Graduate Student Writing Group

Just a reminder that we're starting our graduate student writing group
on March 2 in the Writing Center (in Griffin Hall) from 1-3pm. There might be
refreshments--I'm not saying brownies and coffee--but maybe I am. This
is a very informal group where we can start to meet and hold ourselves
accountable for work. Plus, you can work on anything you like. Some
professors have expressed interest to stop by occasionally and discuss
issues with us if we desire.



-From 
Marie Henry
Director of the Writing Center

lower middle class

The single mother,

The black woman without a husband,

And five kids.

The welfare line that only gets longer, the children

Who never get fed, the daughter who don’t know

How to read, the men who don’t know what a condom

Is, the babies who were born to the children, the diseases

That will never get cured, the tears that will always

Keep running, the cocaine that is constantly sold,

To the men who had the daughters, who left the mother,

Whose soul is crying silently while feeding her children,

Who never get fed, the babies of the children who cry

Through the night, the constant croaks of the cocaine users

Outside their windows, the world who doesn’t give a damn,

The people who don’t listen, the ones who don’t care, the ones

Who don’t care.

-By Chaney Bennett

Chaney Bennett was born and raised in a small town, 20 minutes outside of Baton Rouge called Gonzales. Growing up she always envisioned her self becoming a teacher, but by the time she reached high school graduation, Chaney was determined to find something more deep within her self. She began writing as much as she could, trying to find her "niche", pressing to find herself. Chaney loves writing, she never knew that until it was all she did, she enjoys it, she is desperate for it, everyday is a poem, an article, a short story to be written, to be told.

Too Bright

Too bright she burns, a fragment of the fire

That flames within her eyes will immolate

The unsuspecting subject of her ire,

Reducing him to ash, a dreadful fate.

And so she shines, her brilliance a mere mask

While cowards walk around her, daring not,

Their courage insufficient to the task

Of walking though her fiery onslaught.

Until he comes, inured to pain and death,

Oblivious to all but her bright blaze,

And braves destruction in a single breath

To be incinerated by her gaze.

To ash they both are rendered by the sight

But flare again to fiery flame, too bright.

By- Chris. S. Hayes, MD

Chris S. Hayes is a 1984 summa cum laude graduate of St. Mary's Dominican College in New Orleans with a BA in French and a subsequent graduate of Louisiana State University School of Medicine in New Orleans. Following a residency in Family Medicine and eleven years of private practice in Lafayette, she joined ULL Student Health Services as full time staff in 2004.  She maintains a healthy interest in language study and considers fiction writing her primary means of recreation.

By Killian Williams

Next Week (2/27-3/2)

We have creative art coming from Killian Williams, Chris Hayes, Chaney Bennett, and Lynda Frese!

Rob Mclennan and Stephan Brockwell

Rob Mclennan and Stephan Brockwell are coming this Friday!  7:30pm in the
Faculty Lounge (Room 315 in Griffith) -- another Creative Writing event, and Rob is bringing
chapbooks to hand out as well as copies of his books to buy, both novels
and poetry.  More than a little lagniappe from Ottawa awaits you all.
Here are poems from each writer to whet your appetites.




neck


by rob mclennan




stills into an inconvenient nightmare.
construction comes in jars. the only way to leave this place is to
deliberately lift.


everything is gentrified. the peel of a taste of skin over blue sky blue
is a layer of dust. the skin that would otherwise be.


I am hopelessly incomplete; I am
hopeless and this. green car passes,
shakes; green car is the key to a pardon.


today I am human;thrum on its neck.






Stephen Harper's Shoes


by Stephan Brockwell




Long days holding up the country,
short nights breathing fresh air.
Each morning, a minion polishes away
a day's accumulated scuffs
with matt black petroleum paste.
My burnished upper reflects the blurred image of the face above but does
not shine.
My heel grinds even the iridescent
beetle, silent, powerless, beautiful,
Into the Langevin asphalt. My steel
shank would never pass security
if the face did not control it personally.
The feet have no particular smell,
like winter air or snow. I complain
of the unguents, salves and balms, reeking of sulphur that, despite all
evidence to the contrary, will not relieve the cracked and callused heels.

Just a little news.....

The Blog will begin integrating more UL community events...please join the e-mail list to get updates. Also, the creative work for next week is coming soon....

Espanya

Photography By- L.T. Jr

MARDI GRAS BREAK

ATTENTION PHOENIX FANS!!!!!

For respect of our unique Mardi Gras tradition which we take pride in here at the University of Louisiana at Lafayette. The Blog will return Thursday, February 23rd. See you then! New details, new perspectives, new, new, new, and REGENERATION coming soon!

Also,

We at The Southwestern Review: Phoenix Edition Blog want to take the time to thank you for all those that have been sharing their work on this blog and those that have taken the time to build connections and make creative friends right here in our community and home. 

We are no where near the end of this year....so hold on. It gets much better! Please keep sending feedback and making us aware of your suggestions.

The Southwestern Review 2012: The Phoenix Edition 

With much love and appreciation,

Amber J. Lucik & Louis Toliver, Jr

Editors

I Know Why the Rainbow Shines

It seemed like all of Tampa walked together

to hear the words from a great. I sent it to the TBT and they published it a couple of days later)

The meter maids were busy writing tickets

for the overzealous drivers,

too impatient to wait for proper parking spots

The line beamed down the sidewalk

Every type of person comprised the arching line

every color

every age

Illuminated with eagerness and excitement

The first sound I heard of Maya Angelou

was a one-syllable high pitched laugh.

The crowd roars with laughter at her humble humor

The tone was set for the evening.

Emanating from her was an aura of experience

Of generosity

Of success

Her elegant demeanor and obvious intellect was accented

by her bold speech

filling our minds with an everlasting image:

"Be a rainbow in somebody's cloud," she said

After tho tell the world that I saw Maya Angelou

I saw history

I saw devotion

I saw persistence

I saw brilliance

I want to illuminate the world

I want to be a rainbow ine standing ovation,

I walked to my car inspired

Ready tsomebody's cloud

Thank you, Maya Angelou

Now I know why the rainbow shines

By- Katherine Watson

House of Worship

By- Lynda Frese

Cockroaches

Flash.  Bang.  Dead.  Done.

And they shall inherit the Earth.

I wonder if they’ll discover fire,

Think deep thoughts,

Build great cities,

And then discover war again,

Leaving monuments to an insect Ozymandias

For some traveler to find in a billion years.

By- Chris. S. Hayes, MD

Chris S. Hayes is a 1984 summa cum laude graduate of St. Mary's Dominican College in New Orleans with a BA in French and a subsequent graduate of Louisiana State University School of Medicine in New Orleans. Following a residency in Family Medicine and eleven years of private practice in Lafayette, she joined ULL Student Health Services as full time staff in 2004.  She maintains a healthy interest in language study and considers fiction writing her primary means of recreation.

Life of a Writer

Watch me,

as my emotions bleed onto my only friend.

With no reply,, just listen

As pens spill pain,

papers cringe with careless pressure.

You can’t see it seeping out my eyes

so I must make this cry,

a tear for every word

as I bury my soul between every line.

My heart sobs,, capturing the moment

Making each crack clear,

splashing the image on canvas,

hiding behind dashes &&' smudge.

In this notebook,, yarn unfolds

All waves expose,

whispering secrets

uncondemning any

No reply,, just listen

Hear the hurt burn in the words

the stabbing of the ink

slits

as it

fades

forever

in death.

Can't you hear the silence cry

for every tattered binding?

Never darned.

&&' when I’m done

allay it with kisses

By: Paris Shampagne

A Dark Soul

Shadow stalkers of the night, hunting the grounds.

Mysterious creatures seek something more.

On nights when the wind blows no gust

And the air speaks no sound,

They fly into the twilight and feast on the darkness,

Searching for anything to harness.

Winged beasts of the shadows swarm the roads,

Trees, rooftops, and chimneys, (anyplace with energy.)

Feathers falling everywhere cover everything

And everyone who’s there at the time.

They hide on the dark side of trees,

Where their beady eyes can watch their victims,

Whispering names in the hours of darkness,

Calls out to those whose souls have reached their end.

 By-Taylor Coen

Winter Dragons

We Winter Dragons ensnared in deceiving chain-link vines, fire within our veins.
The whole hostile world is beset by cold, yet soon to go up in flames.
Death before rebirth written in rhyming verse, look between the lines.
Bringing Strength out of weakness, Confidence out of doubt
Light in the darkest of times.
Our art a metaphor for where we are, our canvases are readied and primed.
We paint with reckless passions laid bare, read into our lyrical designs.

By- Jordan Levers

Alone

Alone from the rest of the world,

Detached from the horror and screams.

Determined to find a way to make it,

Alone in my shell,

Harvesting my fruits,

Preparing to make them ready.

Alone, I don’t see anybody,

Just sketches of the people and places,

I was once familiar with.

Embarking on greatness,

Despite the pressure to fall,

Alone I stand tall.

By- Chaney Bennett

Chaney Bennett was born and raised in a small town, 20 minutes outside of Baton Rouge called Gonzales. Growing up she always envisioned her self becoming a teacher, but by the time she reached high school graduation, Chaney was determined to find something more deep within her self. She began writing as much as she could, trying to find her "niche", pressing to find herself. Chaney loves writing, she never knew that until it was all she did, she enjoys it, she is desperate for it, everyday is a poem, an article, a short story to be written, to be told.

Treasure Chest

An outcast maiden’s virtues

a witch’s jade upon my breast

a darkness among church pews

locked inside my treasure chest

Little candy apple heart

lost and improperly dressed

my hidden core pulled apart

locked inside my treasure chest

A demon’s surging black blood

a defined and hidden quest

a twisted, drooping rose bud

locked inside my treasure chest

A blurry vision of love

tucked away in a warm nest

I’m yours, a captured white dove

locked inside my treasure chest

By: Annette Redmond

The hole of our minds

Shapeless,

Fearless,

 Engulfing the left cerebrum.

  It follows the eyes, extracting the color, down to the nose:

   The senses are misread.

     Fear breaks out among us all;

      What will come of us next?

        The strange vortex leads down

          To our lungs and sits at the heart.

            Our minds collapse into a hole;

              The heart stops beating every second;

                Our systems pour into the universe;

                  A distant

                               light

                                      fades

                                             away

By: Taylor Coen

Annunciazione

By: Lynda Frese

Goodnight

Delicately placed keys on the table next to the door

Soft, elongated squeaks in the wooden floors

Caused by light footsteps to the dark bedroom…

Warming each other with tender embraces

A new world is manifested

A tender world of surreal emotions

A world of disbelief

A world of incredibility

Inner struggles seem to subside

Is it due to the warmth?

Is it due to the magic of the night?

Regardless the cause, the feeling is unique

Conversing through soft stares and passionate explorations

Words no longer convey the overpowering emotions

The sounds of the late night trains are the time keepers

With each one passing through the city

We know the late night is turning to early morning

Heavy lids take over…

Falling asleep in his arms

With his warmth aiding my sleep,

I am safe from impeding insecurities of my own mind

One last stare, one last kiss,

And a soft whisper

Goodnight…

-By Katherine Watson

The Mirrored Man

Unbearable fire. A flame ignited within his very veins. "My mother's face." That was the memory he tried most desperately to resurrect during his faint wanders between dreams and the verge of death. All he could seem to muster of her memory was the warmth of the womb, buried deep in his subconscious. Indeed, the vivid warmth of this viscous liquid might have been called comfortable, if not for its restrictive pressurizing force. So long as he didn't struggle too hard he found it admittedly pleasant. What his mind did NOT sit so well with, however, was this nagging feeling in the back of his head that he did not want to be in this place. This place built in white, bright with lights, his--what appeared to be a giant glass tube--reaching from floor to ceiling on a dais at the center of the room. Perhaps his vague distress arose from the unnerving lack of windows? If not for the single door, visible only out of the widest degree of his peripheral, he would not have been able to imagine this place as having any location at all. Was he dead? If dying was this painless he could accept it well enough, but what of this confusion? Weren't all the answers supposed to become apparent in the afterlife? Surely he would sit with God and all his family and friends and discuss, in no hurry, all the long unanswered questions of life. Or was there no God? No hope to ever understand or be understood? No. He was sure he was still alive and if he ever did get to meet his family, or friends, it would be the first time for him. That is what anchored him in those long moments--or was it days?-- of confusion: the knowledge that he had been this confused before. The solution to one confusion by way of another. He could remember this feeling of specific blankness once before. No, better than that, he could remember waking up in another place so blindingly white. Only he didn't remember being surrounded by liquid with the resistant force of concrete. He began to drift and with naught but white to distract his flitting attentions, his eyes danced between solid light and the emptiness of darkness. He had no mother. He fell asleep.

Once again, as if to awaken him from lucid dreaming, the waves of heat ran circuits around his entire circulatory system, enveloping him in a biological fortress of fire. This time he was determined to hold onto what few moments of life he could remember. The rest of his story could only be written from the other side of this glass barrier lest he rollover and play martyr for these self-righteous, leeching white coats. He wouldn't let them deny his pursuit of happiness with their vague assumptions that someone in his position would be more than happy to live life a vegetable for the "greater good." 

The mutated portion of his adrenal gland was pumping hard now. The natural injection, bringing his blood to a near boil, was the single most excruciating pain a human being could endure, yet, being as he had only lived out several moments of memory, he could never know the difference between strain and agony as so many were painfully aware of. This high degree strain was more than enough to decimate the reforming memory-stealing virus as it burnt a path of collateral destruction through the war inside his body. Engulfed in adrenaline, he knew only the here and now while the invading memories of fear and of love were deported as unwelcome offenders. This free-country sucking the ample surplus provided by this expendable body, their assumed newly acquired mobile real-estate of muscle and mind. This time he dreamed of another place.

He took one last look at his pursuers as if to whisper, "I'll never give up this life," turned, and ran. He ran with the passionate adrenaline of one who had not the memory of putting one foot in front of the other. Through the charred landscape he performed the most deadly dance, painting the picture of madness as he vaulted streams of molten rock and sprays of liquid fire until at long last through the ember-lit darkness, the slightest crack of the suggestion of the light broke into his world.

It was the most beautiful thing he had ever laid his newborn eyes on. The pink glowing sun rising over the jutting cliffs of the charred wastelands, painting the world of darkness in soft, warm light. He longed to see from the top of the great mounds of ash that blocked his first sight of natural sunlight; so, despite his deafening exhaustion and intense urge to collapse, he began running again, full tilt, towards the top of the very highest peak of rubble. What he saw upon reaching the crest made him sob hysterically with what he would only later be able to identify as sheer joy. How long had he been denied this simple pleasure of looking out over the world the way it was intended every creature of the earth should? He would have been terribly vengeful and angry at his captures for denying him this natural birth rite yet, instead he could feel nothing but intense joy. The joy of co-mingled passion and exhaustion, understanding and confusion, love and hatred, retribution and forgiveness; in short, the joy of a free man. What he could see from his vantage could only be described as the first footholds of pure life; valleys of lush green, teeming with the laughter of animal calls and the rush of bright azure waters. Some day when he could allow himself to rest for longer than these brief moments, he would come back to this place and help to regain life's many years of lost ground against the wake of humanly destruction. He would lead the reclamation of this world of concrete ceilings and steel pyres, restore this vast cosmic house to a the home it had once been.

-By Jordan Levers

Dante's Inferno

-By Lynda Frese