Mama Death by Clayton Hardiman Mama Death could be drama, poetry or meaningless abstraction. It is the drama of ritual failure. The drama of days of being alone. This may be the drama of your life, years from now. Characters: The Actors The light skinned man: 52 years old. The bigot: Physically weak, not quite effeminate. 40 years old. Alphonso: Probably considered ugly, scars running over the left side of his face down onto his neck. 34 years old. Two Others: In their mid forties. The Audience The Reverend: Minister in the three button suit tradition. 63 years old. Black mama love. One of them said that and laughed. Old black love. AH the meat you can handle. And he laughed again. One of the others crossed his fragile legs and shielded his eyes from the sun. Go get her hero, he said in a weary tone. Eat her up. And he rolled his eyes for the rest of them to laugh at what he saw. Old black woman. Not really old. Tired. Ashamed of themselves, crossing streets with their purchases hugged franticaly to their heavy swaying breasts. Sidewalks creaked beneath the weight of those full behinds. Some turned indignantly to stare from under thin streaked hair. The cold grew sharper with the wind, and the old black men huddled together on their bench like lewd children. Some faggots were passing. Poked each other with their hard bony elbows and knowingly smiled their wet greasy smiles at the old men on the bench because their knees One of the actors on the other end of the Someone else said, unless you're a eunuch. I and shoulders were touching and their heads bench gave him a side glance, then turned can't stand eunuchs. I'm a biggot, maybe. were lowered and shoved tight out of the cold. quickly away as if afraid tn be checking out The light skinned man who had spoken first Some of the men noticed those skinny moralists who had stopped and were shyly watching them. something his mind had stated specifically was wiped his freckled nose with his fingers and none of his business. Someone else said looked up. Why shouldn't we want you here. Is loudly, Empty men, people probably thought looking at this bench is getting pretty damn crowded, and them on that bench, old empty men too afraid to something wrong with you, I mean, some none of you niggers have ever smelled too cool contagious shit? I don't even know your name walk anywhere except through shadows, but it couldn't matter. To have lived anyway. myself. I'm a minister. as long as they Can I sit here? The old man perched on the end Of what, someone was going to say. He didn't had, they had to know who they were.Athletes of the bench said. He stood up and put his hands want to look at any of them. He knew what they and bus drivers who pretended they were rich. A in his pockets. Can I sit here? were going to do. But no one said anything, professor, a respected wino. A lousy actor. They Some of them stared into the frozen grass. The except the bigot who lifted his filthy hands and were all actors. They had all hustled at one time flesh on their knobby hands already folded and said, a reverend. Damn I want his man on my or another. dead. Their faces stonier than sullen. He wanted side. Sit down over here. The faggots turned and went on across the answers. He wanted to walk away, but now he No one said street through the traffic. The old anything after he sat down. They niggers on the had that expectant feeling that all the men on made a silence almost long enough to be bench waited till the cold seemed to subside, this bench had some special brand of bitterness uncomfortable. He was wondering what they then fell away from each other. Sniffed and that would make them stand up and curse at were thinking, what they saw when they glanced stretched the taut skin of their faces into weird smiles. Smiles that were directed at the cars that everything. They were going to shout all kinds of furtively at him. It was far too futile to worry meaningless shit at all the hopeless white faces about. Far too late. Someone asked him if he had roared around their traffic island. At all of cold around their little traffic is and, races that didn't a place to stay, and he almost didn't answer. downtown. At the kids and cops and even know they were there. He felt sick. He Then he told them he did. He had to picture it cobblestones. Whoever got in the way, it seemed could have shouted the same thing from a curb before he could answer, as if he simply didn't to the old man who watched from where he or a stepladder on a corner. He could have trust his deepest response. He smiled at himself. stood, across the grass with one foot on the curb written it on the walls of buildings from the There was more humor in it than he could afford and his hands folded in his coat. Grey fedora alleys in back. He could have just sat on cold to appreciate. tipped dangerously toward his left eye. stone benches all his life shouting it aside and What he really had He brought his other foot up and stood on the was only a room, almost a glancing idly at whatever flesh ambled by. Black closet with a bed and a lamp in it. Most days he edge of the Island with his chest heaving. Possibly mama love. He could have done that. But from the effort of pretense. Of that simple finally spent sprawled across his bed dozing or sitting on he had to be honest with himself. He couldn't the floor watching the window. It overlooked a motion. He said God to himself as if it would have done any of it. He didn't even feel it. There gas station and some other buildings. Beyond all make some kind of strength inside. Then he simply walked across and sat down on one end of was nothing he could have shouted or written or that, a street, dark and silent in nights. He spent the bench. He was going to say, do you mind if I ignored. It made him sick. He waited for them to his nights looking out and waiting for something sit here, but he was afraid of what answers they hang their hysteria in words, but they just kept significant to happen. For night ladies to motion might have given. looking into the grass, and one of them finally said, personally, I don't give a goddamn. (continued on back page) poetry/roy bryan If personal experience is the resource for poetry, then it is essential for the poet to be free from the restraints which stifle experience. Roy Bryan is free. He is free from the confines of the academy, free to follow his senses, free to write at will. Since graduating from MSU with a B.A. degree in English, Roy has spent time on a master of fine arts program at Bowling Green State University, along Oregon beaches, as a guide in the Minnesota north country and, while in East Lansing, working at odd jobs such as a cook and a dishwasher. During this time, Roy's poetry writing has developed into a habit. For Roy it is a habit that cannot be broken, a habit that he has learned to live with, a habit that he has decided to try and do well. OPEN FIELD Roy's poetry is lodged in a sensitivity of the natural environment and its relationship to the I human condition. His poems illustrate the thrust The mist, relaxed, is almost silent. of existence as rehearsed in the everyday acts of A ground fog, nature. Roy combines nature imagery with personal sentiment to illuminate the dark path Having been trapped in my low spots, toward self - knowledge. The language he uses Crawls the whole field. associated with nature provides not only the tones and textures of that which it describes, but also the tones and textures of human life — the Walking, scraping wet seeds, I have lost, awaiting shelter, life Roy Bryan has chosen to depict in these poems. The calm of landscape. — Robert Sickels II With shadow, ominous of open storm, My bones crack thunder. Hollow depth. 1 am holding, Turbulent over my own words. Holding the lightning within me. SEA SALT It is morning And getting darker. Hearing gulls brew, If you have felt storm we hold For a whole instant Coldly move in on stationary storm, Ocean cupped in our hands; You know, cursing, the excitement, And watch, in a rusted pot, Downpour, Ocean boil to salt. We have drifted, Shattering of inner sound. Like the wood we burn, into strange stances. We can give, We can take. But we watch: and our silence, The weeds, bent from rain, Watching us, gives and takes in our name. Snapping back by wind, Are growing. II Gulls love Out here, if lightning flashes, on opening currents: And tending fire, we spend much time You can anticipate, Hunting fuel, listening to their strange Counting for distance. pronouncement. Can we discover? Can we discover And as clouds spill out We are thick in sea water? I take into my hands mud, And creating, do we know, Seed, With the depth of any ocean, Plant my own field. How to wrap a body around ourselves? And as I kneel, III The noise drenched, sputtering, Overhead, gulls continue boiling I have always been more articulate Around smoke from our driftwood. To myself Salt forms grainy, dark white. Than I can expose. Minor alchemists, we know On empty beaches There are few times, now. The toil; and we know My eyes losing glow, If I taste your salt You will be struck, the lightning out I taste Before I have heard the thunder. oceans closing around. IV Streaked with sweat, Calmly feeling my wind fall, I watch the rain, steadied. Cleanse at least my flesh. Even my bones are sore. Barely audible, the thunder whispers: And I am silent. It is still too dark For birds to sing. SNOW GEESE The weeds, bitter, close around In cadence with our walk. We are, at false dawn, a slow procession Circling a winter lake. And ending a fitful sleep, The snow geese, shaken from wet grass, Openly sound our disturbance. Their song, fleeing, Migrating into my memory, Has been sung, since my own awakening, Too deep in my throat For you to hear. And having arisen, the whole flock Circles. We watch, straining. Strong shadows disappear, The wind, a migration of heavy wings. Rains against my chest. And standing, the marsh lake Lapping our boots. We wait. We should learn, soon, to understand Their sense of direction. Our own escape, weighed by the marrow Held deep in hollow bones, Slows with each step felt south. There must be a full moon Behind this, We are, alone, unable to stop The wind blowing through us. And the clouds, Content to camouflage our walk, wait As we continue hunting A point of return. It feels colder than snow. Occasionally, burning with color, A leaf feels my cheek. And feeling uneasy, Despite the darkness, I stop, trying to pull you with me. The trees, branches still composed, Listen, patiently, as I quote In what I think are eloquent silences. And as rain turns to snow, Morning finally arriving, We breathe the flakes in, the cold photography by Roger Hill Knowingly within us. We must relearn, like young children, Our own warmth. HOLDING A SHELL IV A single tern opens, folding its wings Last night, wary of sleep, tired, Rising deeper, deeper in my mind. Salt blows against my skin. Strange dreams Wet in the steady rain Beaches we were waved up to Formed with our continuous walking. Thrown down on The heavy stubble, underbrush, Are littered with us, returning, The colder parts of our imagination, Despite distances crawled, To hunt soundings of origin: Scraped unseen against us. Pieces of shell are embedded in the sand. And circling the lake, We had begun, finally, Twisted in my ear-bones Our own devious migration. The tern, whirling, rises on those oceans It cold Collapsing in my flesh. was enough. Taking a conch shell, its soundtrack Above, having passed, the snow geese Replaying the ocean's windiest cry, Whirled in the evening's darkness, I can feel my fragile quality Decended, covering us, Containing a deafening roar. The lake, the field's remaining grain With a feathery snow. Mama Death (continued from front) anything about that. I'm a minister of God. him crumpled in his room. On the edge. Raging. a car to the curb and make their move. For winos Alphonso laughed now. Looked at the others Way out of control. He was on the edge of his to arouse his contempt with their ridiculous and chuckled evilly. You can sit there and stone bench, raging. say Shouting words that were fights breaking the silence apart. For people to that. You say that like you think it's some- almost violent, almost nonsense. Cold. You stand glare up at his dark window, not even knowing protection against sin. A'hatever that finally there around my grave interested in the dead firs he was there. come to mean. you never even knew because it shivered anc He reached inside his coat. Offered the others a The reverend felt any semblance of comfort he stiffened finally in a tiny room. Because I almost cigarette and lit his own when the wind subsided had ebbing away. He felt like a child about to be froze. Because I almost died a spectacular deaih a little. He wasn't enjoying this. He almost scarred. He turned deliberately away. Looked You niggers, I live cold, you useless wanted the bench to himself, but he wasn't niggers, I die going out into the street as if his salvation was there stupid and quiet deaths every day. Where are you back to that closet above the gas station. He hidden somewhere in the thick exhaust of traffic. then, God damn you, where are you then? wasn't at all sure what he was going to do before He rushed at them. Alphonso he died. He wanted to lie against a woman and be Alphonso saw it, and his voice grew harsher. waited, that evil Sin. Shit, he said viciously. It don't even grin flashing on just before the old man hit him quiet and listen to the noise of her snores. Then protect full in the face, perhaps he could sleep, it was almost that same you against hurt ot being hungry. Does it, rev? It knocking his back on the bench. He hit him again, near the throat. temptation he always warned other men against. doesn't even keep you from being cold. I mean Alphonso slid off the bench onto the He was a minister. He kept that titles make poor blankets, don't they rev? Yeah I ground, the reverend on 'edged in his saw you when top of him and still pummeling him in the face consciousness. He could preach. He could advise they carried you out of that place and chest. The light skinned man leaned forward on a stretcher. I know people. He could pass the hat. He laughed as you. I saw you when you and smiled a little. The others watched them soon as that came into his head. He couldn't help were weakest, and that hurts, don't it rev? I saw amazed. Alphonso managed to clear his head and thinking that every time he did it, he was you when you had damned near froze to death. making catch the reverend in an embrace, pinning his a new contribution to his own particular culture. Your body still steaming and black like you had arms to his sides. He rolled over and sat astride His own sensibility. His own income, finally. He been burned. Almost like cold hell. Yeah, I know the reverend's body and slapped his face until the was a minsiter, but for the first you, rev. time, sitting there bigot calmly told him, stop, you're killing him. with these old coons, he was glad he didn't have The reverend felt himself turn inside, a quick No I'm not, Alphonso said and a flock and never had to worry about his image. violent movement. He didn't want any more slapped him He wondered if any of them were drunk now. He again. answers. Without even Get off him, Alphonso. Look at him, he's not smelled nothing, but he knew turning around, he said, I they were winos. know you too. What more do you really know breathing, the light skinned man said. He was on He was staring at the street. When his eyes about me than I know about you? I seen his feet and frantic. you focused, he was watching a black woman walking every night. Everywhere. You can't imagine, he The"reverend felt the weight of his chest shift past the store windows. He swallowed hard. It said and stopped, choking on the words. Then he and Alphonso's wet breath on his face. Then the didn't change anything. Everything tasted of went on. You can't imagine what I seen and what weight was gone altogether. The reverend felt his huge black women with loose breasts naked in that makes me. I seen you every sides slipping away. His face bed. He was a minister, and he couldn't night under my swelling. He felt the forget it, window. I seen you getting drunk, pissing sound of Alphonso's voice. but his had nothing to do with divine love for the yourself behind trees. Shit, he better not be dead. Hey, rev, wake up. people. If it did he could have drawn his eyes Raping whores and away from this woman and fastened them on the fighting with dirty wine bottles. I seen you by Hey, I didn't even hit him that hard. the hundreds. All He wasn't going to move. He wasn't feeble minded Americans who rushed up and over the city on every street going back Wino. to that room, that street, that down the street in their huge cars, afraid to take gas station. To sit Shut up, old man, Alphonso said. On his feet and live and die. He was going to lie their eyes off the road and look at anybody. here, a fira, It's love. Don't tell me it isn't. That flesh is now and huge. Shut up and leave me alone. gesture of public expression, until he froze or starved or was killed. It would be the sweetest love. Black mama. Love that flesh, someone at Goddamn, Alphonso, the bigot said. Siddown before you trip over yourself. form of suicide. People would walk the other end was saying. The voice was soft and past, railing and wagging their heads. boring. The reverend sucked on his cigarette Something exploded. It was in the reverend's mind somewhere. The idea that he wanted to Hey, rev, get up from there. Alphonso laughed trying not to be interested. Now just cut that shit out, Alphonso. Just rush at that scarred face, hopeless flesh, nervously. I mean it. You don't stand up. I'll spit drop on your body. If that. We got the clergy with us. The and hammer it into something useful. Something you're dead, I'll spit on you. bigot folded The reverend rolled onto his his hands on his skinny knee. Shivered when the not so similar to what it was he was so afraid of stomach to now. Cold. Death. Walls of protect his face. Then he was still. Thinking wind cut through. His head held stiffly back. The icy marble. His closet, reverend watched him closely and smiled. his room, his body sprawled across his bed and probably the same kind of thoughts you will his breath just visible out of his nostrils. Steam think. The cold earth's edge ravaging his face. Wanted to reach across and touch him. still rising through his clothes when they found Anticipate whatever humor he would come up BLACK with and laugh at it. The light skinned man was watching all of them. The reverend felt his eyes on him and crossed his legs. He wanted to erase what he was thinking from his mind. That none of these people even knew his name. He hated thinking about it. Even the image itself was sentimental, he knew this man wasn't thinking about him in those terms. No man thought of another alone and weeping against a window. Mother love, he said then but not very loud and only to himself. You is some perverted niggers, the light skinned man said and shook his wooly head laughing. All you lechers. That chick is young enough to be your daughter. If I ever caught you sniffing around my little girls, you wouldn't ever be able to run far enough. The reverend forced a smile on his face. You got children, do you? Yeah. I got kids. Six, maybe, although to my mind they could be anybody's. I mean, I don't keep my woman locked in a cellar or chained to my bed. Shit, Alphonso's always got his butt around my house whenever I come home, and he's a young man, although he don't look it. But I think they're mine. How about you? I don't know, the reverend said and fell silent. It was a lie: he knew. A harsh wish, an accusation. He did know. iNone of the women he had tried to help, none of the women he had paid would have been so careless. Yeah, rev, I know what you mean, rev, it's a goddamn hassle worrying about all those bastards you might have left behind, ain't it, rev, Alphonso said, a hostile grin holding his scarred face. Huh, rev. Shut up, Alphonso. It was the biggot talking, but the same laughter was in his voice. I mean, this man is a reverend. You can't talk to him the way you talk to us. I'm a minister, the reverend said. I don't know Tuesday directors / Robert Sickels Graphics / David Kirkpatrick Denise McCourt