2012 Quiz and Quill Chapbook

SINGLE-AUTHOR CHAPBOOK 2012 | 1

TulipsIN THE

GUTTER,

BLUE LIPSIN THE

GARDENJORDY LAWRENCE STEWART

QUIZ&quilL SINGLE-AUTHOR CHAPBOOK 2012

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TULIPS IN THE GUTTER, BLUE LIPS IN THE GARDEN

A COLLECTION OF POETRY BY JORDY LAWRENCE STEWART

QUIZ&quilL SINGLE-AUTHOR CHAPBOOK 2012

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QUIZ quill&otterbein university’s student LITerary MAGazine

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CONTACT US Send all inquiries to [email protected].


Short North Hallelujah West Park Street

I Shake Myself to Sleep Sometimes Edisto

Raging Bull If I Don’t Make It to Sleep Tonight

There’s a Coupe Parked on the Pine TreesHere’s Looking at You, Kid

Frame It and Hang It in the BasementA Blue Jean Wax Poetic

Last Lines of the Year So I Am a Ghost Tonight

If You’re Gonna Break It, Break It CleanI’d Write You a Letter, But I’m No Letter Writer

Ashes, Ashes About the Author

TABLE OF CONTENTS

81013151720222426 2830 33 36 40 42 44

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I’d like to thank my mother and father for their hard work and faith in my passion. I’d also like to thank my sister for picking me up many, many times and for my good friends who kept me from falling too far GRZQ��)LQDOO\��IRU�WKH�JLUO�ZKR�ŹOOHG�XS�P\�KHDG�DQG�KHDUW�ZLWK�PRVW�RI�

these words, thank you for your patience and spirit, as I must apologize for the breaking of mine.

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jazz survives on the splashesof a beat up cymbal swingingonto an ocean wave of cool.a ukulele boy singing out in hisbare feet, vocalizing his bare soul.the night is ripe – right as rain.black, steel arches dressed upin white lights painting starsRQ�WKH�ϩRZLQJ�SDUDGH�RI�FDUV�a turn of the hips and you’ve gotcloud nine echoing from a p.a.blaring beautiful lungs at high E.you want a cigarette and youdon’t even smoke but the nightis smoking. step on out and hearthe chatter of a hundred barsZLWK�D�KXQGUHG�GLϱHUHQW�QDPHV�DQG�D�PLOOLRQ�GLϱHUHQW�SHRSOHZKR�KDYH�D�PLOOLRQ�GLϱHUHQW�VWRULHV�WR�WHOO�

SHORT NORTH 9/10/11


through my light framesi look through tall windowsonto hung artwork without frames,just as free as the hands that paintedthem. in the steaming machineryRI�KXPDQ�WUDϫF�WKHUH·UH�VL[�OHJVand maybe one or two sharedhearts, a shop for every countryand an open doorway to get you there.could life be so easy? the world so small?i snap back to my senses snappingP\�ϧQJHUV��GXK�GDK�GXK�the sidewalk arrives to the impressionistsand their statements, ladders and brushes,creativity’s sweat and time on a twentyfoot stretch of wall and now i’ve got a legion ofDVSLUDWLRQ�FDOOLQJ�IRU�ZDU�LQ�P\�XQϧW�PLQG�beggars working the corner shake theircups in the rhythm of the beating street:sadness, confusion, sincerity – can you dig it? i’d say endlessly.

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HALLELUJAH WEST PARK STREET“take your best steps out the doorand hold your breath – don’t let up.FURVV�\RXU�ϧQJHUV�DQG�ZHDU�\RXUdirt cheap smile and count everylucky star you see.” while heaven is roaring behindheaven’s crystal ball? and hitchcock must’ve saved hisgreatest pictures for me!they reel out in technicolorbehind the glorious screenof my batting green eyes.i watch in awe and horrorattempting perfect sleep. while old man night adjustshis creaking bones on the redlipstick shirts and pulsing sheetsRI�HYHU\�PRDQLQJ�EHGURRP�ϩRRUof grandfather death’s synthetic earth.


Oh! my hands grow colderin the itching winters ofof my scratching life.and the ivy grows clearout of view and theskyscrapers cry out for attentionon the black nights of allmy blacked out friends. lock us up while you’vestill got your golden keyand your golden rule! we roll over national mediocrityfor every good reason to blindinto the coughing caskets ofall your starving wonders. wonders. wonders. i no longer wonder.—sick from it.blue-lipped and weepingover the daisies that waitto be sung to in the emeraldgardens of swinging and slidingwalking ghosts. or should we play tagwith needle splendorsand empty bottle dreamersof the broken alleysLQ�WKH�LQϧQLWH�VFDEVof every great metropolis? to love and be loved! cannot nirvana hold true?will all the reincarnatedZLQJV�DQG�ϩRZHUV�KROGtheir breath too! i sink my teeth intoShakespeare’s opiate playersUHVWHG�RQ�(OL]DEHWK·V�ϧQHVW�FKLQD�

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i pluck and tear at everystring and every otherlifeless thing. to love and be loved.


I SHAKE MYSELF TO SLEEP SOMETIMESKHOSOHVV�ϧWV�FDWFK�WURXEOH�catch Hell, catch misery,WKH\�GR�QRW�FDWFK�WKH�ϩ\�EDOORXWWD�OHIW�ϧHOG�WR�HQG�WKH�JDPH�they go unheard in big ways:in the dampness of cardboardhotels and in the loose change ofyour pockets – the lint too!the shrieks of air that get caughtin the cherrywood of your diningURRP�ϩRRU��WKH�KXPPLQJ�RI�D��liter engine sitting at the lake witha lot of your trust and the borrowedtunnels of your heart, the hourhands of a clock and the unconfessedways to unmeasured happiness.

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KHOSOHVVQHVV�ϧQGV�LWVHOI�DWyour doorstep in black ties,in signatures you were countingon, in the thumbs down restingaround a meeting table withfresh fruit wasted in the lobby.it’s what you dream aboutSunday night in bed and thinkabout all morning and after-noon on Monday. it is a Russianwinter, it is every winter. it isa tornado without an eye. it’s black and blue,black and white too. it’s the laws that drown us allto near death and spill out ofthe marble pillars of Democracy.its teeth are in our silences andits knife is in our backs. it dancesblindly down your street withall the promises your father madeyou, broken and unbroken butbreaks them either way. it issomething in the ground tobe loved and everything elseabove ground to be hated. helplessness in one toothbrushbehind your midnight mirror andyou standing restless at the sink.


EDISTO

it was a white coast.the shore clumped likegrandma’s holiday mashedpotatoes – steam and all –with the echoing footstepsof early morning crabwalksand barefooted vacationers,ZKR�ODXJKHG�DQG�VFUHDPHG�ZLWK�ϩDVKOLJKWVwhile bronze-bellied townies watchedfrom bungalow porches made of sand,wide awake on red wine and IXOO�ϩDYRUHG�GRPHVWLF�FLJDUHWWHV�Carolina could be home.carolina felt like home as i mightnot have felt any sort of home before.its high breeze wind smelled like quietpieces of earth and the kind of vanished solitudethat pours from bells on the peaks of red clay mountainsin foreign footsteps that i have never taken before.this kind of solitude accompanies prayer.

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the black backs of bottlenose chattergoing mad as the yellow sun roseover the gray infant isles of humiditysang their facetious lullabies till noon with white waterFRPPRWLRQ�DQG�FKLOGUHQ·V�NLWHV�PLGϩLJKW��the rascal lizards dashed crookedly throughthe prickly weeds in the backyard almost like ϩDVKHV�RI�OLJKWQLQJ�SOD\LQJ�WDJ�LQ�D�VDQG�ER[�only not as bright but twice as frightening.

scooped up in the happy mesh of an oldKDPPRFN��ZKLOH�WKH�VLOYHU�ϩLHV�OLFNHG�WKHleftover briny bits from my leisure legs,as the chimes wisped up on the porch

i’m on my way to sleep in the hands of a sleepy south.


RAGING BULL

it was that kind of singular rain,each drop falling on its ownheavy accord. single drippingshots into the soggy grass anddamp sidewalks with hello splats.

i wasn’t ready to head back intothat part of the city so soon buti didn’t know it until i got there.

LQ�WKDW�NLQG�RI�HYHQLQJ�WKH�WUDϫFlooks like artwork, some kind ofperpetuated masterpiece thatyou think will head down thatstreet and around that block andmake its way back onto the middleRI�WKH�FDQYDV�EHIRUH�WKH�QH[W�UHG�OLJKW�but it never does.

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EDFN�WR�WKH�ZH[QHU�FHQWHU��L�FRXOG�VPHOOthe grilled beef over the cigarettes oftightrope undergrads, the beaconof bars stretching their longing armsout into the short north and up intothe arena district. looking downtownand still seeing “united” still hangingforty stories high. i shake my head toget all the steam out, then it climbed upinto a browning maple tree and out intothe night, dodging the kamikaze raindrops.

i hope that it got away safe and sound.

WKH�VNHOHWRQ�RI�WKH�ZH[QHU�FHQWHU�JLYHV�PHthe creeps, walking under it in the dark is theworst – the walkway – like a long thin spinal cordcaging you in between a million mirrors whoRQO\�JUDQW�\RX�\RXU�RZQ�GLVDSSRLQWLQJ�UHϩHFWLRQfor any kind of view for jabbing entertainment.we make it to our seats, to the screen, raging bull.

i needed to see me some method acting.there hasn’t been much method in my lifelately, only a whole lot of unanswered madness.

there’s deniro with his middle weight abs, with hisVSLUDOLQJ�GRZQ�JXW��KLV�ϧVWV��KLV�IDFH��WKHlaughing, the crying, the dozen mother fuckers!i needed to see me some method acting.then i thought of my father and i imaginedhim remembering the bounce of the ring,the air in his everlast gloves, the ring of thebell and i wonder if he remembers thoseWLPHV�LQ�EODFN�DQG�ZKLWH��LQ��PP��ZLWKan orchestra glorifying his greatness. theni think that he’s been through worse timesthan me, he’s had a nose busted up, a blackeye or two and i’ve only felt that way sometimes.


the rain still falling from the chase of cobbled upold town neighborhoods on the way home – the reds, greens and blazing glow of yellowthrough a fogged up backseat window, i crackmy knuckles in the vented lukewarm airand stretch out in the leather seat and smile..i am my father’s son.

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IF I DON’T MAKE IT TO SLEEP TONIGHT


if i don’t make it to sleep tonight,then perhaps i’ll make it through the day.maybe the sun’ll never rise because i’d forgotten that it set. if i don’t make it to sleep tonight,then I’m contemplating the artwork ofyour gestures in between those surprise smiles of yours. if i don’t make it to sleep tonight,don’t bury me, let my heart have its way.L·OO�ϧQG�WKH�MR\V�D�KXPLG�VXPPHU�FDQ�EULQJ�WR�D�ER\� if i don’t make it to sleep tonight,it’s because your ghost kept me company,LW�ZDLWV�IRU�PH�WKHUH��LQ�P\�EHG��ZKLOH�\RXU�ϩHVK�WHDVHV� if i don’t make it to sleep tonight,i’m digging Neruda in his striped shirts,licking up the night with him like brothers of the bottle. if i don’t make it to sleep tonight,i’ll be at the reservoir, you’ve never beenbut i’m there imagining your hair and hips in the sand. if i don’t make it to sleep tonight,GRQ·W�ZRUU\��L·P�EHWWHU�Rϱ�SOD\LQJ�RXW�ORYHthan ever collecting enough of myself to live it through. if i don’t make it to sleep tonight,i’m in countless yards and baptist streetstrying to gather the countless pieces of my mind. if i don’t make it to sleep tonight,i’m stretching into the moments of heavenWKDW�PXVW·YH�IDOOHQ�RXW�RI�H[KDXVWLQJ�WKXQGHUVWRUPV� if i don’t make it to sleep tonight,i’m being my hero being your heroand heroes never have time to catch up, now do they?

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THERE’S A COUPE PARKED ON THE PINE TREES


there’s a lot of gravel where my house used to be.there used to be long summers there and children’s laughter.there used to be my laughter but now I imagine those joys to be ghosts.L�ZDV�VHYHQ�\HDUV�ROG�ZKHQ�,�ϧUVW�VPHOOHG�LWV�RUDQJH��PXVN\�OLYLQJ�URRP�carpet,that’s where my old dog would roll and chase her tail when she was still young - when I was still young. L�ZDV�HLJKW�\HDUV�ROG�ZKHQ�L�ϧQDOO\�FDPH�DURXQG�WR�OLYLQJ�LQ�WKH�\HOORZ�house on church street,it had become home and me and my sister had made friends with the neighbor boys, we’d swing baseball bats and kick soccer balls in between our backyards – what the Hell were property lines—what the Hell were fences. we’d pick mr. taylor’s tulips from his prize winning garden. he’d yell as we plucked out the petals and made wishes. there’s a lot of gravel where that yellow house used to be, cars park over the pebbled graveyard of my childhood. they don’t realize that we swam in a little pool where they park their toyota. they don’t realize that they’re backing over my mother’s garden or that the blue chevrolet is resting on the tomb of my playthings that were left in the basement ZLWK�WKH�KDXQWHG�FDYHV�ZH·G�WDNH�RXU�LPDJLQDWLRQV�DQG�ϩDVKOLJKWV�through. there are several cars parked where only a few used to be, one was my GDG·V�QRYD�WKDW�ZH�KDG�WR�VHOO�WR�DϱRUG�RXU�PRUWJDJH��WKHUH�DUH�HPSW\�water bottles and bright trash where we’d look at the stars while my father would man the grill and my mother tickled our chubby bellies in WKH�IUHVK�FXW�JUDVV��ZKHUH�OLJKWQLQJ�EXJV�ϩHZ�LQWR�RXU�PDVRQ�MDUV�DQG�sheba would chase and gobble up the white moths. there’s a lot of gravel laying over my home, the place i made mistakes and the only consequences were a smack on the bottom and a week in-side with the dog – that lovely mutt – the place where i never counted my blessings because that was all i knew.

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HERE’S LOOKING AT YOU, KIDsat spitefully in the hollow of my mind today,on lawn furniture with your sweet lemonade.you looked proud over the mossy grave ofmy dunce-capped love and misconceptions.a photo brought me there, in color and captions.it could have taken a few drinks or a hit of something.i decided not to give you your needless revenge today.silence and then a squared, sheet, piece of sadness.i looked at your sloppy kitchen with the stained,salmon dish towel and your happy dog Da Vincipeeping his head out the back door, perhaps togo take a whiz or chase his favorite squirrel.the sink full of dishes, the walls full of thoseERULQJ�SULQWHG�SODWHV�RI�ZKHDW�ϧHOGV�DQG�SLOJULPVthat would suggest some kind of artistry but reallyFRPH�Rϱ�DV�D�SRRU�DWWHPSW�DW�$PHULFDQ�KRPLQHVV�


WKHUH·V�D�URXQG��EURZQ�UXJ�ZKHUH�L�IHOO�WR�WKH�ϩRRU�when my best friend went quietly and without meand you held me there in the dusty musk of tile.you held me because i needed to be held,with your soft pale skin, marked rhythmicallywith those shy freckles, one after anotherchasing each other to your small wrists andWKHQ�WR�\RXU�VPDOO�KDQGV�DQG�ϧQJHUV��ZLWKthose hipster rings and glitter polishes.you kissed my forehead with those hipster lips,that haunt me in the cinemas and outin the markets picking fruit and clothes,“i bet she’d like that shirt … i hate it.”haunted with little things in the rain,blades of grass on my sneakers andZKLWH�SXϱ\�FORXGV�RYHU�WKH�WURSLFV�certain chips in sidewalks and backstreet bridges.you keep me company in my nightmaresor at least some idea of you, maybe the truth,mangled and dying over my fridge near midnight,lowering down those thin arms to be embracedbut driving me mad with the lifelessness of thoseglazed eyes through the raunchy strands of red hair,trying to cough out your apologies, but death took youand so death may take me too, in front of a screen.in front of a keyboard and a hallucinated sense of happiness.oh! how we do regret those great times, those best times.we miss them and give their ripeness our condolences.i am no Humphrey Bogart and you are no Ingrid Bergmanbut if we stood on a runway with the plane engines hummingL�ZRXOG�OHW�\RX�WDNH�Rϱ�RQ�WKDW�ZHDWKHUHG�SODQH�ZLWK�KLP�only in the hopes that it would crash into the weathered sea.

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FRAME IT AND HANG IT IN THE BASEMENT


\RX�FDQ�VLW�DQG�EH�ϧIWHHQ�DOO�GD\�ORQJ�LI�\RX�ZDQW�WREUHDWKH�IUHVK�DLU�WKH�LQKDOH�RI�PHPRULHV�DQG�WH[W�ERRNVyou can scream Bad Brains out over an empty highwayyou can give every ounce to another on a whimand never think once or twice about it you can run and be as meaningful as a printer if you have tohum your regrets into hollowed out drums of heartEUHDNLQJ�VPDOO�ERQHV�IURP�WKH�YHU\�WLSV�RI�\RXU�ϧQJHUVtossing left to right so often and so fast that itDOPRVW�VHHPV�SHUSHWXDO�DQG�DUWLϧFLDO� you can die and be Bill Shakespeare your whole lifehook each clever line to each its own in near perfectionEHDXWLHV�VZHSW�IURP�WKHLU�IHHW�IURP�WKH�EDU�VWRRO�RU�GDQFH�ϩRRUsmoking out your mind through the decades of pleasureand ending it all a most famous ghost you can cry like a baby into pillows if you need tobeing careful to place the needle on the third groove of a recordlighting candles that will burn out after you sleep with your drinkIDOOLQJ�RYHU�LQWR�DOOH\V�LQWR�DUPV�LQWR�EHGURRPV�RQ�WKH�ϩDW�RI�\RXU�EDFNUXWKOHVV�OLNH�WKH�ODVW�ϧIWHHQ�PLQXWHV�RI�\RXU�VKLIW you can live like a thunderstorm in a snow cloudhave your cake and eat it too with birds kings and oil menkill a man in public and have the wad to payout the noble judgesVWHDO�D�QHZ��GROODU�SXUVH�IURP�'ROFH�DQG�KDYH�\RXU�PDQVLRQ�RI�homesleep in the street and have your trust fund in stitches dead in ditchesyou’ll have those winning days.

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A BLUE JEAN WAX POETICtoday was laundry day.my clothes were past dueand so i watched those dryersspin after the washers washed.today was also windy.i saw you in that wind.and in each piece of winter clothing. WKH�ϩDQQHO�VKLUW�WKDW�UHVWHGupon my back and shouldersunder the maple trees as theyyellowed out and hollowed inWKH�ϧQJHUWLSV�RI�GHZ\�DXWXPQ�QLJKWV�past the hometown shops, thesigns of mom and pop places underthose salty stars twinkling shylyand forever away from thosevillage lights, lives and laughter. “How are you?”


L·P�ϧQH�there’s that motley striped sweaterwith the latte stain near the redVWULSH�LQ�WKH�EHOO\�ZLWK�P\�DQ[LHW\�ZH�KDG�FRϱHH�ZKLOH�ZH�UHDG�ERRNVwe’ve read before, sitting in thefashion we’ve sat in before asi sweated soully in my sweaterin the anticipation of fantastic day – time dreams of the poetry ofyour eyes as they read those linesand the couplets in the brightskin of your hands as you turnedeach sharp page like a wave. how are you?´,·P�ϧQH�µ and in my brown hoodie too.in your car on the way to pickup paint as i smiled in the passengerseat while bad rock music playedand the snow fell early that Octoberwhile hurrying hunks of metalmoved carelessly down each street.i wanted to say something butL�ZDV�ϧQH�OLVWHQLQJ�WR�\RX�DQGthe air that rushed pastyour window sealed silhouette.P\�HDUV�ϧOOHG�XS�ZLWK�EORRGbut i still heard every word. and as i fold then put away,you laugh in the closing of a drawer.

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LAST LINES OF THE YEAR

WRQLJKW�IHHOV�OLNH�WKH�ϧUVW�QLJKW�RI�ZLQWHU�my breath in front of me dying into thekissing wind, thawing somewhere behind me. with my mouth numb and hands awfully alone for such cold. the cars sit in frosted over oil ina morning coat of frost themselves.the parking lot’s all but cleared out.the machines rest in deathly solitudeand rise up from the dark of asphaltlike tombstones in an evening park.


skinny street lamps wilt over themand shine the quiet buzz of theirmoonlight onto their arctic peeland it bounces back like all the troublesthat come with a brand new diamond ring. they say this is the witching hour.they might be right. i feel the shade of incantation.if this is the human condition then i am in nocondition to be human today, so i might losemy head somewhere along the way.i hope the chill keeps me in mind asi remain outlined in the icy dark of yours,trapped beneath the damned rocks and stormsthey’ve all left of you before i had arrived.but i’m in there searching for that lostcombustion of your wonderful soul andthe strong vessels of your beautiful heart. as the Ohio tundra is on its way,i can feel the angry teeth ofJanuary slowly sinking in,the northern breeze its scout.the wet snow that falls heavymelts almost with an apologyas soon as it hits cemented ground.WKH\�IDOO�OLNH�WKHUH·V�D�ZDU�WR�ϧJKWbut never make a single sound. DV�WKHVH�ZRUGV�ϧOO�P\�PLQGand my feet keep their pacethe morning birds are asleep,the buildings are all built of sorrow,the ocean is a thousand miles awayand the sun is even further than thatbut i wait for her, with forever paintedonto the speckled lawns of limbo, as mydesperation reaches deaf ears and theprayers never break the boundless spaceof every perfect promise ever spoken. so let the elegant voices singuntil they crudely choke.WKHVH�ZHUH�QRW�P\�KRSHV�

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and this is when hope serves me best,when the lights are out in every houseon every eerie block of village street,when cigarettes tend to smoke them-selves in the pretty mouths of fallingdown girls and fermented deviled boys,ZKHQ�WKH�FORFN�ϧQDOO\�FOLFNV�WKH�IRXUand i am standing at my dirty windowin my dirty sheets shivering at thepotential successes of me buried inthe solid ground of a cynical kind of nightand the blinds let in that hissing light,when i hear my own heart beating underWKH�ϩRRUERDUGV�RI�P\�PXUGHUHU·V�VKHGbut i listen patiently – helpless to retrieveit, so i just hum to its loud melody instead. the bare tree limbs shake and theirshadows dance like spider legs acrossWKH�SRODU�GDQFH�ϩRRU�RI�EODFN�'HFHPEHU� a thing of beauty is a joy forever.even out here in this vicious weather? it’s been winter for some time.


SO I AM A GHOST TONIGHTso i am a ghost tonight,but i am a clever ghost.quiet as the granite is in grass,silent in between the wallsof blank pages and a wayto the scenic night alive. i have tried. and as i sink to deathin the boiling airs of desperationand all time lows of life,L�ϧQG�QR�OLIH�DW�DOO�so i am a ghost tonight,but i am a clever ghost. or am i simply foolish?chasing an uncatchable song thatplays on all of the burnt outrecord players of the world,in those apartments made of musicwith my ambition running dry,

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i have tried. sat in the darkest cornerof the loneliest ring on earth,black and blue from the punchesthat came from so far awaythat they were named constellationsand i never saw them coming. i stood on the tallest buildingnever built and looked downand all i saw were the emptyyears ahead of me and thosecarelessly thoughtless ones behind.those stars and music will remind, i have tried. unshaven souls talk of the holiestart in the dust of suburban sleepwhile you dream painted up somewherein the mist of endless holiday.they play trumpets in the streets,the pall bearers march to the lullaby beat. loaded questions in little toy gunsthat scare the ever-living piss outtathe multitudes that hang like dolled upPDQQHTXLQV�Rϱ�WKH�VRIW�HGJHV�RI�WZR�timing mothers, brothers, sisters, fathersworkday clocks and bedside alarmsmy lost nickels and all my dimes.

i have tried. D�ϩRRG�VR�EULJKW�KDV�ϧOOHG�P\�KHDGthat i cannot give you up,maybe if i change myselfit will be enough. but if i’m not somewhere in your heart,if i’m not a single thought in your head.then i am dead.


so i am a ghost tonight,but i am a clever ghost. and though i have failed.and though i have died. i have tried.

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IF YOU’RE GONNA BREAK IT, BREAK IT CLEAN


i am a boy amongst machines,WKHUH�DUH�QR�PRUH�WHQGHU�SLHFHV�RI�ϩHVK�KHUH�in the Hercules’ wind of empty space. tired men mow their July yards,but mow and smile to save some face. a boy with a beard.Oh boy! a beer. there are babies playing in the sand,they play, dropping each grain piece by piece.time is a plaything that they do not understand. they do not hear the old man’s speech. ZKHQ�L�ZDV�\RXU�DJH��he says, starting every line,and every word thereafter is dealt with borrowed time.time remembered, not time forgot.time known by every ticking clock. i am a boy,who walks midnight, brick work streets,with a cool limp in his pace and a bohemian lover in his dreams. i am a boy,ZKR�UXQV�KRPH�HYHU\�WLPH�D�VKRW�LV�ϧUHG�i do not look for war but it’s got my country so inspired. i am a boy who dreams of lobotomy,D�ER\�ZKR�UXQV�LQWR�GXVW\�ϧUHV�OLNH�D�EDVWDUG�PRWK�i Google you, Lacuna, why aren’t you there? i am there, Lacuna, with trash bags of tormenting things.i am there, Lacuna, with warm tears for Valentine’s day.i am there, Lacuna, putting my mind on your soaking pillow, give me a pill!i am there, Lacuna … where are you? another movie prop?don’t let me down today.i’m mother earth’s dried up crop,won’t you let me blow away?

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i am done with today.and i was done with yesterday. i do not eat bread or sugar,my jeans aren’t tight but loosei starve myself on spite and vigor,i pull myself down from my noose. but i am a boy growing tired,who never truly falls asleep.yes, i am standing but never on my own two feet. on hope, on hopei’d like to screambut no one else knows what i’d mean. i am a boy in the lion’s pit,the people point and sing.no one really gives a shit about a goddamn thing. entertained, entertainedi entertain the ideaof life behind the roses and ave maria. i am a boy on a wire,a soul stretched through the lineswith an important message, %H�SXQFWXDO��RQ�WLPH� because life waits for no one,not senators or kings,grab it on the run, on one of these machines. i am a boy in the funhouse,all over the mirrored walls,not looking for myself. i’m not myself at all. i see hazel everything,in the falling autumn,i can only see the spring. ZKHUH�GLG�\RX�JR�ZURQJ,my silence sings!


everything’s a copy of a copy of a copy i watch them reproduce,EHKLQG�P\�PRUQLQJ�FRϱHH� i am a boy already in his grave,sick of scenarios,wondering how i should behave. but in the rainy dawn,while i lean in to shave,i think about heaven,so i stay alive … afraid. hell can keep on waiting, at least just for today.

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I’D WRITE YOU A LETTER, BUT I’M NO LETTER WRITER


it is the sleepless sun that setsbeneath the gripping quicksand wake.it is a colossal whimperthat rests with the salt of salty seasbut never really goes away. it is a terminal woundwith no means of healing.though, i do my best every chance i get.KHUH��WDNH�DQRWKHU�i thank my confessing, singing brotherZKLOH�ZH�FLUFOH�DURXQG�DQRWKHU�VWUDQJHU·V�ϧUHbut nothing is as strange as this desire. a wanting, to have one footin the water and the other outLW·V�WRR�GDQJHURXV�WR�VZLP��i shout!winter is already here. i taste it in this tin can beer.i smell it in the ugly smoke amongst the leavesas i fumble through my pockets and juggle for my keys. it is every barking dog on earthin every swaying tree.it is the song of silent men,with gaping cuts that burnbut never really bleed. LW�LV�D�ZDOO�VWUHHW�ϧUH�the gold melting in the streets.it is a man named Prufrockwith his echoing retreats. it is the cracking of knuckleswhile i type away these words.none of which i ever count,to count on them would be absurd. it is ZKDW�LI�and ZKDW�LI�more.it is a monster of a tidal chore. devouring fathoms lost in you,sitting at my desk now, down and out and blue.

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ASHES,ASHES

what happens to the packing leaves that restunder january snow? and when they’re gone,could i go? OHDYH�PH�LQ�WKH�VDQGER[�RI�VXQQ\�\HVWHUGD\V�ZKHUH�ZH�OLYHG�LQ�ϧQLWH�FDVWOHVmade of giggling, snot-nosed grace,where we buried things of wonder,in the graveyards built by antswith my plastic shovels my batman underpants. the streetlamps cast the matte paint againstthe haunted house of ivy siegewhile i’m staring in your shadowwondering who else i could be.


but what happens to the playthingsat rest in mother’s shed? and if they come alive,could i be dead? this bloody ping pong tearing through my head.i should set sail my words in voyage bottlesstretch my soul and go to bed. oh, not so much alive,as wishing to be dead. where is my rock collection i toted with me in the yard,picking at the daisies while my father washed his car?where are my worry-free days, my good luck and my charm?WKH\�VHW�ϧUH�WR�P\�OLYHU�DV�L�ULQJ�DOO�WKH�DODUPV�why is all of my attention in the cello autumn rainthat hits the leaf-stained sidewalks whispering your name. not you.not me? your perfected poison in my head. oh, not so much alive,as wishing to be dead. i want to bust my knees in the gravel of these college streets,SRSSLQJ�ZKHHOLHV�RQ�P\�KXϱ\��QR�DXGLHQFH��MXVW�PH�how about bubblegum and tag instead of loneliness and beerin the echoing halls of preschools full of teachers ghosts and dopy fears.ring around the rosie, pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes, we all fall downbut it’s only me in the wide awake a.m.hating who i am, forgeting where i’ve been.the night and your voice in its sounds. where do the ashes blow? and when they’re gone,could i go?

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QJORDY LAWRENCE STEWART&A

How long have you been writing poetry? I started writing poetry when I was thirteen or fourteen. It was ter-ULEOH�VWXϱ�WRR��EXW�,�VRRQ�IRXQG�P\VHOI�IDOOLQJ�LQ�ORYH�ZLWK�WKH�FUDIW��VR�LW·V�EHHQ�DERXW�D�WHQ�\HDU�ORYH�DϱDLU�VR�IDU��

What is your inspiration when working with style and content? I read a lot of poetry, so it’s hard to peg any one person. I enjoy the Beats and their style and sense of language. The kind of madness for form they had – that recklessness and rambling – it really changed how I looked at poetry. Diversity is the key. I can be reading with Shake-VSHDUH�RQH�QLJKW�DQG�KDYLQJ�D�GULQN�ZLWK�%XNRZVNL�WKH�QH[W��,�WDNH�LW�ZKHUHYHU�,�FDQ�ϧQG�LW��ZKDWHYHU�´LWµ�LV�DQ\ZD\��¬


JORDY LAWRENCE STEWART

What is the story behind your title, Tulips in the Gutter, Blue Lips in the Garden? I’ve been in the position in my life where I had to make the most out of a bad time or sink down with it, and I was there doing that with some of the best people I know. We were all kind of tulips – out bloom-ing in places we shouldn’t have been blooming, all wild-like in the bear rain and snow. The blue lips part is just another spin on that idea I guess. To be blue-lipped, tired, beaten, but not quite defeated and in a beautiful spot all at the same time. I think there’s something to be said for those days and people. We were all just kids out there.

Which poem is your favorite from the collection and why? I don’t think I could pick a favorite. Some of them were easier to write than others, but that doesn’t make one any better than the other. They all have a place for me.

If you could give yourself advice as a beginning writer what would it be? If you don’t feel like you have to write, then don’t write. Many SHRSOH�ZDQW�WR�EH�D�´ZULWHU�µ�%XW�,�WKLQN�D�ORW�RI�WKH�WLPH�ZULWHUV�ϧQG�themselves writing when they wish they could be out doing other things. The writer is a slave to his or her words and perceptions. There’s usually no want at all – only the need. I tell myself to put the “what I want” of my writing to the side. It only gets in the way.

What writers do you enjoy, even if they do not directly influence your style? J.D. Salinger is at the top of the list. He had such an innate ability DQG�XQGHUVWDQGLQJ�RI�KLV�RZQ�ZRUN��<RX�KDYH�IDLWK�DQG�FRQϩLFW�ZLWK�these people he wrote to life. I’ve always respected and admired that TXDOLW\�LQ�D�ZULWHU��DQG�KH·V�WKH�ϧUVW�SHUVRQ�ZKR�FRPHV�WR�PLQG��

If you could smoke a cigarette with one poet, who would it be and what would you say? Maybe Keats, yeah, I think it would be Keats, at least right at this moment. He was around my age when he was doing his thing, and he was bold when it came to writings of the heart. It’s hard to walk that line between what should be made public and what should stay private. I’d ask him about that, if he was ever self-conscious or afraid of that thin distinction of choice. Though I don’t know how the smoking would go over with him.

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What challenges did you face while writing the collection? There are pieces in this collection that span from one month ago to three years ago. It was hard putting together a collection of the right YDULHW\�DQG�FRKHVLRQ��,W�ZDV�DOVR�GLϫFXOW�FXWWLQJ�D�ϧQDO�SURGXFW�WKDW�,�thought people would want to read.

How much sleep did you lose preparing these pieces for publication? I don’t think I could count the hours. It was more the wild nights of thinking and self-derision that came before the actual writing of some of these poems that ate up most of my nights. I was going on one or two hours of sleep a night back in the fall. That was when I was doing my best writing though.

What is your project as a poet? I want to inspire people, but not in a conventional way. I want people to feel something – hopefully something refreshing – and I want them to get all crazy about it. There are lives being lived that people don’t normally like to talk about or ignore entirely, but there’s always PRUH�WR�LW�WKDQ�WKDW��,�JXHVV�WKH�FDWDO\VW�RI�P\�ZRUN�LV�WKDW�WDERR�$PHU-ican story, but my project is everything else that surrounds it. There’s no time for apathy or ignorance, and that’s why poetry is important to me.

What do you hope people will take away from this collection of poetry? Joy, sorrow and everything in between – if the reader could pick up WKLV�FROOHFWLRQ�DQG�IHHO�VRPHWKLQJ�GLϱHUHQW�IURP�WKH�WLPH�EHIRUH�WKH\�picked it up – that would be enough for me.

Why don’t you use capitalization in your poems? I do, but rarely. Capitalization is a device I like to use to give more meaning to something in the poem or to show that something is “big-ger” than I am.

What advice do you have for beginning poets? Read twice as much as you write, and don’t take life too seriously.

What would you like to do after college? I’d like to teach college English and hopefully publish some of my work on the side. Traveling is also something I’d like to do.


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THE QUIZ&quilL SINGLE-AUTHOR CHAPBOOK LV�D�\HDUO\�SXEOLFDWLRQ�ŹOOHG�HQWLUHO\�ZLWK�WKH�ZRUN�RI�RQH�DXWKRU��7R�GHWHUPLQH�ZKR�WKLV�DXWKRU�is, the Q&Q editorial staff reviews and votes on the submissions of multiple authors. During the voting process, all works are left unsigned to ensure total objectivity. This year, the poetry of junior Jordy Lawrence Stewart, a creative writing major, was selected to be published in the VLQJOH�DXWKRU�FKDSERRN��)RU�PRUH�LQIRUPDWLRQ�RQ�-RUG\��źLS�WR�WKH�4$�LQ�WKH�ODVW�IHZ�SDJHV�RI�the chapbook.

Documents

2012 Quiz and Quill Chapbook