Student Work Samples

Radio

Jordan Lewis (Seminar student 2005)

Saginaw, MI

Things are the usual.
She's here
sleeping like she sometimes does.
He's here too
reading his daily newspaper.
I can hear the radio in the distance.
 
Strangely, I realize
that I am more comfortable here
than in my own house.
These people are closer to me
than even my parents.
 
Things have changed now.
She's no longer here
sleeping like she used to.
He's not here either
reading the paper like he did.
I can no longer hear the radio.

Placid

Lucy Hough (Seminar student 2005)

At the base, bleeding clouds,
red and throbbing.
Sun vibrates off these eyes and these white clouds.
Crazy wind brush my hair,
throw the ends out of these thick windows.
Clasping these crap Canadian cigarettes.
Stories loud and cooking flour in our car, squirrels.
Here, cluttered floor, we kick out when we leave
Red Truck, big boy.
I watch the scene, in town, in and out.
These trees hold ground and create our world.
Finding Glens and creeping through the isles
Vegetables our only goal and locals stare behind hick eyes,
glaring at the careless foreigners, us.
Smooth through these halls, pick up canned meat and tofu-
never alone.
Brown frame crowded by chaos and here, alone,
little girl, innocent, grey with colored flowers.
Perfect Rose surrounded in concrete.
Girl grab your candy and run, don't scream, just pay.
Friend, we won't judge you, ever.
In the truck, find us night.
Drive back south, we share the road with
raccoons. Swerve as it steps to our wheel, swerve hard.
He looks at us with red death eyes, take my soul, I am yours.
Three screams.
How scared we are. Such happens again and again.
Pull in like our drive-in movies, sliding into the parking place

The Doughnut Shop

Maranda Shear (Seminar Student 2003, 2004, 2005)

Grayling, MI

            The windows of the Doughnut Shop proclaimed that it was The Home of the Honey Glazed Doughnut.  Just below those perfectly printed yellow letters was the senior classes homecoming mural showing a cartoon like premonition of the Faytte Bees’ victory over the DuBois wasps.  In the painting, the football field , the great expanse of the Doughnut Shop’s front window, was littered with graphic images of slaughtered wasps, legs showing signs of twitching, their heads and abdomens lying detached from the rest of their bodies.  Pure carnage. 
            Ronnie Douglass felt completely detached from the surrounding noise colliding with the damp early morning rush to get nowhere truly important.  He walked past the mural without giving it a second thought and walked into the Doughnut Shop, his shoulders hunched from the weight of his backpack.  Glancing around the spotless 50’s style interior of the shop, he noticed two people whom he was never happy to see.  It was Buck Bradley and his blonde ditz-brained girlfriend.  Ronnie tried to ignore them in their ping booth in the back of the shop as he made his way up to the front counter, weaving around scattered tables.
            “Just try to ignore them,” he thought, “maybe they won’t notice you.”
            Much to his dread, the man behind the counter hailed greetings as soon as he spotted Ronnie making his way across the shop.
            “Hiya Ronnie,” he crowed as the phone rang in the bakery part of the shop, “I’ll be with in a minute.”  He huffed his way through the swinging door to answer the phone. 
            Buck turned around in his booth and glared at Ronnie with a menacing grin. 
            “Hey, body bag,” hissed the large gorilla looking mass of a football player.  The girlfriend giggled.  “What are you doing here?”
            “What do you want?” said Ronnie sounding exasperated.  He was feeling extremely uncomfortable and nervous remembering that his last encounter with Buck involved a lot of duct tape.  He debated on what he was going to do about the situation.
            “How would you like to get a swirly before school?” Buck said with his sneer intensifying.  The girlfriend giggled again.
            Ronnie turned his back on the two as the laughed.  They weren’t funny.  He let his eyes wander around the interior of the shop, across the glass case where all the doughnuts were perfectly displayed, searching for anything to take his mind off of thinking about those idiots.  He walked the length of the counter and sat down on the last stool at the counter.
            Buck got out of his booth and lurched towards Ronnie.
“I thought I asked you a question corpse lover!” he said without much humor in his tone.  Ronnie ignored him and didn’t turn around.  “Hey, I thought I said something to you freak, I just might have to put you in your place!”
            “Yeah right, over-sized bee’s ass,” Ronnie muttered under his breath.
            “What did you say?” Buck growled.
            Ronnie turned around noticing that Buck had heard him.
            “Oh shit,” he thought. Then he said meekly, “I didn’t mean it, really, I was just…” He cowered on the stool.  All the while Buck  was walking closer to him, his nostrils flaring as he breathed heavily, clenching and unclenching his fists.
            “That’s it!” Buck yowled as he lunged for Ronnie.
            Ronnie jumped off the stool, sending his backpack crashing to the floor.  Before Buck could wind up for another shot for Ronnie, strange laughter came from the opposite side of the room.  Both Buck and Ronnie turned to face the laughter.  A kid about as tall as Buck and almost as brawny stepped out of the booth at the opposite end. 
            “Who the hell are you?” Buck growled in disgust.
            “That really doesn’t matter does it?” this new kid snapped back still laughing, stepping closer and confidently adjusting his brown leather jacket, which called to attention how well he filled out the jacket in the arms and shoulders.  Buck forgot about Ronnie and focused his attention on this new kid.
            “Why are you laughing ass hole?” Buck said locking eyes with this kid.  He answered,
            “Well, because I’ve never understood why stupid oafs, such as yourself, have to pick on people that haven’t done anything to you. I find it humorous that you have to pick on someone just to feel better about yourself.  It’s pretty pathetic,” the kid smiled, never breaking eye contact.
            Buck was furious.  “Oh yeah, well…” having nothing else to say or not being able to think of anything to say he growled and stormed off, motioning for the girlfriend to follow.  “Next time Douglass,” he said pointing a sausage like finger at Ronnie, “next time.”  He shoved his way through the door and they were gone.
            Ronnie stared at the kid, who was still laughing to himself.
            “Thanks, I guess,” Ronnie said timidly as he picked up his backpack off the floor.
            “Hey man, no problem, people like that piss me off.  My name’s MacAurthur, by the way,” he said amiably extending a hand, “Czuba MacAurthur.”
            “Ronnie Douglass,” he said as he shook MacAurthur’s hand.  “Can I buy you a doughnut or something?”
            “Sure,” MacAurthur answered, “why not!”  The man finally puffed out from the back, wiping his hands on his apron.
            “Sorry “bout that, what’ll it be,” he said looking at MacAurthur first.
            “I’ll have a chocolate glazed.”
            “And you Ronnie, the usual honey glazed?”
            “No,” Ronnie replied, “Chocolate sounds good.”

Kiss Me, Manistee 

Nina Chaker (Seminar student 2002, 2005)

I stroked your fish belly under the moon,
sandwiched between the rough concrete of the pier
and stars;
you laughed at your hands.
 
in Detroit,
we don’t have a sky like this.
 
you are of sand dunes and endangered grass,
I like the scent of pick-up trucks and antique wood
that follows you four and a half hours to me.
 
I discussed the smoky elements of eggplant
with your mother
and got caught with the better half of a cigarette
by your father.
 
you find my smoking buzz
and bad words just a little bit sexy,
but you run your fingers through my hair
as if it didn’t take me 45 minutes
to make it look like this.

My Parents Met at a Bar  

Bethany Bowers (Seminar student 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005) 

(twenty-one in 1976)

Stumbling down the freeway, in a rust streaked
white mustang, Pink Floyd’s eight track crooning
“Dark Side of the Moon”.   Passing signs shouting
On your left Yale Michigan with the world’s best  Bologna,
 You’re in Mitchell Kentucky the mecca of Ventriloquism,
and You just passed Dollywood come back the rest of Tennessee
sucks.
 
Seeping out of public restrooms, bathing in Patchouli,
drinking nicotine at dime diners with waitresses named Patti
or Barb dressed in teal and white pocketed uniforms. Peeling
the roof down at 2am, wandering, stars
straining behind clouds,
in the thick Louisiana air.
 
(twenty-one in 1981)
 
Skimming the pages of War and Peace, highlighter piss
marking the lines.  Smoke wafting out into the hall leaving
a green trail of smog.  Massage tables with “Shake it up”
by the Cars. Kicking head phones, smashing air guitars,
and Rocking out on beds.
 
Drinking coffee out of pens, running to catch buses
across campus.  Visiting cheerleaders whose buttons
claimed Red Heads do it better, Blondes have more
 fun, and I’m a Brunette nuff said.  Sleeping through
alarm clocks into the white chocolate
coated winters of Buffalo, New York.

Mercy   

Anneliese Finke (Seminar student 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005)

Grayling, MI

When you face the doctor
And see, behind him, months
Or years of tests and charts,
Being slid in and out of tubes
And sliced and sectioned,
Sent away in pieces, and still
The slow decline, inescapable
Fencing against Death
Who dances around you, striking
First this part, and then that,
Touché, your wife will drive you
Or, perhaps, you will go nowhere
Further than the railing of the front porch,
Touché, the contractors will come
And install the metal bars, horizontal,
That lead you through the house
Like a scared animal, clinging to walls.
 
Then, think of the zebra.
Not the proud horsy beast
That thunders in herds across the Serengeti,
But that one, behind,
Who feels his heart twitching in his chest
And has no time to think
Of shents or balloons, only time
To feel the sharp bite
Of claws into flesh, stumbling
Wild-eyed, rolling with the lion,
And one last kick, connecting
With the air, before the snap
And sudden disentanglement
Of beast and beast.
Do you see it?
That is nature’s mercy,
The zebra’s white unseeing eyes
Turned towards God.

Plenty of Otherwise

(Seminar student 2005) 

Sixteen years—technically seventeen, but I wasn't born 'til December.  And it's only July.  Friday, July 8, 2005—11:01 p.m.  You're twenty-six hours, nine minutes old...

I don't really know you (yet), I just
know the tears—

your first,
and mine too, I suppose.

Because these are my first, it seems,
that aren’t in the angst

of a teenaged
heart, soul, and blah, blah, blah...

I'd really rather not elaborate on my life—regrets and otherwise (and I'm happy to say, there's plenty of otherwise).  In the grand scheme of things, it doesn't matter much who I am, who I've been, and inevitably, who I'll become (I know I seem old to you now, but I'm only sixteen).  I've spent my time, I'll spend my time...writing poetry

for you—
and I think it's a great way

to spend my time,
no matter

how much of it's left—
don't you?

Don't waste yours, darling.  I won't tell you how to keep from wasting your time.  If I did, you probably wouldn't agree with me anyway.  So, simply enough, two words: love yourself...

and find beauty
in little things—

clichés like that and
homemade gifts

for your parents—
the ones

that I hope you aren't embarrassed
to see on the refrigerator in the next decade or so
to come.

My parents still hang my schoolwork on the fridge:  a quiz I took on A Farewell to Arms in American Lit sophomore year, and the first math test I ever got an "A" on.  I've learned to live with it; even though it's really the poetry I'm proud of.  And there's never been a poem tacked to the fridge.

I'm a vegetarian, a cat lover; your dad's a hunter, your mom likes dogs.  So I'll leave my pretty little spin on animals out of it, except to say that you should never forget your first pet (Riley).  Luckily he's young.  Like you.  I had a dog when I was born...though he was like, twenty when I showed up and so, needless to say, he was kind of grumpy, and I blame him for my fixed idea that cats are better.

With that said,
you're lucky,

beautiful, alive (officially, finally), and
you amaze me, already

with your
simple

complexity of
being

not quite human, and yet
more genuine than any life fully lived...

...not that there is such a thing,
but you could defy that—

and I know you will,
in growing...

Saturday, July 9, 2005—12:14 a.m.  You're twenty-seven hours, twenty-two minutes old...

I can only hope
I've gotten the math right.

‘Forget me not’   

Sarah Wangler (Seminar student 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005)

West Branch, MI

lavender dew droplets cool thoughts of you
stop.
summer’s last breath of leaves is coming
stop.
and I can’t stick around anymore
stop.
 
one tear slips silent down my sun burnt cheek
Stop.
 
if I could write to you more,
on the back of a photo – turned post card
(probably my ‘pretty face’ or conveyance of surprise
but perhaps scenery I thought you’d enjoy; color turned trees or
my feet – sticking out a car window, toes painted pearly purple)
I’d scrawl:
                I miss your
sweet sweet honey happy place, having you
nuzzle my chest with your nose, flitter your fingers
across my stomach, and watching you listen as
laughter slides from my lips like
a sort of cascading
                        “I’ll miss you…”
 
I am staring down at this
            south-eastern sky and wondering
if your intent gaze crosses mine, intersecting upon a cloud
puffed like the right angular sections of waffle –
            somewhere along a northern horizon you must also be frantic
searching for our star, glistening, the easy one to find:
 
the handle of the big dipper, or was it Orion’s belt?
 
‘I yearn for you tragically.’
s. j. wangler,
modern language major,
michigan technological university
fall 2004

Minnow  

Rose Swartz (Seminar Student 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2005)

Kalamazoo, MI

Wednesdays before swim class her father does her hair.
Sloppy and sighing the pigtails in a mess the odd pieces stuffed
back in line in braid the plastic barretes hanging.
Some girls don’t have fathers. Some girls have fathers but
their fathers can’t braid. Her father doesn’t brush, just braids.
 
Afterward she holds her head like an adopted doll.
The kind that gets brought home with marker streaks
and lazy, sticky blink eyes; but the kind that get better,
get washed, get loved. She gets egg noodles and cheese.
Her eyes don’t get pulled back, there are no headaches,
these are not that kind of braids.
 
Barrettes hang off each side, they are apologies
clicking together as she goes through the YMCA door.
He hands her yellow arm-bands, hopes the water isn’t too cold.
She holds her adopted doll head high, “I have a father,”
the braids say, “I have a father that tries.”
 
She practices kicking in water. Holding the pool’s edge.
The barrettes begin to fly away from her. The water
churns and bubbles, the chlorine stings her eyes.
The pink bow barrette has sunk to the bottom.
There are people starving. She can’t let go of the pool wall.
All her father’s trying, all those bright plastic tries of his
keep floating farther away. There are girls without fathers.
There are girls without barrettes.
In getting them back she might drown.

Code Shiny 

Jeannette Pomerance (Seminar student 2004, 2005)

Oak Park, IL

            I have a question, and I'd like you to listen, really listen because I need an answer, and I'm only going to be a few minutes, that's all, I promise.
            How do you know? When a girl is breaking up with you, how do you know? Because you're always so prepared, you men; it's not like Seventh Heaven or the OC or "Days" where you're caught by surprise, or you beg us not to go and you walk on the beach at midnight with Hoobastank playing in the background and you cry – it's never like that. 
            Ladies, doesn't it always happen? He's a great guy, realy, sweet and funny but he's not The One, it's just that he's got hairy toes. It's not him, it's his toes, it's not even his toes, it's just that you've got this thing about toes – 
            So you wait for the perfect time and it never comes because there is no perfect time: when's the perfect time to tell a guy you never want to see his ugly mug (or toes) again?
            So you ask can we talk, sure, I wanted to talk to you too – so you let him be polite – and out comes the jewelry.
            HOW DOES HE KNOW?
            You can't take a gift and then just leave a guy three minutes later, and how do you refuse when he's already spent the money? It starts as a pair of earrings and the next thing you know it's a bracelet from Tiffany's and then he's putting a wedding ring on your finger and you wake up the next morning and then start the arguments over whether you can still technically get it annulled, which only happened once–
            Seriously. Girls don't know when we're going to break up with a guy, or even if we're going to, not until you sleep with our sister or let out our dog or until we call you at three in the morning because we just want you to tell us we're fat like we know you think we are – it's not about fat, it's about trust, and how can I trust me when you won't just tell me you think I'm fat –
            Seriously. Do you keep it in your pocket and wait because you figure we're going to dump you sometime? Do you call it your backup and rin to your friends for help if you have to use it? Man, I wasn't expecting her to try so soon –  what are you going to do – I'll just have to buy another, that's all, think we can hit the stores this weekend? – 
            But guys don't do that, talk to each other the way girls do – 
            "Base, this is Big D, we have a Code Shiny, l repeat, Code Shiny, 10-4."
            "Roger, Big D, rendezvous at 1400 hours at Camp Credit Check – "
            Or do you wait until you get some sign, is there some pheromone girls produce when they're getting ready to dump you, is that how you know?
            Really, how do you know?

Poor Ant  

Brian Aragona

The ant spoke to me and said
That the waves were picking on him
No wait, he was carrying rotted out apples
Across the sand in midday, while the sun
Beaded cornrows tightly to his head
Flopped over like a pancake
Screaming syrup! Syrup! Syrup!