Thursday, September 9, 1976
th WoodI e t
By Marnie Heyn
my father cut the birches down
the summer that i moved away
the trees were diagnosed as beetled
dying
my mother wrote
dad tried to make a bench
of their stumps and boards but
the wood splintered and snapped
no use
so father broke the birches to chunks
to stop doors
steady trash cans
chock tires
and fasten the cold frame
but not to burn
birch burns readily
but father is tender
toward the bugs
when i visit
notice my fine trees scattered
like a spiteful puzzle
last sunday i sat alone
in the tired cafe
he introduced me to
the flautist wheezed toward midnight
in a sudden energetic phrase i heard again
the lake wind
birch leaves sighing
scarlet
before dusk shades them to grey
i dance for the birches
and they are gone
Marnie Heyn is a University graduate student in English.
The above poem is part of her Hopwood prize-winning col-
lection (majors, 1976) "laps in lethe."
THE MICHIGAN DAILY
Pags Nino
the coil
By Marnie Heyn
nance is bellyful of child
she carries her back like
dianas bow
she slides into the pool
for relief from the gravity
eldon carries more groceries now that
nance cannot hold them
he slumps around his larger burden
then reaches far back
to ease sacrificial muscles
my mother bends way down
of dusty bedtime stories
and resents
the effort of moving them
onto a shelf
although i do not think she
over a carton
grudges the work
my lover arches over me
and between dark and light
i see the trail of springing spines
that went into the making
cast up. like eroded fish
on the shore of an
undated lake
Marnie Heyn is a University graduate student in Engtisb.
The above poem is part of her Hopwood prize-winning cot-
lection (majors, 1976) "laps in lethe."
even though i
want to love you
By Deborah Bennett
I am afraid I
will die if you touch me
My arms would shrivel up
going around you, my lips
turn black from your
kiss, my body melt
and run into the ground.
I am afraid you
would bury me when I died.
The thorns that
grew would make
trinkets for your
new loves, and you
would weave
the thistle stems into
red mats for them to lie on.
Deborah Bennett is a graduate student at Johns Hopkins
University. The above poem is part of her Hopwood prize-
winning collection (minors, 1975) entitled "Figure Eights".
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WELCOME FRESHMEN!
persephene reports
to the underworld
By Marnie Heyn
persephone spreads
a copy of, the daily news
out on a rock
and sits
one more year
one more harvest
she sighs
dirty nails
and getting pinched by
goatherds
she says
i have ceased to care
of your quarrel with my mother
there has been a change of regime
what with manure
and irrigation
the old treaties are null
your lease on my life has
expired
my ankles are weak
and so
are my eyes
i am tired of being
a household plant
next year spring
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