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Untitled Muse
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Muse
Volume XIII: spring 2003
muse: def.
muse v. To ponder or meditate; to consider or deliberate at length. 2. To wonder. N.
(Greek Mythology) Any of the nine daughters of Mnemosyne and Zeus, each of whom
presided over a different act of science. 3. In general, the spirit, or power inspiring and
watching over poets, musicians, and all artists; a source of inspiration. 4. (Archaic) a poet.
CALHOUN
COMMUNITY
COLLEGE
Editorial Committee
Linda Burns Jill Chadwick Randy K. Cross
Mitch Summerlin Leigh Ann Rhea Suzanne Turner
Cover art by Jessica Loch
The works contained in this publication do not necessarily represent the views and/or opinions
of Calhoun Community College, the Alabama Department of Postsecondary Education, or the
Alabama State Board of Education.
Foreword:
Springtime calls to mind many things: flowers, love, and new beginnings, to name a few. It
is also the time of year that Calhoun Community College showcases some of the many talented souls
who have passed this way by publishing their offerings in Muse. We, the members of Muses edi-
torial committee, are amazed each year at the number, diversity, and quality of the works submitted
for inclusion in our annual publication. The poems, stories, essays, photos, and artwork are the
products of students, faculty, and staff members, both current and former, and we appreciate
their sharing their talents with us.
This year marks our thirteenth edition, and in honor of our Second Annual Writers Conference,
we also include a special Writers Conference section that contains poems from Ms. Donna Holt
and Mr. Stuart Bloodworth, who, along with Mr. Len Roberts, will be reading from their poetry at
this years conference on April 11, 2003, here on our campus. We encourage you to attend the con-
ference. Ms. Holt and Mr. Bloodworth will be taking part in a book signing following the read-
ings, so be sure to bring along your copy of the Muse. Additional copies will be on sale at that time.
We hope you enjoy the 2003 Muse.
Sincerely,
Suzanne Turner
Editor
Published by the Language Arts Department and Sigma Kappa Delta Muse
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DONNA HOLT is a native of Athens, Alabama, and now resides in Decatur.
She has published several poems and short stories, and in 1989, received the
first-place award in the Southern Literary Festival competition for her story
Rose. After attending Calhoun Community College, she graduated from
Athens State College with a degree in English. Ms. Holt has twice been awarded
the William Butler Yeats Award for creative writing, and her story Fruit was
chosen for publication in the anthology of Alabama writers, Alabama Bound.
Writers Conference Selections
2 A.M. At The Kettle Restaurant
Huntsville, Alabama
Donna Holt
Trembling weak-kneed I raise
the coffee mug to my lips
thankful He took the wheel
as it spun out of control.
I wonder why waffles are so big
and ham so little. Why theres pain
and loneliness and suffering-
and how in Gods name
Jesus ever stood it?
Fair Play
Donna Holt
Like a bird
I pecked at Sunday dinner
begged two dollars from my daddy
hurried out the door
stepped into Debbies shiny red GTO
raced up and down North Jefferson
burned rubber from Hardees to Burger Chef
Bibles lying in the back seat.
Stole kisses from football-player boyfriends
at an old abandoned church near Lucys Branch
smoked a little reefer planned our futures
got back to church in the nick of time.
My daughter begged me for five dollars today
nibbled at her dinner ran outside and got
into Marys blue Toyota.
I curl on the couch like a fat lazy kitten.
I regret having thought my mama stupid.
Passage
For: Judy Living Ashford
(1952-1994)
Donna Holt
We stood tall upon that starlit
creek bank pretending courage.
But girls will do anything to be with boys.
The gigs lay across the back floorboard.
Whos first? Eagle asked, pulling them out.
Don, you said, looking at me laughing.
We calmly took to the hood. Watched
them enter the creek stabbing the darkness.
They knew. And soon stopped.
We wouldve died. Run screaming at the sight
of a bleeding frog. They sauntered shyly,
less confident of us. Climbed upon the hood.
We watched the stars, laughed. Joked. Laughed.
Moved. Laughed. Then kissed. They hoped for more.
Silly Sophomores!
Bastard
Donna Holt
Full-bellied
and filled with hate
the woman-child climbed
upon the table cursing
the pains.
Went down to hell gnashing
her teeth damming the bastard child
and screaming with opened eyes
savored the snip that severed the ties. Spring 2003
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Werent we the ones?
Soon to be capped and gowned?
Soon to turn our last assignment:
One day to live.
I copied you. I, too, would eat vanilla
ice cream. Play Andy Williams records.
Holt: Fellow Senior and sweet
kind friend, when we become old, old women,
youll stand out as one of my best pals
Old Time, aint you tired?
Cant you reverse that axle awhile?
Were you happy, Living?
Did you play out your hand?
Dear sweet, kind unforgettable friend.
Forty is young.
You Lied to me.
I heard music first, Buddy Hollys Peggy Sue. I
knew the song already from WVOK radio station in Birm-
ingham. I turned toward the music and saw the big,
chrome-coated machine. It was awkwardly round, some-
how, but beautiful with its gaudy silver buttons and light-
ed rainbow-shaped colors. I asked permission to go
and look.
I stood and watched in disbelief as a question mark-
shaped arm picked the record up, put it back in place,
then drew backsoldier-positioneduntil the records
stopped spinning, reached out, caught another, carried
it to the spindle, released it, and remained in place while
a gray handle crept over, fell down, and spun out music.
I leaned my forehead against the glass and tried unsuc-
cessfully to follow the spinning record.
Aunt Jean. Aunt Jean, I called. Look. Its magic.
Can I please play a record?
She came and stood next to me, then leaned down.
It has to have money to work, she said. A whole
dime.
Cant I have just one little dime? I asked.
She picked me up and walked back to the table.
See if you can find us a dime, Shirley, she said.
Aunt Shirley looked deep into her purse and pulled
out a nickel, then five pennies, one at a time. The wait-
ress gathered the change and laid down a dime.
Back at the jukebox, Aunt Jean held me up. I
dropped the coin into the slot and she guided my fin-
gers to the numbers. Push hard, she said.
I watched the process again and out came the voice
of Richie Valens, singing Oh, Donna. I imagined he
wrote that song just for me. I was, after all, at the cen-
ter of the universe and must be the only girl on earth
named Donna.
All the world was wonderful and filled with magic
that night. I reckoned it always would be. I did not
imagine that my aunts ordered water because they had
no money for anything else, or that I had just spent Aunt
Shirleys last dime. But I suspect they already knew
what we all eventually know: that the magic would not
last, that it would remain in paradise where it is born
and diesthe place we all start out and live for such a
short while, unaware.
The Jukebox
Donna Holt
I do not remember the name of the café where I
first saw a jukebox, only that it sat somewhere between
Michigan and home. I do remember, though, that I was
still at the age where I imagined the whole universe
revolved around me, and that it was late in the night
when Mary Dee pulled in and parked her green and white
Dodge. She was our neighbor-cousin and drove us to
Michigan every summer, and no matter how many were
packed into the car, her philosophy was theres always
room for one more. Sometimes, we were so crowded
even the grown-ups had to take time bout lap-sitting.
Most summers Mama went, but this time, my aunts,
Jean and Shirley, just out of high school, were allowed
full responsibility for me.
Inside the café, my aunts and I sat separately from
Mary Dee and her family. We had to sit beside a window,
Shirley said. Shes always been claustrophobic, some-
times even in open spaces. Aunt Jean asked if I would
eat a cinnamon roll like we sometimes had at home. I
quickly answered yes and asked for a Co-Cola, too. My
aunts ordered water, iced with extra lemon and heaped
full of sugar from a bowl. The roll was warm and good
the way I loved, and the Co-Cola was served the old
way: cold with sweat, direct from a little bottle. Muse
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Writers Conference Selections
STUART BLOODWORTH, an Assistant Professor of composition and litera-
ture at Motlow State Community College, received his B.A. in English from the
University of Tennessee at Martin and his M.A. from Mur