his
less drought and sand storms. Buried under own diseased body part, negotiating with
a hundred years of misery, it was believed God for relief. At the top of the hill, the Via
a treasure of gold and precious stones was Sacra (the Holy Way) terminated at the
waiting, along with a lost European princess, chapel of Santa Cruz where images of the
eternally imprisoned by the greed and ava- Death of Our Lord, Our Lady of Loneliness
rice of men. There was a local saying, a curse, and St John the Baptist were displayed.
really, attributed to Conselheiro, that prom-
ised that one day, “The sea will become the When I reached Santa Cruz, an appari-
Sertão and the Sertão will become a sea.” tion in white caught my attention. On the
opposite side of the hill from where I had
Jesus dies come, I saw robed figures picking their
way through the scrub. They moved like
I stood on the first of the hand-hewn stones dancers, arms outstretched, legs extended,
that made a path up the hill, the center- occasionally entwining elbows or bending
piece of Monte Santo. The stones had been towards the earth. Their garments rippled
set down 200 years before I arrived, under as if stirred by an invisible wind. The day-
the direction of a Capuchin friar who found light narrowed. I paused there considering
the site reminiscent of Jerusalem’s Mount what it might mean to join them, to enter
Calvary and was determined to re-create it into that other realm of being.
in the midst of those drylands, at the nexus
of the sacred and profane. Jesus is taken down from the Cross

Small groups of the faithful, dressed in Sometime after I had read and re-read Ri-
shorts or skimpy dresses, barefoot, made ta’s letter and folded it away in a drawer, I
ready to scale the long rocky road on their learned that Raimundinho had been hit by
knees, committing to a Good Friday blood a car and dragged across several lanes of
sacrifice of torn skin and bruising. I climbed one of São Paulo’s wide avenues to end up
along behind them in flip flops, my one pinned against the meridian.
‘good’ skirt flouncing at the calf, goose-
bumps rising on my bare arms. I didn’t make In the fourth battle of Canudos, in 1897,
the treacherous ascent on my knees as the government sent in their full fire power
they did but followed close behind on foot, and murdered most of the residents. On the
hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever mys- final day of judgement as many as 30,000
tery might reveal itself to the truly devoted. men, women and children were killed. Their
camp was burned to the ground, women
There were fourteen Stations of the were raped, children were decapitated. The
Cross on Jesus’ march to Calvary. The Ser- president of the new republic, Prudente de
tanejo penitents subjected themselves to a Morais, declared, “In Canudos no stone
more prolonged suffering. Twenty six tiny upon stone will remain so that never again
chapels lined the uphill trail. They all had can this evil citadel be reproduced.”
names: Our Lord of Footsteps, Our Lady of
Pain. Ex-votos, carved wooden extremities The soldiers who survived trudged home
to Rio to be lauded for their victory. Instead

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of the anticipated back pay, all they received bones sharpened by a hunger for home and
was an inhospitable piece of land in the hills justice, fingers taking comfort in the pierc-
far from the beach. They named it favela ing melodies of desert troubadours as he
after the white flowers they had seen in the stroked the frets. The news of his passing
Sertão, bursts of honeysuckle-like blooms reminded me how united with him I had
surrounded by poisonous thorns and spikey felt in those silent moments in São Paulo,
green leaves. comrades in exile. Except that Rai knew
where he belonged and I, like the itinerants
“Canudos did not surrender,” wrote au- of Canudos, was at the beginning of finding
thor Euclides da Cunha in his renown first- my way.
hand account of the conflict, Os Sertoes.
“The only case of its kind in history, it held Dona Teresa eventually warmed up to me,
out to the last man. There were only four sewing me cotton skirts and velvet dresses
of them left: an old man, two other ful- hand embroidered with beads and sequins.
ly-grown men, and a child, facing a furiously If I was still lacking any essential bona fides,
raging army of five thousand soldiers. We she had forgotten them. Whether or not her
shall spare ourselves the task of describing son was still in love with me, she had taken
the last moments. We could not describe me in. At her 90th birthday party in 2019,
them.” she danced with her seven daughters and
pulled me into the circle of women to twist
In the 1960s, the ruins of Canudos were and sway, hands clasped together.
covered over by the Cocorobó Dam. An-
tonio Conselheiro’s grave was buried under When I returned to Salvador from my
sixty feet of water. The military dictatorship sojourn in Monte Santo, the boyfriend and
meant to erase any trace that might serve I got back together for a good stretch. I re-
to inspire future resistance. The War of mained in the little house where he lived
Canudos remains the bloodiest campaign with his older sisters long after our final
ever fought on Brazilian soil. break up, long after he had left for his own
journey to make a musical career. I was
From my vantage point on the heights of grateful that he had gotten me into some-
Monte Santo, the Sertão spread itself out thing, a family, a place, a language, an open
before me. The ground fissured, sketching canvas of big ideas, struggle and passion.
borderlines around the grey, green, Something to fight for even when there’s
shadows, hills, boulders and dappled light. every chance of losing.

I could not see the dam or the water or Cyclically, the endemic drought of the
the ghosts of vultures circling in the air. Sertão returns and drains the reservoir, re-
vealing the ruins of the church that marks
Jesus is laid in the tomb the heart of the Canudos encampment. The
remaining stones arch upward out of the
Raimundinho had always seemed bereft in water like a sea monster’s spine, ready to
the city, like “a stray dog in a crowd of cattle strike. Some things cannot be buried for-
wandering recklessly”, in the words of an ever. The broken places are where the story
old song. The whole history of the Sertão begins.
could be read in his fragile body, cheek-

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About the Author

Tracy Mann is a contributor to the John F. Kennedy, Jr. anthology “250 Ways to Make America
Better”. She has written lyrics for Grammy Award-winning albums by the Manhattan Transfer
and Sarah Vaughan and been a scriptwriter for the children’s television series “My Little
Pony.” Her writing has appeared in the Earth Island Journal and the Sarah Lawrence Writing
Institute Journal. She is currently at work on a memoir about Brazil.

117

BASEBALLS

by Allen Long

I’m sixty-three and work several days a cards. My friend Peter invited me to attend
week as an assistant hospital nurse in the a Washington Senators game with him
San Francisco Bay Area. On my days off, I in 1968. The opposing team was the Oak-
walk my beloved golden retriever, Ruby, land Athletics, and one of their star players
two miles every morning at a lush sports was Reggie Jackson in his rookie year. Sen-
park replete with numerous soccer fields ator slugger Frank Howard challenged
and twenty-five baseball diamonds. On Mr. Jackson to a homerun duel. They bat-
several occasions recently, I was delighted tled back and forth, but Reggie hit a final
to find stray balls nestled in the dew-damp homerun in late innings that clenched the
grass. After I’d collected three such trea- game for the A’s. After the contest, a frus-
sures, which rolled around in the passenger trated Senator threw a baseball into the
foot-well of my red Honda Civic, I asked my- stands, hard. It boomed against the score-
self, why am I collecting baseballs? board and rocketed into the seats. Miracu-
lously, Peter scrambled over his chair and
You might think this was an act of nos- seized it. We took turns holding the ivory
talgia inspired by fond memories of playing orb in wonder during the car ride home.
catch with my dad, but this couldn’t be fur-
ther from the truth. My father had no in- Also, I attended a baseball clinic at the
terest in baseball or spending time with me YMCA as a kid that I greatly enjoyed. Later,
or my younger brother Danny; his sole in- I threw the ball often with my son Mathew,
terests were reading and playing piano. I re- who played catcher on an undefeated Little
member only two childhood projects upon League team I helped coach, and during
which I worked with my dad. He helped me the years I was a well-paid but unhappy
paint and construct a Creature from the businessman, my wife, Elizabeth, and I at-
Black Lagoon model and a pinewood derby tended about twenty Oakland A’s games
racing car for Cub Scouts; on both occasions, each summer.
my mother forced him to participate.
But here’s the thing—when I picked up
So why my excitement over the base- those baseballs, I also experienced hope.
balls? Well, nostalgia is a factor—in the Six- It’s too late for me to play catch with my
ties, when I grew up in Arlington, Virginia, father; he recently died at ninety-one. But
my friends and I were crazed for baseball; Elizabeth and I have two young grand-
we constantly played catch and traded daughters and a grandson—Selina, Julie,

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and Tyler—who live in Japan, and I realized The grandmother made an O with her
I’m saving the balls to play catch with them. mouth; then she rushed back up the stairs
Also, our daughter, Stephanie, is a huge to call the police. Randy and I burned rubber
baseball fan who lives down the block, and to my house a few blocks away. We played
she’s pregnant with a boy, Eddie. quietly in my room, until there was an angry
pounding at the front door. My father an-
But here’s the other thing—when I col- swered. Randy and I slithered on our bel-
lected those balls, I remembered how dis- lies down the hall so we could hear without
appointed and bitter I was as a kid because being seen.
my father wouldn’t play catch with me. This
led me to wonder if there were any times I “Does Allen Long live here?” the grand-
looked up to him. One episode came vividly mother shouted at my father.
to mind.
“Yes,” he said. “What’s this about?”
As fifth graders, my friend Randy and I
played on a warm spring Saturday, sprawled “Well, he and his friend Randy tried to
upon one of our school’s dusty baseball dia- molest my granddaughter and then cussed
monds. Specifically, we melted green army me out when I told them I was calling the
men with matches and blew them up with police.”
firecrackers, imagining flame throwers and
mortar fire. Absorbed in our play, we didn’t My father didn’t miss a beat. “Allen
notice a younger girl running through the would never do anything like that, and
grass toward us on near-silent feet. Before Randy is like a son to me, and he’d never do
we knew what was happening, she snatched anything like that, either. Please get off my
our army men and fled to her nearby house, porch!” He slammed the door.
with Randy and me in hot pursuit on our
banana-seated Stingray bikes. When we My father spotted us. “I was right about
arrived at her yellow cottage, the girl was you boys, wasn’t I?” he said.
gone, but we shouted for the return of our
army men. Her grandmother came down “Yes, sir,” I said. “We were playing at the
the weathered back steps, followed by the school, and that girl stole our army men and
girl. We didn’t even know her. wouldn’t give them back.”

“I’m calling the police,” the grandmother “I thought it was something like that,” he
said. “Shame on you boys for trying to mo- said.
lest her!”
“Thanks, Dad,” I said with unexpected pride.
We were outraged and feeling our oats
about almost being teens. Also, Randy rarely
saw his divorced father, and he was a pretty
wild guy who inspired unruliness in other-
wise well-mannered me. In addition, our
fifth grade teacher hated us, and we were
sick of her yelling at us. Almost in unison, we
said virtually the same thing: “Lady, we don’t
give a fuck about your granddaughter—we
just want our goddamned army men back!”

119



POETRY



A POEM FOR
THE WIND

by Lynn Dowless

A Poem For The Wind

When the veil of darkness finally descends,
and that light within us diminishes,
perfect peace and contentment shall stand for eternity then,
when our days on earth are finally finished.

When I stand on a tall mountain side,
gazing far outward across yon valley,
inside the mists of heaven I wish to abide,
not in this horrible metropolis alley.
I stand upon this outward extending stone gazing directly down
upon a small river string mite near half a mile below;
I contemplate where in a single leap an incessant cheerfulness might be found,
only a Utopian endless slumber I would know.

A world so repressive where I simply don’t fit in,
ne’er a place I might somehow call my own;
now I can cast it all into the wind,
gliding where the greatest eagles have flown.
Why remain, drifting along?
Nobody really cares.
Why lie to myself and pretend to be strong,
since when I am gone few would even be aware?

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Often tines I stand in silence upon some golden sanded shore,
gazing far out into the surging seas,
longing deep down inside I could make a higher life score,
living day to day in relative ease.
Once I had dreams,
but life security ne’er came to pass.
No matter how hard I try it always seems,
my success to the side has been cast.

When the sun eases downward across yon round,
among the blue swells I could strike out on my way;
with coat pockets filled by rocks holding me down,
so that somewhere on the sea bottom my withered form might lay.
Then my soul might dwell in perfect ease aground,
as a radiant glow of eternal light leads me forward in a magical way.

Floating, ne’er stumbling, moving along, ever so gently,
as does a king’s diadem carried in a saint’s parade.
No more pain, void of all crying, no sickness, nor more death, nor luxury diminishing,
when that wonderful escorting angel in my dreams has her final say.
Dwelling in an eternal mist, exalting in a splendid ingenuity, where one’s obsession may send
where passion and creativity, nor dignity, nor grace
knows no end,
when I finally enter into that marvelous valley of magnificent perpetuity.

Magic Flower On Fireside Mountain

There’s a pretty purple Hydrania by the window,
with fluttering petals appearing so new,
makes me feel so mellow
when my remaining hours are few.
She dances merrily when the wind blows
as if angels dwell in her midst;
when the sweet birds sing those divine melodies only God knows,
offering pleasure souls can’t resist.

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She dances more graceful than a court yard ballerina,
moving smoothly as a dangerous viper,
while the grass beneath her was at its greenest,
as if blustery wind and golden sunlight were spring time’s magic piper.
All the bunnies come from near and far
to simply bask in her cool shade,
without food stores, roof top, nor kitchen bar,
all are cheerful in this mountain glade.

Her superficial sight is most luxuriant,
behold, her form is perfect!
Her portrait I am painting is magnificent,
not even heaven’s seraph would object.
The valley spirits all surround thee,
oh ye splendid flower in the oaken wood;
Would you be as wonderful without me?
Could e’er I do you any good?

I am so honored only to stir the leaves at your feet,
my pleasure is to simply pull the grass away!
I am soothed with your gentle rustle by my bed side window in my sleep,
I am greeted by you every morning when I awake.
Oh ye glory of the heavenly gods!
Thy scent bears the embrace of a wood side nymph!
I long to visit you back in a distant time of glorious enlightenment and wealth that was,
but today I must go where heaven has sent.

I sit and gaze beholding your spectrum form,
I perceive your divine spirit before my very eyes!
You are certainly the most immaculate paragon outside of secular norm,
I sense the motion moving inside.
I perceive thy face,
thy lips and radiant golden hair,
inside our valley there is not sufficient space
to contain this marvelous sensation in your lair!

Flower of wonder!
Oh ye angelic lady so fair!
Hear the rolling thunder?
Sweet cherub with the flowing sunlight hair,
come waltz with me to the never-land down under!

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About the Author

Lynn Dowless is a national & international academic/ ESL Instructor. He has been a writer
for over thirty years. His latest publications have been two books of nonfiction with Algora
Publishing, and fictional publications with combo e-zines and print magazines; Leaves Of Ink,
Short Story Lovers, The Fear Of Monkeys, and Frontier Tales.

126

NOTICING WOMEN

by Madlynn Haber

Noticing Women

I am not the woman in the front row staring with adoring eyes at the poet,
her husband, on the stage behind the podium, reading from his collection.

Nor am I the woman standing behind a different podium articulating
brilliantly constructed ideas about the mysteries and interconnections
between fiction writing, exploration of the self and Zen Buddhism.

Neither am I the small dark eyed woman darting through the streets
furtively snapping pictures of random passersby and posting them
on Facebook with simple notes about how she is feeling hungry,
frustrated, confused, angry, misunderstood, very nervous or tired.

I study these woman who are not me
as they pass by my view this week.
Each one is worth my attention.

Spirits Can Be Free of groceries at the organic food market?
You admire my generous nature
You call my friend a free spirit. at the same time you think of it as foolish.
Was it what she wore?
Flair skirt, tunic top with colored straps It wasn’t meant as a compliment
showing through from underneath. when you called her a fee spirit.
Was it the width of her smile, It made me think of Tinker Bell
the hug she gave you before It made me think my friend might fly off
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the face of the earth one day, lifted insurance policy dedicated to me,
high on a friendly wind, her skirt billowing. checks endorsed, ready to cash.

The paintings on the walls of her rooms Like magic, now
brightened the day for me, money comes to me
whenever I need some.
They came from her vision, her hand. His legacy, his gift.
I put the groceries in her refrigerator
then curled up by a stripped pillow He was a poor man,
on her couch to watch her paint. lived in one room,
drove a taxi,
You called her a free spirit because played the horses.
she had no money for groceries. He was a drifter,
You would have preferred her to wear a deserter, an unavailable
a minimum wage uniform serving hours stone of a father.
for dollars so she could afford her own food.
I found a package of sliced turkey,
I consider your words an honor to her. a bag of green grapes, a large Hershey Bar,
I like the airy sound of a free spirit. and a container of fresh squeezed orange juice
There’s joy in knowing a spirit can be free. on the window sill in his room after he died

Something About Magic I wrap myself in my father’s
red, plaid flannel shirt when
Talisman? I have many. I am lonely, chilly, or hungry.
My father’s rabbit’s foot. It’s what I wear when I need
It’s blue, smells like cigarettes. a magical flash to break the monotony.

When my father died, money I am a believer in magic,
just fell down on me like magic. flashes of insight,
In his room, after he died I found: flickers of feeling,
a duffle bag filled with quarters, very yellow flowers
a bank book with my name on it, bursting into bloom.

There’s something
I could tell you
about magic.
I learned it
from my father.

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Not Everybody Gets a Book Revista Literária Adelaide
I Jumped

Overheard at the library: Never learned to dive
“Not everybody gets a book but I jumped in the water
written about them.” from the side of the pool.
I think that’s true. Big splash going down.
Big smile popping up.
Some people only get a poem Never head first,
or maybe just a phrase, few words. had my limits,
like a motto. For my father it was gave into my fears.
“you win some, you lose some Yet I jumped in the water
and some are rained out.” from the side of the pool
On a rainy the day, I was born. with a resounding splash,
fearlessness of spirit, confident
Some people may only get a word, in my feet first immersion.
or a letter, or even just a sound. Trusting I’d bounce up,
Oy vey, yikes or oops out of the water, light,
might be your defining slogan. gleaming in the sun

For me, life unfolds in chapters,
episodes of great interest.
Someone said my writing was
self-indulgent. Who shall I indulge
if not myself? I give to the world
from the depths of my being
in return, I write myself a book.
A gift to myself, luxuriating
in the sound and texture of words.

About the Author

Madlynn Haber is a retired social worker and writer living in
Northampton, Massachusetts. Her work has been published
in the anthology Letters to Fathers from Daughters, in
Anchor Magazine, Exit 13 Magazine and on websites
including: A Gathering of the Tribes, The Voices Project, The
Jewish Writing Project, Quail Bell Magazine, Mused Literary
Review, Hevria, Right Hand Pointing, Mothers Always Write,
Mum Life Stories, Random Sample and Club Plum Literary
Journal. You can view her work at www.madlynnwrites.com

129

MASQUERADE

by Cynthia Warrington

Masquerade

This Face I wear to show what the world expects to see,
a carefully painted visage rendered in muscles strained

and emotions held in check.
These garments I don to match the Face with its painted smile,

the eyes alight and the cheeks flushed with false vitality,
are camouflage in all its manipulative forms.

The movements my limbs assume when exposed and under scrutiny,
do not match the inner urge to secret myself away in solitude,
distanced from judgment and half-formed assumptions.
The words my lips produce and the cadence of their delivery

are carefully chosen for the deception they cast towards your ears,
who never suspect which troubled thoughts bore them forth.
This, the daily Masquerade in which I find myself amidst,
buffeted about in time to some diabolical tune,
is a Mask of my own making.

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Raku Heart

My Raku heart’s been molded and shaped
by the words and actions of many.

Tested by fire, colored and tinted by pain.

Cracked, yet resilient always.

My Raku heart, though imperfect
to those outside the fold, is noble to those in the know.

Young, yet wise beyond its years.

Consistently forged and re-strengthened by tears,
like a vessel full of unspoken thoughts and dreams,

my Raku heart beats on to the tune of my soul,
unheard by none but myself.

Entrusted to none and enclosed behind emotional walls
unbreached yet ephemeral as mist,

my Raku heart remains steadfastly intact.

Hold it not in your hands, nor seek to possess what it contains.
Simply admire it from afar like a work in progress,
a creation ever-changing.

Let your eyes take away what it will, and your ears to do the same.
My Raku heart’s complex in its crafted layers,
simplistic in its commonality.

Perhaps you too have a Raku heart.

Perhaps you too see it not as a cross to bear
nor a stigma to hide in shame,

but as a work of art that reflects the truth of you.

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Full Circle

The closet’s busted open wide and all the skeletons
have tumbled out clothed in the present’s reality.
Circles and cycles abound,

painted corners dried up and away to release me from this maze that I’ve scurried along and around.
What was the key to my release? What made the stars align?
Was it simply random luck or was it simply time
for rights to wrong and wrongs to right?

I’ve come full circle.
I’ve learned so much along the way.
I’ve carried these lessons across the space of time that stretch from thought to
thought and fill the space between youthful ignorance and saged age.

Missed opportunities now take on the guise of second chances
though not what I had initially wanted, seem to be just what I needed.
Unspoken words have made it loud and clear that what cannot be changed
must be left behind to forge ahead and not repeat the past’s mistakes.

I’ve come full circle.
Loved and lost so many along the way.
I’ve carried these faces across the space of time stamped across my heart in lines of red.

Though they haunt my thoughts like revenants and ghosts of the
living rather than the shades of the long dead,

I fear not what they had once represented and symbolized, but rather
what they have come to mean in this current context.

Circles do not confine me nor define me, but have simply shaped who I’ve become.

No path in life is linear and safeguarded by promise,
each step we take guarantees only a possibility.
I’ve come full circle finally after all this time.
Enlightenment though it may be to some,
to me, simply a better phase of life.

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Desiderium

Together we are as Medusa and Narcissus once were,
of Beauty twisted upon itself and Infatuation turned fatal.

As I sit and stare at you from afar
I am frozen, seemingly turned to stone.
Immobilized by my own fear and inward shame,
I long for your returning glance—some form of validation—
knowing all the while that I’m courting certain Disaster.

If I risked a glance and found you staring back at me,
I would wonder:

What are your thoughts in this single yet endless moment?
Are they as crystalized as my own or as ephemeral
as the ether between realities?

Do you long for me to validate your existence with a glance
as well, or do you see me as a hindrance, a concretion
of your own inner turmoil?

Am I a reminder of what was—of regrets not-so-long past—or a symbol for something that cannot
possibly be put into words, but only felt with a heart broken, yet mended and beating still?

The silence hangs between us like unspoken accusations,
our cold shoulders and averted gazes

an emotional barrier regardless of proximity.

And yet I feel your pull like an invisible string,
a siren song from a Gorgon’s mouth.

Beckoning me, luring me, urging me to gaze upon
the face of my Beloved, the Narcissus to my Medusa.

And so I do and turn to Stone with a smile upon my lips, thinking
all the while that perhaps in the watery stream
of consciousness that is your mind, that
you fearlessly gaze back at me as well;

not as Narcissus who only loved Himself, but as one who can see what truly lies before him, the face
of one who loved you as you were and always will be, a Window and a Mirror into your own soul.

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About the Author

C. L. Warrington is a life-long resident of Uvalde, TX. In addition to earning a Master’s Degree
in Anthropology from the University of Texas at San Antonio, she has also earned a Teacher’s
Certification and has been teaching Language Arts and Social Studies at an elementary
campus for the past eleven years. She is a self-published author who enjoys dabbling with
poetry, and has even had some of her work published in various online magazines and the
upcoming Upon Arrival issue of Poetry Nation’s annual amateur poetry contest, slated for
August 2020.

134

TRAVEL ADVISORY

by Mark Fleckenstein

Travel Advisory Conversation With An Imaginary Friend

Some days the world is a luscious peach. 1.
Others, a cold boiled potato. The difference
between knowing what to do and doing it Imagine a looking glass song, memorized,
is four dollars. How you get mesmerizing, like a photograph, a useless
there is your business.
If praying your way, lock the room, a door not closed or open.
door after you leave. Startled words gathered,

beautiful, spangled with dust.

2.

The cold makes his breath
into frozen sentences

an escaped conversation,
becoming a frost inflection, an object

like the photograph he once was.

3.

Ouroboros. He remembers Delphi, 6am
and sitting on a hill watching

tour buses snake up the mountain road.
Sacred and profane: an enjambed balance –

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what a thing is and exactly 7.
what’s missing. The Oracle,
For this, his disappeared life, another dream
never photographed, readies for seekers like a flat tire. Where he lives, a mirror

4. freshly emptied. The afterimage?
A warm dream where all is well.
Wishes on the moon, a new moon.
Wishes to go back, to turn slowly. His life, a bird just beyond flight

To remember to listen and feel, not think. 8.
12 minutes, seconds. Two words. Wishing
The theory: make a line drawing
to make a bird fly, even though it already has. of everywhere you’ve ever lived,

5. and you’ll end up drawing
your own face. The mouth
The days’ held breath is let go,
night exhales the moon, and lips play at being muscles.

tardy stars, and unpainted darkness. 9.
Prayers, desire, fistfuls of heart-
Nowhere better than anywhere
pounded wishes faint against the air, The house rests on its hips.
wordless, disembodied, caressed
The sum of our mistakes:
6. nerves, blood, skin.

If you will know they correct order of letters, Homecoming: wrong, wayward, sullied.
you make a world, you make creation.
10.
An image and its presumed shadow. A butterfly
talking to the wind. How he talks to himself, What he throws his life against: day
upon day, complicated, longing
reimagining dust as longing. An intimate
conversation with absence. Not tactile, a fist through a window, the image
on the back of a mirror,
desired. Misunderstanding any way to explain.
a reminder life is hiding somewhere.

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About the Author

Mark Fleckenstein: I was born in Chicago, Ohio, Michigan, Connecticut, North Carolina and
New Hampshire. Graduated from University of North Carolina in Charlotte (B.A. in English),
Vermont College of Fine Arts (MFA in Writing), and after finishing my MFA, settled in Mas-
sachusetts. Then marriage, two amazing daughters, divorce, four addresses and three cats
later, and not trying to publish for several decades, published my first full length collection of
poetry. Making Up the World (Editions Dedicaces, 2018), followed by God Box (Clare Song-
birds Publishing House, 2019), and A Name for Everything (Cervena Barva Press, 2020) and
a chapbook, Memoir as Conversation (Unsolicited Press, 2019).

137

THE CHILD I WAS

by Kihyeon Lee

The Child I Was Now I think I’m old enough to know
What those thunders roared to say,
They were like some terrible writings My heart still young enough to know
Wrought by a Fate’s fearful hand What the rainbow did silently say
To dictate its warnings by lightnings
No man can decipher to comprehend, That is beyond all hue and dye
Or any words man can contrive,
With each stroke’s streaking effulgence That only our heart, fated to die,
Followed by a split second of silence Can feel to dream on, while alive.
To strike a harking heart utterly speechless
As a thundering voice from dark emptiness. The Child I was in awe of the rainbow
Neither shall nor can I ever forget,
You may just watch it far away gathering, For, as a father would a son beget,
The likes of which you have never seen, Through things in life that come and go.
Or find yourself in the middle of its pouring,
Drenched with grief like you’ve never been, I wish to live for myself as both,
Looking at the world through a child’s eyes
Till, through the layers of cloud Each day, bound by a pious oath,
Out comes the sun shining so proud Till the Man in myself grows old and dies.
To build an arch blithe and bright
Soon to be disappearing in blissful light,

As a dream realized in a dream
Melts away in a tearful stream,
Like when you’ve outgrown a reality,
Waking up to another reality.

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A payable debt Alone with Dead Friends
A tribute to Charles Bukowski
There he is now, left like
A scar from another r scar torn, I remember myself kind of hibernating
As out of a life alike In a light-famished semi-basement room,
Another life was to be born Half buried alive, incubating
No hope of any season for my youth to bloom.
That remembered the grief
It had swallowed in the womb, Being a little bit of penniless,
For which there shall be no relief, helpless and restless,
Except in the darkness of a tomb. Basically, a little bit too much of
everything meaningless,
The sun will rise and shine I crowded my little space
To see in his heart a total eclipse, applauding with loneliness,
All sweetness to be tasted fine Flooding my dried-up soul
Leaving a bitterness on his lips, with nameless sadness.

And flowers will bloom beautiful, Coughing, and dying in dreams
Striking his heart as so painful several times at night,
Who dreams a vision wide-awake, Yet, with something
As they do in memory of life’s sake. inextinguishable inside of me,
I kept the fire alive for myself to continue to be,
Were he ever to be cursed to never die, Like an old dragon in a dungeon
Eternalizing the short while he is to stay dreaming of flight.
On Earth, then, till after all the oceans dry,
His journey to haven would be without day, Maybe it was the time of a heart that broke
Trying to put together its pieces,
As he will break his own heart, Or a soul masturbating to rhythm and stroke
Breaking every wave Of those classical masterpieces
Of tears, for the remaining part
Of his life another life gave Composed by Bach, Beethoven and Brahms,
And I did my best of Carpe Diem
That did bear a seed of pain In their intangible comforting arms,
Not at all in vain, While listening all day long to his Requiem.
For it knows all sane
Now it must bear its own pain, I was with him along the Path of Passion,
Ashamed of my own cross to
There being no way on Earth to drown carry in my fashion,
His undying grief, as in the abyss of death, And his voice I could hear in Missa Solemnis
Once the water breaks that does not drown Singing in the choir to wake
But lend him a life, yet as a payable debt. my soul from darkness.

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Little with them did I have in common, To a Fly: A Corpse-flower for the Lord of the Flies
Who spoke to me in a foreign language, A Tribute to William Blake
Except that after all we are all human,
Each going through their own rites of passage. Toward the moment time only flies
When I shall bloom a corpse-flower,
I don’t mind my mind sometimes Then, Baalzebub, the loathsome
stealing into that place, Lord of the Flies
Where I lie down with my young Will play some dirty tricks in his gloomy power,
self in those old days,
Like a soul after resurrection Sending a swarm buzzing to claim and demand
missing his rebirth-place, My soul he wants stashed
Where only those dead’s company away in the stinky land,
gave him any solace. Where the condemned culled
from the deceased
Shall suck up to the kingdom of the diseased.

Oh, what a messy and nasty mate
Who breeds and breathes in love for odor!
It is with my soul that I hate
You, for it aspires for spiritual splendor,

But, though my shell may drop dead like you,
Hopefully, my soul shall be able to fly like you
Away to somewhere away
from anywhere sordid
Where you were spawned
with desires so morbid.

Detached and dispatched, may my soul
Light upon an eternal flower for its goal,
As a butterfly just hatched would be matched,
Not, like a gnat, by a doomy hand snatched!

Which is why I catch and release
you from captivity
Out of pity for such a wicked and winged insect
That you are, for, in the eye
of the blind eternity,
We are equally short-lived, and
I know it for a fact.

140

A NIGHT ALONE

by Adelaide Shaw

It is a rain pinging, downspout gurgling, wind gusting, pines shushing, leaves swishing
night. It is a game after game of solitaire losing night. It is a facing eternity, an aging
awareness, a “what’s life all about?” night. It is a tug of war between graceful acceptance
and angry depression night. It is a slow ticking of time, of darkness until the first filaments
of dawn infiltrate the recesses of my brain with a new day’s promises night.

twenty-first birthday
able to vote and to drink
to follow all my dreams

joys and riches wait ahead
the rainbow’s gold within reach
young and foolish
seeing the distant future
with myopic eyes
knowing now that blurred vision
is a gift that gives us hope

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The Night is Dark

A lone man walks the empty streets, roaming slowing, shoulders stooped, hands pocketed.
A sliver moon, thin as an old woman’s white hair caught in her comb. The air, warm and
fragrant as the old woman after a splash of perfume she saves for special occasions, yet
the old man shivers under his faded flannel jacket, the one with the elbow patches.
He listens to the chirps and clicks of crickets, katydids, the trilling of tree frogs, occasionally
momentarily silencing some of the singers when his sloping form brushes against a bush.
It is late. Houses are dark, doors locked, dogs inside. All are asleep, except for an insomniac
sitting alone, one light burning, the glow of a television flashing figures and faces.
The old man pauses and wonders about the female occupant sitting alone in a
chair. Young, at least compared to the old man, a blonde in a green robe. She raises
a small glass of dark liquid and sips, draws on a cigarette and sips again.
He moves on, sensing a discomfort at his intrusion into a stranger’s life. Each to his
own, he thinks. Some take to drink. Some take to pills. Some slip inside themselves and
walk the streets alone, without a soft hand to hold, without a voice full of excitement
and plans for the future, the indeterminate future that, for some, come too soon with
painful surprises, leaving his hand empty and grasping nothing but air and pain.

wedding guests a blur
he looks into his future
and hers
imagines the beginning
but not the ending

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The Open Door

koto music
to relax, ease my spirit
to give me wings
homing me to a place
of tranquil memories

My date promises a special dinner, an adventure in eating. He heads west towards Hollywood,
towards the Sunset strip. I think Musso and Frank’s Grill, Chasen’s, Scandia. He is mum.
He turns right and winds his way up, ending at a rough parking lot below a large, one-storied
wooden structure in the style of a Japanese house with low hanging eaves. The grounds are
overgrown and appear to have been neglected for years. My date tells me this once was a hotel
with bungalows hidden in the shrubbery and trees, a trysting place for those seeking anonymity.
We walk up a gravel path after examining the alternative, a rickety wooden staircase. At the
top, we cross a moon bridge over a koi pond which extends under the building into an inner
courtyard and are met by a woman wearing a deep blue kimono splashed with cherry blossoms
and white cranes. She asks if we want “inside dining in Japanese manner with view of koi pond
or outside in Western manner with view of city.” Only then do I notice what’s behind me.

purple and gold sky
marking the onset
of a twinkling dusk
as the city prepares
for darkness

My date has reserved seating inside, and we are led along a wooden
veranda, passing rooms, some open, some closed with a heavy paper
screen, to our private room. Our hostess slides the screen open.
“Please to remove shoes,” she says. We do as she does and enter an exquisitely, flawless, sparsely
decorated room with a low table in the center, square pillows for sitting, tatami mats on the
floor, and a slightly raised alcove against the far wall with a blue and white vase holding a single
bird of paradise. To the right of the alcove is another sliding screen from which our servers enter
and exit. They come bearing hot cloths for cleansing our hands, cups, bowls, chop sticks, and
a hibachi. While our chef prepares the meal, we sip hot sake and listen to the strings of a koto
that someone is playing by the koi pond. My eyes flit from watching the chef to my date.

how does love begin?
a word, a look given
a meal shared?
the way to a heart
has many paths

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About the Author

Adelaide B. Shaw lives in Somers, NY. She has been creating Japanese poetic forms–haiku,
haibun, tanka, tanka prose and photo haiga–for nearly 50 years and has been published
widely. Her collection of haiku, An Unknown Road, won third place in the Haiku Society of
America’s Merit Book Award in 2009. Her second book of haiku, The Distance I’ve Come,
is available on Cyberwit and Amazon. Her third book of haiku will be out later this year.
Adelaide also writes fiction and non-fiction has been published in several journals. Some of
her published Japanese short form poetry are posted on her blog: www.adelaide-whitepetals.
blogspot.com

144

THE TOWER

by Daniel King

Aphelion Cadences Tellurite Stem

Opal light from Atlas Gliding towards this planet of rutile plains,
Lensed on cyan dawn shoals We slow. Alpha is two
Burns but forms an echo Centaurian stars; we gain
Cascades wild in my soul. Proxima’s puce pearl in lieu.
Terraformed now, biology here is strange,
Here I stand in wonder Probes say. Tellurite stems,
Here I stand with arms raised Not sterile and stale. Some change!
I the son of solace Settlers’ shadows maroon
Setting oceans ablaze. Stretti on litmus lagoons
Very soon.
27 Tauri
Sapphire shadowed Pleiad Freedom at last! Our stellite and stellar craft
Incandescent chaos Is down. Far from the fate
Bright eclipsing triad. They thought we would face. They laughed.
Testers and timers can wait:
Cyan rays from Tau stars Now is the time for steely advance and trust
Glassy suns of Class B For all. Girders and struts
Celebrate my birthright Will cover this plain, not rust.
Shore the light of Kalki. No one could laugh at this view
Scarlet and Alnitak-blue
It is true.

Marching at dawn, a garnet of gashing shade,
We smile. Hunters, we rule
These rills and ravines we made,
Vishwam inspired. We are cruel.
Tilting the hills and stilling with a style
They rue… faced with our mills,

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The silt when compelled, resiles. Insignia
This world is first in our quest:
Ross 128b is next Delta K proclaims the King of all space
We’ll never rest. Delta K acclaims in ink the New Kin
Black and silver sign displayed on all craft
Revelling now, before we Centaurs sleep Black insignia sharp against the cold stars
I cheer. Tell me the lure Silver plasma mark of suns, the far disk.
That makes me explore, the leap
Onward to worlds I contour; Shiva’s trigon blazes paths through star mist
Restlessness arrowed more to infinite Vishnu’s K embraces males in Kalki
Expanse, ever to soar See the wars we launch now emerald charged
Beyond every estimate. See the worlds we gain now amethyst tasked
This is a time for elites Worlds of sand or gas, the whole galaxy.
I am the head of the fleet
I am Kalki.

Star Sagamen

Now the honour falls to me.
My craft has passed the final stars and aims
At galactic space, the black asymptote.

I long have known those signs enter minds:
The wheels of stars are chakras now;
Yantras alpha-omega primed.
Sagamen will disallow
Tales that say I knew I would find
Such danger there,
Such stellar signs.

Vastness’ magnet draws my soul.
I pause to gaze at home, extol its stars,
Then resume my course, my Angstrom attack.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

The Tower

There it stands Devadatta Devadatta
The Tower ascending cold Devadatta Devadatta
Origin, the source of light Devadatta Devadatta
And soaring to pleroma heights Devadatta Devadatta
A bastion of the Son and Man Tau for all space
A labyrinth of prism caves The spirit of Delta K
And crystalline as white horse waves. A mountain for the Fletcher’s Twelve
Devadatta Devadatta A steeple for the final selves
Devadatta Devadatta A jaggedness contoured by springs
Devadatta Devadatta A rhapsody for suns to sing.
Devadatta Devadatta Devadatta Devadatta
Devadatta Devadatta Devadatta Devadatta
Devadatta Devadatta Devadatta Devadatta
Spanned by grey swell Devadatta Devadatta
Alone in an ocean world Devadatta Devadatta
The legacy of great Kaldog Devadatta Devadatta
A prison but the home of God Tor for all time
The prophecy of great Kalra A diamond guiding lives
An edifice to rule the stars. Ignitor and the storm of worlds
Devadatta Devadatta A warning to the galaxies
Devadatta Devadatta But heralding the Lord Kalki.

About the Author

Daniel King: I am an Australian same-sex oriented writer, with a strong interest in Hinduism
(particularly pertaining to Kalki, the 10th and final avatar of Vishnu, the Preserver, incarnating
now and forever together with Shiva, the Destroyer), mysticism in general, and astronomy.
As a surfer, I am also strongly influenced by marine imagery.

147

SUNSHOWER

by Zebulon Huset

Killing it, Cooking It

Friday night the second month of high school— Schools and offices were for store
but we weren’t thinking about school. hours—we had plans.
It stole hours that we used to spend skating. Skate spots arranged in our heads for specifics:
All summer, every day, all day we were rolling. geography, estimated energy
Curfew didn’t lift until 5, so levels, just because
we’d spend the night that one curved ledge is fun for an
watching skate videos and drinking generic cola hour. 4 a.m., highly caffeinated, with wax
and peeling crayons to melt slowly hardening in coke cans we’d
with candles and cool beheaded by steak knife, we
into wax for our coming creaked out the back
excursion. No skate parks and skated the stolen fence pole
then within skating distance we propped on a dolly
for fifteen-year olds— to replicate a real handrail in
we were proud street skaters, my darkened driveway,
and the best ledges whispering and laughing at
in my so, so flat section of the warm-up bails. By four-
plate-shaped state fifteen the neighbor’s window
of Minnesota adorned storefronts, was calling for quiet.
schools or offices. We acquiesced, and one skate
Stores were quick to threaten video later we risked
the police when customers the remaining fifteen minutes
streamed by, but before the of curfew. The sun
opening peon slagged in yawned on the chilled horizon,
it was fair game aside from the our breath still pluming
occasional meandering from night’s chill and at least ten
security guard or bored patrol cop. Guards miles had flown beneath
were a laughing chase, cops were a somber sit. our wheels when our energy crash lead to

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