Barnes Award for Undergraduate Free Verse Poem “Silence” by Dustin Sanchez
We speak with hands, because we go unheard. Your words fall on our ears.
We count on our hands as well; you have five? We have a thousand.
We have stories; they throw our entire bodies into their telling.
You belittle us? We communicate best when you’re lost for words.
Look at our hands—at the world we create; sometimes nothing is more creative than the silence.
Eleanor Award for Undergraduate Formal Poem “Keep Your Head Up” by Jordan McCardell
Too many times, I find my head facing down Thinking about what was instead of what’s happening right now, Hearing my dad on his death bed say “enjoy it while you can.” But finding God this early in life, was never a part of my plan, Discovering there’s a metaphorical version of quicksand And flipping through dictionary pages trying to find “becoming a man.” But hey, I’ve gotta stay positive so I’ll tell you where I look first-- The family that surrounds me when I’m standing alone at work, The people who have been there, that pass along the advice And how I can buy a lot of things without thinking twice about the price, How I’m able to go home and take a shower to get clean, Growing up with a mom and dad and never needing to choose between, Going to class after class and thinking it’s so lame, But never thinking about those who can’t even write their own name, How I’m able to make it sound good when I put a verb next to a noun, And giving myself a million and one reasons why my head should never be down.
De Schweinitz Award for Graduate Free Verse Poem “Kut” by John Rutherford
The tin cans were emptied long ago, the tea, the coffee and tobacco too, the grain is gone, the rats, the cats, the dogs and horses devoured in the wait.
The men grow thin, ribs, sternums, spines on show, eyes bulging on parade, until the news comes in, no relief is on the way.
Alone like ghosts we wait within the walls of Kut, the enemy surrounds the gates, and bows five times daily, each man faces east and praises their god, while ours seems so distant.
Biplanes fly by to make their drop, they almost always miss, and starving men watch while hope and supplies float down the Tigris.
Rowe Award for Graduate Formal Poem “Off with Your Head” by Shelly Dawson
You have no idea, who I am with you. Let me see, what I can do. Every time I rip you apart. It tears a piece of my heart. Look at you with that halo on your head. Soon, it will be a thing of dread. Slipping down around your neck. I grab it to pull you down to me.
Whisper in your ear: “What is your greatest fear? Is this where you are lead to be? Need something to make you see me. Did you think it was going to stay up there for you to wear? Up above where you did not care? The truth is but a whisper that has a deafening sound. It lays you on the ground; where I will always be found.”
Pulse Award for Undergraduate Fiction “Sponsored by Convenience” by Ryan Ruffaner as Ryan Reudell
Young Michael’s smart phone was blasting him with a barrage of shrill bloops and blings as the comment section of the Memories app erupted with excitement. His mom was nagging him to hurry up and get ready—she wasn’t going to run late to her own father’s funeral—so Michael grimaced and groaned and found the will to slip on an old pair of stained sweatpants for a dead man he barely knew; and then he went to his bedroom and locked the door behind him. His grandfather had once told him that people used to dress up in fancy suits and ties and attend funerals with their physical person, but that was ages ago. In the year 2055, people agreed that was needlessly uncomfortable and complicated, so they stayed at home and watched the funeral through the Memories app, which streamed live video footage to people’s phones via cameras around the event. It was easier, quicker, and more convenient this way. Michael picked up his phone and logged into the app now. His mother, father, brother and sister, as well as uncles and aunts and neighbors and coworkers, old friends and classmates near and far alike, flooded the comment section with grief. “Praying for him,” said a friend of a friend who had never touched a holy book, and they chased the text with cartoon hands clasped in prayer. “He was my whole world,” said an unfaithful ex-lover, and they embellished it with a sobbing face. “Literally bawling my eyes out,” said Michael’s little sister, whom he was certain had never met their grandpa before; and for a moment he wondered why she was so powerfully affected by his loss—he received his answer moments later when a parade of people showered the comment in cartoon Thumbs Ups of their approval. The commenters may have been stricken with grief, but they were careful to keep their comments under 40 characters long, as instructed by the Excessive Information Act. The Act prohibited messages above 40 characters and videos above 3 minutes—to exceed these limits forced people to focus for too long and put an unnecessary burden on mental health, the government said. And so it was, and so it had been for the last five decades—as long as anyone in Michael’s home could remember. It was easier this way; quicker, and more convenient. Michael wanted to contribute to the comment section—maybe he could get more Thumbs Ups than his sister, he thought with a thrill. He began to type a somber comment-- And stopped abruptly. He wasn’t dressed yet. Or at least his cartoon avatar wasn’t. He couldn’t let his mother see him like that. It would be grossly inappropriate. He tapped his phone screen, selected the “Outfit” icon, and changed his clothes from the khaki slacks and teal dress shirt he’d worn at his Aunt Lucille’s beach wedding to a somber pinstripe black suit and black tie. As the new clothes materialized, he wandered back to the wedding ceremony with a wistful grin on his face. It had been wonderful, magical, just like in the movies. And Verizon had sponsored all of it! How many couples could boast that? His avatar was still cheering for the newlyweds with a cheek-to-cheek grin; he switched his “Emotions” from Elated to Devastated and the cartoon boy’s smile deflated into a quivering frown. Perfect. Michael checked the countdown. Two minutes. Unbelievable. He tugged at his hair, gnawed at his lips, groaned. He scoured the room for something to do, anything. His eyes settled on a book his grandpa had given him years ago at Christmas. 1984, George Orwell. Michael would never forget that Christmas because his grandpa had snuck out of the Shady Oaks nursing home and given it to him in person. It was Michael’s only Christmas that had taken place outside of the Memories app and his parents had been bewildered. Why would someone deliberately inconvenience themselves? It was a clear sign his grandpa needed urgent help—they sent him to a mental health facility for the remainder of his life. Michael studied the book with a renewed curiosity. He had promised to read it one day; why not now? He had a little time, after all, even if he only got through a few pages-- But the familiar bloops and blings of the comment section brought him, unconsciously, back to his phone. He could miss something important if distracted from the constant updates for too long. Within a few moments, Michael had forgotten about the book entirely. He had eyes only for the endless stream of comments. Cartoon faces flooded the feed, all of them displaying vivid variations of sorrow—one whose thick juicy tears rolled down into a mouth agape with anguish, one whose eyes were screwed shut so tight in misery they couldn’t be pried open with an industrial-sized crowbar, and more and more and more. Messages poured in, too. An avalanche, each under 40 characters long. Michael tried typing his own message again, something somber and poetic, something that would make his grandpa proud and maybe win more Thumbs Ups than his sister’s comment; but no matter how many words he removed, the comment wouldn’t fit under 40 characters. So he sighed and posted a cartoon crying face like everyone else. The app awarded him Memory Points for his contribution, which he used to purchase an icon of a red rose and send it, digitally, to his mom, who sat not twenty feet away in the living room. She sent him an icon of a mother hugging a son to show her appreciation. Michael smiled. He felt loved. Then the funeral began. Michael’s screen transformed to a camera shot of a rain-soaked sidewalk running through a small town. The rain fell steadily on the brick buildings, plinking sharply on the metal awnings over the windows and plopping crudely in black puddles gathered by the side of the road. A man and a woman, both breathtakingly beautiful with cheekbones sharp enough to slice through steel and sculpted bodies befitting Greek gods, shuffled down this sidewalk, black clothes and black umbrellas sheltering them from the rain. Their distant eyes and slumping shoulders suggested nothing on earth could keep the cold gloom out of their souls. They shuffled aimlessly down the sidewalk until they came to a bar with the word Nelson’s glowing in curvy fluorescent letters above a rain-streaked glass door. Upon sight of it, a little life returned to their eyes. The man held the door for the woman; she entered and he followed. They slid onto the bar stools with choreographed grace and ordered two Nelson’s Brew beers. A blonde bartender said, “Coming right up,” and moments later the man and woman were drinking deeply in memory. They sat up straighter, let a little light into their eyes, and found that they might, with another sip of Nelson’s Brew, be able to smile again. As the camera zoomed out, they put a hand on each other’s shoulder. Nelson’s Brew materialized on the screen in large curvy letters and a deep voice said: “This funeral brought to you by Nelson’s Brew. Nelson’s Brew, just what you need on a day like this. Drink responsibly.” The advertisement ended and another one took its place. Tissues, coffins, cremation services, eulogy speakers for hire, more alcohol; the list went on and on, but collectively the ads lasted under 3 minutes. They didn’t want to waste anyone’s time, after all—easy, quick, convenient, that was the rule. When all the advertisements were over, Michael’s phone displayed an open coffin sitting in the middle of a church. It gleamed obsidian black and was swallowed in digital red roses and freckled with logos—Facebook, Chevy, Chevron, Apple, McDonalds, and more. To the left of the coffin stood a mahogany podium with the Nelson’s Brew logo plastered on the front. If Michael’s grandpa had still been alive, he would’ve ranted and raved and ripped it off with his bare hands. The thought of his grandpa piqued Michael’s curiosity. It had been a long time since he’d last seen him and he wondered how he’d changed since then. Maybe his jowls were droopier or his eyes more crinkly or his nose more bulbous. He cycled through the different cameras in the room, searching for the one peering into the coffin. He found it. And furrowed his brow, confused. The man somehow looked younger than when he’d last seen him. The broken veins in his nose had been slim winding wires of blue and purple, like a bruise stretched into spider webs, but now they were nowhere to be found; and his grandpa’s lips, which he was absolutely certain were dry and cracked like an old wax seal, were now moist and plump and flawless. This must have been 30-year-old wax replica of his grandfather, not his real grandfather. Michael sat on his bed, puzzled, then remembered that the Memories app often used filters to enhance the mood. He went into the app’s settings and searched through the filters and sure enough he found the culprits responsible. Youthful and Peaceful enhancements were both activated. He tapped them to turn them off. A message appeared. It said: Due to a recent update, Memories no longer allows users to alter Real Time Enhancements. He didn’t remember agreeing to that update. But he didn’t have time to think about it, because a man was saying, “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen ...” Accepting that he’d never truly know what his grandpa looked like now, Michael returned to the camera displaying the podium and casket. A priest stood behind the podium, a crisp sheet of paper wrapped in his smooth, young hands. There wouldn’t be many words on the paper—the Excessive Information Act prohibited eulogies over 30 seconds long, deeming anything longer an unnecessary use of time, and therefore inconvenient—but the prompt was necessary because people had trouble memorizing things nowadays, and that was on the rare occasions that they tried. The priest read on: “We are gathered here today to remember the life of Charles Montgomery, and to mourn his passing …” The priest continued, but Michael had stopped listening. He had eyes and ears only for the bloops and blings of the comment section. He was so hypnotized by the little bursts of emotion that before he knew it the priest was finishing up. “… gone but never forgotten. Rest in peace, Charles Montgomery.” The priest stepped off the podium to an applause of electronic bloops and blings as the comment section was drowned in cartoon crying faces and superficial sorrow. Michael breathed a sigh of relief. A friend once told him of a funeral that had lasted a full 30 seconds! He could think of nothing more barbaric; he would’ve died of boredom. He moved to exit the app, but stopped when an old man in a black and white suit—a real black and white suit—shuffled onto the screen and took his place at the podium. With one crinkled hand he held a bouquet of real roses and with the other he adjusted the mic. The old man cleared his throat and opened his mouth to speak, but found his voice strangely muted. He turned away for a moment. When he turned back, tears were streaming down his cheeks. He sniffled and wiped them away with the back of his hands, cleared his throat again, prepared to speak. Michael doubted he’d get a word out, because swaggering up to the podium was a security guard fingering the gun in his holster. The guard’s uniform was poxed with logos like everything else. Starbucks across his shoulder blades, the Apple logo on one sleeve and Microsoft on the other, Instagram on the seat of his pants. “You can’t be here,” the security guard said. “The funeral’s over. Go home.” The old man, his voice breaking in and out, said, “Please, sir, I only wish to pay my respects—the proper way. He was my friend and he deserves that.” But the guard was shaking his head before the man had finished. “If you wanted to pay your respects, you should’ve used the app like everyone else. There’s nothing to be done now. Just go home. I don’t want to have to use force.” At that last sentence the old man stiffened. His eyes narrowed, nostrils flared. He scoffed. “You call this respectful? Since when did convenience trump courtesy, hmm?” “Sir—” “No, son, let me tell you something,” the old man said, his voice no longer breaking but finding footing and rising and deepening to a thunderous roar, “I will not stand for this superficial bullshit! Do you hear me? I will not stand for it. I—” Bloop! Bling! Blorp! Notifications flooded Michael’s phone. They said: NEW VIDEO! Top 7 Times Brad Coleman Made Us Swoon. You won’t believe #3! NEW ARTICLE 25 Adorable Accessories Every Girl Needs RIGHT NOW NEW TWEET This Crazy Muslim Mom Will SHOCK you! Michael watched, skimmed, and scrolled through each one and then closed the windows and returned to the Memories video feed. He gasped. The security guard had his gun drawn. It was pointed right at the old man’s chest. The old man was shouting and waving his hands so wildly that rose petals were ripped from their crowns and tossed to the ground in a red rain of deep, swooping arcs. The security guard was shouting too, but it was impossible to distinguish what either of them were saying. Michael watched the scene play out with morbid fascination. He wiped his sweaty hands on his sweatpants so the phone wouldn’t slip out of his grasp. He licked his lips, swallowed. The old man was stamping his feet now, sneering, snarling. The veins bulging on his forehead were as thick as pythons. Suddenly he seized the Nelson’s Brew logo on the front of the podium with his veiny hands, prepared to rip it off like a scab. The security guard was screaming, still incoherent but the message clear: desecrate the logo at your own peril! Michael leaned closer. He didn’t want to miss this. Bloop! Bling! Blorp! Michael didn’t remember opening the notifications, but sure enough the video feed had vanished from the screen and was replaced by a celebrity’s leaked nude photos. Her curves were so mesmerizing. He wanted to look at them all day. And her breasts were-- Another bloop and Michael was reading a tiny list titled “Top 10 Reasons Anna Abraham is Your Idol” and the nude photos were forgotten. He’d never heard of Anna Abraham before, but he wanted to know why she was his idol. By the end of the list, he decided Anna Abraham was pretty cool. In fact, she-- Bloop! Your Childhood Cartoons Reimagined as Goths. Michael clicked on it. Bling! The Funniest Laugh You’ll Ever Hear! Michael clicked on it. Blorp! 13 Things to Make You the Perfect-- BANG! BANG! BANG! Michael jolted upright, squeaked in surprise. He switched back to the video feed. And felt his stomach twist in knots, a cold hand clutch his heart. The Nelson’s Brew logo lay on the floor, and the old man lay face down in a pool of his own blood. It was dark and red and spreading, like a crimson tide; spreading and spreading. The security guard doubled over, vomited, stumbled out of sight on rubbery legs. The screen went black. Michael gazed at his horrified expression in the screen of his phone. What had happened? And how had it happened so quickly? He’d only been gone for a second, right? He checked the comment feed—maybe someone else had seen it. But to his surprise everyone else had logged off as soon as the ceremony had ended at the 13 second mark—some, the time stamp showed, like his mother, left even before that. Was he the only one who’d seen it? Surely he had to tell someone. They-- Bloop! Michael opened the notification. The screen flashed a list called, “Top 10 Most Controversial Suicides.” Bling! The screen somersaulted, played a video called “Top 10 Saddest Small Town Funerals.” Michael clicked on the links, then clinked on the next, and the next, and the next after that. And when he was finished, he checked his Facebook, his Twitter, his Instagram, his Snapchat, his Sync, his YouTube, his Tumblr, his Pinterest, and then his Facebook again. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about the guard gunning down an innocent old man and it wasn’t that he’d forgotten about the pool of blood that grew from a puddle to a pond to a lake, it was simply that he didn’t have enough time to think about those things. To do so wouldn’t have been easy; it wouldn’t have been quick; and it certainly wouldn’t have been convenient.
Pulse Award for Graduate Fiction “Siren’s Song” by Jill Crosby
Jeanine mumbled curses as the rice boiled over and coated her lemon-fresh stovetop in a thin, sticky film. The flames of the propane burner licked higher around the edges of the old, cast-iron Dutch oven, and steam hissed from beneath the dinner plate Jeanine used for a lid. “Merde!” She stretched the word into two syllables as the heavily chipped porcelain clanked back down against the rim of the pot. Jeanine quickly turned down the heat on the rice while snatching up one of the crocheted, yellow potholders she had received from her grande-mère as a wedding gift. “Tink of me e’ry time ya use ’em, Cherie.” Two small bubbles popped in the pool of starchy water while Jeanine’s mouth curled into a weak smile, and she thought about her grandmother’s gnarled yet nimble fingers manipulating the knots and tangles of cotton yarn. Every stitch—each one a small victory over arthritis and cataracts—testified Mémé Ardoin’s love for her grandbaby. The creak and bang of the kitchen’s screen door opening then slamming shut snapped Jeanine back to reality and her task-at-hand. The puddle disappeared in a matter of seconds, and hamburger steaks, rice and gravy, fried okra, and cornbread crowded the wooden kitchen table. Albert would soon finish washing up. “How’s the catch today?” Jeanine yelled down the hallway as she plunked ice into glasses. “Ya haul in enough to buy more than just diesel for tomorrow?” She stopped pouring tea, waited, then frowned. “Look, it’s the slow time of year, but Lent’s early. That’ll get us through ’til April. Things’ll be okay.” She tried to sound supportive, but her brow furrowed as she spoke. She hated that this same fight was becoming just as much a part of her evening routine as dinner and dishes. “Look, you didn’t have a problem takin’ time off before the end of last season, so you can’t complain too much now. Besides, it’s not like you’re doing …” Jeanine’s eyebrows leapt up her forehead as the fire that had been growing within her chest sprang to her cheeks. “You’re not Albert!” The frumpy calico blinked at her from the hallway and responded with a hoarse, raspy sound. “You should be glad, too. You were about to get an earful, Fou, but where is he?” The cat brushed against Jeanine’s ankles, causing her to lurch forward slightly. “You’re no help, chatte. He’s usually home by now. I guess the days are getting longer again, though.” She poked her head out the screen door and leaned against the doorframe. “I wish they’d stick a cell tower somewhere out here. I’d even let ’em use my front yard!” Purring, Fou leaned into another rub against the back of Jeanine’s calves, and she stumbled onto the back porch. “Fat bag of fuzz. Maybe he’s out front.” Jeanine laughed as she turned the corner toward the other side of her house. Fou wheezed softly at Jeanine’s feet once they stopped to look around the front yard, but the feline suddenly and effortlessly leapt onto the rusty, dented hood of a Jeep parked beneath an ancient bald cypress. Jeanine hoisted herself up into the driver’s seat and twisted the knob on the C.B. radio until a cacophony of stations and static hummed through the speakers. “Froggy, it’s Blue Jean Baby. You copy?” Jeanine changed her handle as often as she changed clothes, unlike Froggy who preferred his moniker over the name his mother gave him—Arlo Guidry. “Ya, Jeanie. Froggy’s croakin’. Watchoo need?” The thick Creole accent of her closest neighbor comforted her and made her feel less isolated and alone, even if Arlo and his family were only accessible by radio or airboat most of the year. “Ya giggin’ tonight?” A knot began to tighten in her gut. Even if the Jeep were running, she needed to navigate some of the more remote areas of the bayou, and the water was high. “Na, Cherie. S’posed ta be fog tonight, and I don’ feel like workin’ dat hard.” The knot loosened slightly. Fou jumped into her lap and began kneading her leg. “Can I use the boat, Froggy? I gotta try and track down Albert. He’s normally home by now; supper’s gettin’ cold.” Jeanine passed her fingers through Fou’s black, orange, and white coat for comfort. Her voice was as tight as the pit of her stomach. “Ya welcome to da boat, but you gotta buy da fuel. Or I fixed da pirogue if you don’ wanna spend da money…” Arlo trailed off into a warm chuckle. Relief washed over Jeanine and emboldened her. “I’m sure I’d be a sight trying to punt around in that rickety, old flat-bottom of yours.” Jeanine jabbed back. “Swing by in about ten. I got diesel. Ya’ll want some dinner?” *** Albert grimaced and shut his eyes again then absentmindedly tried to rub the grit out of them. He spread his arms wide but slammed his fists against the nightstands on each side of the cast iron, double bed as he tried to stretch out above his head. The sudden rattling impaled Albert’s eardrums, and he instinctively pressed his thick, callused palms to his temples. Yawning was no relief and made him aware that his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. His vision blurred as he hoisted himself up. “Woah,” he croaked and pressed one hand to his heavy brow as the other groped around in front of him for something—anything—to steady himself. Instead, after wobbling around for thirty seconds or so, he crumpled to the floor with a booming thud. The shock of the impact against the hardwood sobered Albert, who again sprang to his feet and stood at attention. His mind clearing a little, Albert felt his cheeks flush as he realized he was alone, but a soft knock at the door brought his headache back full force. “Come in,” he managed to spit through clenched teeth. “I thought I heard you bumping around in here. Are you okay?” Albert’s headache disappeared upon hearing the lilting cadence of the young woman who was delicately tiptoeing into the room. “I fell, but I’m okay now.” Albert glanced out the window; the giant, orange globe sagging in the evening sky cast a gentle, golden light over everything in the room. “Glad to hear it. Aren’t the sunsets here amazing?” Delicate fingers alighted Albert’s shoulder, and his full attention turned to the dazzling creature standing next to him. “Incroyable …” Albert stammered out a French word he had not used since 4th grade. “Merci,” she giggled in retort. Her brief laughter filled the room and warmed Albert. “Are you hungry now? It’s almost dinner time.” “You know, Chansonne, I was feelin’ pretty shitty, but now I’m kinda hungry. Yeah.” His stomach rumbled in agreement. Albert scratched his head and tried to remember the last time he ate. Chansonne scampered out the door and in a knowing, sing-song voice called over her shoulder, “I’m surprised you’re not hungover! You were really throwin’ ’em back at lunch.” “Yeah, me too … I mean, I’m surprised” He stammered in response and haphazardly trailed after her. She floated down the short hallway and glided down the stairs; he galumphed down the same path, rattling pictures and light fixtures along the way. He settled in at a wicker table on the screened porch. “Are we gonna be alone?” Albert wanted to smack himself in the forehead. “I mean, are you expecting any more company for dinner?” Chansonne’s dark, waist-length tresses shimmered as she threw her head back in a full, melodic laugh. Her eyes twinkled with a mischievous light, “Well, I never really expect company, but it’s always a possibility. You know how swamp life is.” She held out a sweaty mason jar and broadened her smile, “You want something to drink while you wait on your supper?” “It’s hard to say no in this heat.” Albert took a slurp from the clear liquid he knew from experience was not water, yet it more fully quenched his thirst than anything he’d ever drunk. It was only when Chansonne flitted away to the back of the house that Albert surveyed his surroundings and noticed the sun had become a glowing, rose-colored ball hanging low above the horizon. Lightning bugs signaled to one another, and a crane lazily took flight. He listened to the crickets begin to chirp as he closed his eyes. When he opened them again, Albert’s heart attempted to jump out his throat. There, sharpening her claws on an oak stump at the edge of the yard, was Fou. Just as Albert stood and cracked the screen door for a better view, the husky cat turned, met his squinty gaze, then began to saunter across the lawn toward him. Albert took another long drink and yelled over his shoulder through the house behind him, “You got a cat?” Maybe—hopefully—his eyes were playing tricks on him. “No, has one come to visit?” Even if Albert had not heard Chansonne’s clear, harmonious reply ring out over the chorus of cicadas and bullfrogs, he could not deny that the colorful mouser now rolling around at his feet on the stoop was most definitely Fou. For a split second he thought he heard an engine cut off. The dowdy calico strutted into the deep shade of the screened porch, and Albert sat back down and put his head in his hands. The air was thick and oppressive, and it clouded his thoughts. He nudged the chubby cat with a toe, and Fou promptly sunk her claws into the leather of Albert’s size twelve work boot. “Moo-dee!” He howled. “How did you get here anyway?” “You askin’ me or talkin’ to yourself?” Chansonne giggled a reply as she glided through the doorway behind Albert, holding a large, full tray over her head. “Awe! C’est une minouche grande!” All at once, in a series of movements Albert could hardly follow, she placed the tray on the wicker table and lifted the overweight feline to her eye-level. “Are you a fatty, Kitty-Cat? Are you hungry?” Fou squirmed and wriggled for a full three and a half seconds before tiring herself out and resorting to a meager “Ork.” The chunky calico turned her attention to the tray Chansonne had been carrying loaded with, among other things, brimming bowls of spicy etouffé over steaming, long grain jasmine rice. Fou slowly swiped a paw in the general direction of the fragrant, piquant dishes. “Fou is always hungry,” Albert said as he glanced around the yard. “That’s a fact. There’s something else you should know about that cat too.” Fou slunk out of Chansonne’s grasp, sprang onto Albert’s lap, and leaned-in toward the dinner tray. Albert tucked Fou under his arm as he rose from his seat and cleared his throat. “Fou? What a perfect name for such a gregarious animal!” Chansonne pinched both of the cat’s round cheeks, “I take it you know Fou here, but why does your own cat make you so nervous?” “Because it’s not my cat,” Albert croaked. Chansonne raised an inquisitive eyebrow but turned her head to face the person preemptively answering her next, unasked question. “It’s his wife’s.” Jeanine’s response was acid. Chansonne calmly opened wide the screen door to face the steaming, petite redhead standing on the other side. “I see,” the raven-haired beauty stated gently. She turned to Albert, who was as white and stiff as a cotton towel left on the clothesline too long. *** The sun paused its descent beyond the horizon, and the cicadas and the crickets hushed all at once as Jeanine and Chansonne exchanged loaded gazes. Albert inadvertently shook his head “no” as he repeatedly glanced between the two women. “Albert, dit mon la verité! Qui c’est q’ca? Ton gaienne?” Albert shuddered. Jeanine was speaking Cajun. “Je vas te passe une callote!” “Gar ici!” Without thinking, Albert let Fou drop to the ground, and the feline took its place beside its owner. “Look here, Jeanie! Don’t get physical; we didn’t.” Jeanine, whose fists were clenched as tightly as her jaw, looked the would-be homewrecker up-and-down as Chansonne, on the other hand, stood calmly within arm’s reach of the furious housewife and gave her potential attacker a sad, almost sympathetic stare. “I understand that you feel betrayed and angry. I understand you think you need to act, but you really need to understand. Please, let me explain.” Two more excruciating minutes dragged by, and Jeanine’s jaw became less hardened, but there was still a glint to her eyes as she considered Chansonne’s request. “You’re right. I don’t understand what there is to explain about my husband puttin’ his feet up here when he has supper waitin’ for him at home.” Her fists loosened as she spoke, and her voice quivered with a different, softer emotion as she challenged Albert with, “What are you doing here?” “Jean Jeanie,” Albert tried using one of his wife’s favorite pet names. “The answer I am going to give you is not going to make you happy, but all this …” He motioned around all three of their heads, “… is not what you must think.” Albert looked toward Chansonne, whose voice remained as cool and refreshing as the crystal liquid she had given him earlier. “Jeanie …” She began. “Jeanine.” She was curtly corrected. “Sorry. Jeanine,” She continued, “Albert has been helping me fix up this place for the last couple of weeks.” “It’s not been much money, but it’s been steady, and I like the work. That’s all there is to it really. I been comin’ out here around lunch every day after shrimpin’ then hittin’ the markets all mornin’.” Albert searched his wife’s face for any sign of sympathy. Jeanine swayed a little as Fou bumped against her shins, and she processed what she had just been told. Albert’s words were honest, but something still didn’t quite make sense. “So what you’re tellin’ me, is that you’ve been workin’ two jobs the past month?” “Pretty much.” Albert’s eyes were pleading with Jeanine. “So help me understand.” Her eyes cut from Albert to Chansonne and back again. “Why not tell me? And where’s the extra money? Even if it’s not much, we should be ahead on our bills-not jugglin’ past due notices!” “Well,” Chansonne blushed. “I don’t always pay in money. Times are tough here too, you see.” Jeanine sank into one of the wicker chairs scattered around the porch. “Sometimes, Jeanie, Chansonne starts me a tab. You may not have noticed, I surely didn’t at first, but this ain’t just a house here. It’s her business.” Albert sat across from his wife and placed his hand on hers. “I call it Fais Do-Do’s.” Chansonne offered, “I’m trying out a Bar & Breakfast sort of thing. I find most people want a drink by the time they find their way here, and I’m so far out in the middle of nowhere … It only made sense to offer rooms …” She feebly took her own seat. Whatever relief Jeanine had started to feel burned away as color blazed back into her cheeks. “You been drinkin’ and partyin’ away whatever extra you coulda brought home? And do you have any earthly idea what I’ve been through just findin’ you this evenin’?” “Jeanie,” He began to attempt an explanation. “Jeanine.” Her accent corrected him. Before Albert could begin again, Jeanine continued, “You really think it’s okay to not tell me about this whole second life you been livin’ for the past month as long as you kept it in your pants?” She sprang to her feet and started for the screen door. “It ain’t always easy being married, you know?” Albert tried one last time. Jeanine couldn’t determine if the tiny break in his voice was real or not. “Yeah, believe me. I know. Your life is about to get real simple, don’t worry.” She paused at the threshold for just a moment and turned to Chansonne. “You can keep your best customer, Honey. C’mon, Fou.” Stunned, Albert watched as the cat gave him a mean spirited grunt then awkwardly trotted after Jeanine through the lawn’s scattered colony of crawfish mounds leading into the dark at the water’s edge. A few moments later, an airboat motor whirred to life, and the newly single Albert felt a tinge of panic as he heard it fade into the distance. “Um …” Slowly, he turned his head back toward the elegant being sitting to the side of him. In an instant, Chansonne was on her feet. “After that, you could definitely use another drink!” She fluttered away and returned before Albert could even heave a sigh at her comforting tone. He readily accepted the new Mason jar she offered and began to numb the memory of his wife. Strand upon delicate strand of tiny bulbs blinked to life all around Fais Do-Do’s, and sultry shadows hugged Chansonne as she moved through the soft, warmly glowing light of the porch back into her bar-and-breakfast. Albert’s jaw slackened as his gaze lingered a moment at the back door into the house, and the thick, rich smell of perique tobacco wafted through the doorway to hang in his nostrils. Chansonne returned cradling the arm of another, older man with more belly than hair and a long, hand-rolled cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth. “This is my most loyal customer here on the screen-porch. Be nice to him, Bach. He’s brokenhearted.” The men locked eyes and furrowed their brows as each attempted to mangle the other’s hand. “You boys make yourselves comfortable. I’ll be right back. Want anything?” She raised an eyebrow along with the last syllable she chirped. Both men completely forgot their silent battle upon hearing Chansonne’s voice. Bach released his grip and settled into a rocking chair situated just far enough away from his competitor that they needn’t interact. “A jar of the usual would be nice, Honey.” Albert gave Chansonne his usual dopey smile while he slowly wagged his head to either side a couple of times in response to her question. Giving a sly grin, she turned on her heels and popped back inside. A fiddle began to cry, accompanied by the long, slow wail of an accordion, and as the singer began his woeful verse, Albert’s attention turned to the inky blackness of the swamp beyond the backyard, and he let his mind swim.
Rowe Award for Analytical Essay “The Sense of the Sublime in American Renaissance Literature” by Maegan White
While wandering the towering redwood forests of the Pacific Northwest, a curious traveler may come across a single bench in the forest. This lone structure is engraved with a quote by William Shakespeare. “One touch of nature makes the whole world kin,” it reads. The meaning of this quote is not only read and heard, it is felt. In the pristine forest, surrounded by ancient trees and mossy sea cliffs, travelers may find themselves experiencing a divine oneness with nature. Writers are able to express this feeling through their work, especially the romantics of the American Renaissance. This feeling is known as the sense of the sublime. Sublime, in general terms, usually means something that is elevated or awe-inspiring. In literature, authors cultivate the sense of the sublime by finding the presence of God in nature. M. H. Abrams explains, “We recognize a consonance with the earlier theological context, in which the beautiful elements in nature are enduring expression of God’s loving benevolence” (101). It is not only the beauty in nature that reminds of God but the chaos as well. “The vast and disordered in nature express his infinity, power, and so evoke a paradoxical union of delight and terror, pleasure and awe” (Abrams 102). Writers of the American Renaissance, like Ralph Waldo Emerson, Emily Dickinson, William Cullen Bryant, and Henry David Thoreau, cultivate the sense of the sublime in their work through the use of imagery and symbolism. In Emerson’s essay, “Nature,” he makes use of both imagery and symbolism, creating a vivid picture for the reader that allows them to experience the sense of the sublime. This essay details not only the uses of nature, but our connection to nature as well. “In the tranquil landscape, and especially in the distant line of the horizon, man beholds somewhat as beautiful as his own nature,” he says (Emerson 217). This image is something readers can envision and relate to. Emerson’s feelings toward nature are evident as he explains that nature is always divine and calming. He writes, “Crossing a bare common, in snow puddles, at twilight, under a clouded sky, without having in my thoughts any occurrence of special good fortune, I have enjoyed a perfect exhilaration” (Emerson 217). In this single sentence, Emerson paints a picture of what would normally be considered a gloomy day. However, he describes it in such a way that it seems beautiful. One of his main points is that the beauty of nature exemplifies God’s presence in nature. Nature is a way for humans to experience the existence of God. Emerson encourages this with his symbolic metaphor of the transparent eyeball. He says that when he went out into the woods he “became a transparent eye-ball. I am nothing. I see all. The currents of the Universal Being circulate through me; I am part or particle of God” (Emerson 217). This creates a very literal image, as depicted in Christopher Cranch’s famous illustration of Emerson as the transparent eyeball. More than this strange, thought-provoking image, Emerson intends this metaphor to symbolize his complete connection with God when he is in nature. This belief of the oneness of nature and God is sometimes called “pantheism.” Richard Hardack explains, “Transcendental pantheism represents the immersion of self in nature, its loss of personal borders, as evidenced in Emerson’s merger into the transparent eyeball” (54). In “Nature” Emerson demonstrates that God is present in nature and that humans are a part of nature. With this view, each person is connected directly to God. Emily Dickinson is another writer who embodies the sense of the sublime in her work. Gary Stonum’s article outlines different ways in which the poetry of Emily Dickinson aligns, or does not align, with aspects of the sublime. He explains that one major way that her poetry cultivates a sense of the sublime is “by locating the interior drama in the poet’s own mind, thus reinforcing and helping to legitimize a general romantic tendency to make poetic subjectivity a principal literary topic. Indeed, sometimes the poet’s aptitude for experiencing the sublime seems to be a prerequisite for achieving it artistically” (Stonum 31). In her poem listed as “236” she describes a simple Sunday morning. It begins, “Some keep the Sabbath going to Church- / I keep it, staying at Home” (Dickinson 1668). By this, she means that she has a connection to God, without having to go to church. As the poem continues, Dickinson uses imagery to depict the sense of the sublime in her ordinary life. In the poem, Dickinson says that a bird is the chorister and an orchard is the dome (1668). Nature is her church; this is why she does not have to physically go. Next, the poem reads, “Some keep the Sabbath in Surplice / I, just wear my Wings” (Dickinson 1668). This is a comment about how people dress in a more formal manner for church, especially clergymen. In nature’s church, such customs are unnecessary. The image of a peaceful day at home with a little singing bird and an orchard are used in contrast with the hectic image of a Sunday at church, full of bustling people and high expectations. It makes a great deal of sense to relate God to the much more peaceful image. As the poem draws to a close, Dickinson even seems to be a bit critical toward the standard tradition on Sundays. “God preaches, a noted clergyman- / And the sermon is never long,” (Dickinson 1668). What preacher at a church could ever preach a better sermon than God himself? The concluding lines of the poem read, “So instead of getting to Heaven, at last- / I’m going all along” (Dickinson 1668). Dickinson reveals her laid back view of religion. The sublime moments, to her, were not in church. They were simply present all throughout life. Instead of focusing on the afterlife, Dickinson chooses to focus on the present because God is already all around her. Another poet who invokes the sense of the sublime in his work is William Cullen Bryant. Relying heavily on imagery, Bryant uses vivid descriptions to creature serene ideas of nature, drawing specifically on aspects we tend to find beautiful, like sunsets. Cecilia Lippai says, “In the case of the sublime, the boundary refers to the limits of our cognitive capacities (rationalizing nature and our surrounding world in general—up to a point where this proves impossible) and practical possibilities (reaching the point where we come to the limits of what we can do, how we can move or act in nature)” (61). In this same way, Bryant finds a way to relate an ordinary event in nature to our relationship with the world around us and with God. In his poem “To a Waterfowl,” Bryant describes an evening where he watches a duck fly off into the distance. He wonders where the duck is going. “Seek’st thou the plashy brink / Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide / Or where the rocking billows rise and sink / On the chafed ocean side?” (Bryant 125). The beautiful scenery helps summon a sublime connection as he goes on to say, “There is a Power whose care / Teaches thy way along that pathless coast- / The desert and illimitable air- / Lone wandering, but not lost” (Bryant 125). Bryant does not see a simple duck. Instead, he sees a creature guided by God. The imagery becomes even more vivid as the poem comes to a conclusion. Bryant observes keenly, “Thou’rt gone, the abyss of heaven / Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heart / Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given / And shall not soon depart” (125). Bryant is noting how the duck has become part of heaven. It has been completely led by nature and is one with it. The duck can represent all mankind in our relationship with God. Bryant expresses this idea with his last stanza, “He, who from zone to zone / Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight / In the long way that I must tread alone / will lead my steps alright” (125). The sublime idea is that God orchestrates nature and leads the duck home, so he will lead us home as well. There are many different ways that authors can represent the sense of the sublime. One way to do this is to draw a connection between sublime experience and natural science. In this way, the theme of the sublime becomes linked with both science and religion. This idea is expressed by Peter K. Walhout as he explains, “First, science reveals beauty and the sublime in natural phenomena. Second, science discovers beauty and the sublime in the theories that are developed to explain natural phenomena. Third, the search for beauty often guides scientists in their work. Fourth, where beauty is perceived, feelings of the sublime often also follow upon further contemplation,” (757). These ideas correlate most closely with Thoreau’s “Walden.” Unlike many other authors who wrote on the topic of nature, Thoreau engages in an experiment of sorts. He decides that he will go out in the woods, build a house, and live in nature himself. He continues with this style of life for two years and two months (Thoreau 981). “Walden” is a collection of his observations, experiences, and new knowledge learned while living in the forest. This is a very scientific way to go about cultivating a sense of the sublime for the reader. Instead of speaking merely from what Thoreau personally believes, he speaks from experience. In the first chapter, Thoreau explains the economy of nature. He remarks that man has “no time to be any thing but a machine,” (Thoreau 983). In the city, men solely focus on money, they live in debt, and they are constantly confronted with lies and chaos. Thoreau summarizes these woes with the famous line, “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation” (984). In society, one is trapped in a routine, usually an undesired routine. In nature, on the other hand, man need not worry about any of that. Thoreau explains that one can find the four necessities of life (food, shelter, clothing, and fuel) within nature (986). Essentially, everything we need has already been provided by God. Everything else that is man-made is a luxury. Thoreau recounts an event from his time in the woods through the use of imagery and symbolism to bring about the sense of the sublime. He recalls a day when his axe became submerged in the semi-frozen pond (Thoreau 1002). This is symbolic because the axe is man-made, being completely immersed in an aspect of nature. Much like the axe, Thoreau is immersed in nature throughout his experience. Despite his separation from most of the population, his time in the woods leads him to discover much about human nature. On this same day, he observes a snake slither into the pond and sit upon the bottom, “apparently without inconvenience” (Thoreau 1002). This image reminded him of how people live. “It appeared to me that for a like reason men remain in their present low and primitive condition; but if they should feel the influence of the spring of springs arousing them, they would of necessity rise to a higher and more ethereal life,” Thoreau says (1002). This expresses Thoreau’s view that true divinity is present in nature and can be reached by anyone. However, it is societal life that interferes with our connection to spiritual enlightenment. Peter Walhout states, “Scientific experiences of the sublime are intimations of a transcendent reality, God the Artist … science experiences of the sublime often follow a judgment of beauty, and both are linked to scientific knowledge” (759). This is what Thoreau has done. His experiment has given him first-hand knowledge of nature, and so he presents his informed conclusions of sublime experience in “Walden.” Lippai reminds us that there are many definitions of “sublime” (60). While different, each definition of the word implies something that is divine, something bigger than ourselves. Nothing tangible exemplifies this better than nature. With nature comes peace. It is our greatest link with the divine energy of the world. Writers like Emerson and Thoreau understand this. They explain that by immersing ourselves in nature, we become one with nature and God. Dickinson and Bryant observe the sublime existence in nature through everyday events. Each of these authors recounts their feelings, observations, and knowledge of the sublime with beautiful imagery and powerful symbolism to cultivate a sense of sublime for their readers. Nature has the power to connect people to their world and to each other. This divine connection travels through many vessels, though few are as powerful as writing.
Works Cited
Abrams, M.H. Natural Supernaturalism. New York: Norton, 1971. 97-105. Print.
Bryant, William Cullen. “To a Waterfowl.” 1818. The Norton Anthology of American Literature: Volume B, 1820-1865. 8th ed. Ed. Nina Baym et al. New York: Norton, 2012. 125. Print.
Dickinson, Emily. “236.” 1861. The Norton Anthology of American Literature: Volume B, 1820-1865. 8th ed. Ed. Nina Baym et al. New York: Norton, 2012. 1668. Print.
Emerson, Ralph Waldo. “Nature.” 1836. The Norton Anthology of American Literature: Volume B, 1820-1865. 8th ed. Ed. Nina Baym et al. New York: Norton, 2012. 214-242. Print.
Hardack, Richard. “The Pan-American Zone: Emerson, Melville, and the Transcendental Colonization of the Pacific.” Passages: A Journal of Transnational & Transcultural Studies 1.1 (1999): 53-82. Academic Search Complete. Web. 19 Apr. 2016.
Lippai, Cecilia. “The Sublime as Boundary Experience of Nature.” Philobiblon: Transylvanian Journal of Multidisciplinary Research in Humanities 14.(2009): 60-90. Academic Search Complete. Web. 19 Apr. 2016.
Stonum, Gary Lee. “Dickinson against the Sublime.” University of Dayton Review 19.1 (Winter 1987): Rpt. in Nineteenth-Century Literature Criticism. Ed. Jessica Bomarito and Russel Whitaker. Vol. 171. Detroit: Gale, 2006. 31-37. Literature Resource Center. Web. 1 May 2016.
Thoreau, Henry David. “Walden.” 1854. The Norton Anthology of American Literature: Volume B, 1820-1865. 8th ed. Ed. Nina Baym et al. New York: Norton, 2012. 981-1155. Print.
Walhout, Peter K. “The Beautiful and the Sublime in Natural Science.” Zygon: Journal of Religion & Science 44.4 (2009): 757-776. Academic Search Complete. Web. 19 Apr. 2016.