B
ranching
pine river anthology
As Alma College’s annual literary and visual arts magazine,
Pine River Anthology is the joint production of the Art &
Design, English, and New Media Studies departments. This
publication showcases works of traditional and digital fine
art alongside creative writing, serving as a way to involve our
college in a campus-wide exploration of the arts.
In the creation of art we are always crossing the lines of our
individual media to draw from and, in turn, inspire other
artists. Our theme, BRANCHING, celebrates this act of
reaching across these categories to create an experience
greater than the sum of each discipline on its own. In this
magazine, we connect the realm of the visual to the realm of
the literary, and complement pages and ink with digital
elements found on our website. The result is a synthesis of
the arts that, like the branches of a tree, never ceases to
expand, transform, and thrive.
Discover more work on our website at:
ac-pra.com
TABLE OF
written work
3
6
7
10
11-12
14
15
18
19
21
24
27
30
31-32
34
36
37
39-40
44
45
47
48-49
1
time............................................................... holly zuiderveen
ode to the dandelion....................................... thea abbatoy
blue streetlights........................................ christopher nolan
we dream of the stars in a hall of majesty.......john urdiales
helios v. selene............................................... andrew hussey
7/6/15........................................................... holly zuiderveen
riptide......................................................... christopher nolan
the ghoul......................................................... andrew hussey
i read a poem by raymond carver..................zachary cahill
capturing the sun.......................................... rebecca blasius
dreaming of summer in the summer........... andrew hussey
scuttlebutt.......................................................michaela hoyle
south............................................................ madison webster
mother to daughter 1963..............................marlee schible
stay.............................................................. christopher nolan
adam, after the fall............................................. jesse cornea
eve, after the fall................................................. jesse cornea
untitled...............................................................zachary cahill
the girl who stopped painting.................... rebecca blasius
real sun............................................................michaela hoyle
desert sun..................................................................grant hill
from autumn as the unbounded echo............john urdiales
CONTENTS
artwork
4
5
8
9
12
13
16
17
19-20
22
23
25-26
28
29
32
33
35
38
41-42
43
46
47
50
grand canyon gourd..........................................reilly gordon
salad....................................................................jerry cupples
protector...................................................... marshall argenta
clair de lune...................................... mary frances eshleman
grounded............................................................sarah bishop
blacker the berry................................................... zach baker
gesture in color..................................................reilly gordon
through the fog lies the clarity.......................... tracy burton
triangles.............................................................marcella flury
into the wind............................................annamarie williams
hummingbird.....................................................allison brady
angel oak.................................................annamarie williams
tiles......................................................................jerry cupples
break....................................................................... emily price
all my insides........................................................ allie koning
hope..........................................................chelsea bertagnoli
cactus.............................................................samantha smith
not everything is as it seems...............................jackie mow
male gaze.................................................. maggie chambers
i’m going to fly........................................annamarie williams
dreams & reality...................................... cassidy shankleton
trash cow........................................................... jason bursach
clay pigeons.......................................................... emily price
2
TIME
HOLLY ZUIDERVEEN
I watch a million clocks –
Time will tell itself.
When the minute flowers around my feet
Wind down, the second surge occurs:
Crocus, daffodil, tulip, iris –
Each grows in measure,
Watchful and waiting
For its appointed hour.
There are no late-bloomers;
Every flower is a moment.
3
GRAND CANYON GOURD
reilly gordon
acrylic on clay
SALAD
jerry cupples
oil on canvas
5
ODE TO THE DANDELION
THEA ABBATOY
You were always my favorite flower to pick.
All the girls in the schoolyard would squat in the grass
gathering bouquets in small fists while little ants trailed down
our hands. The boys would rub them on their chins
leaving sunshine dust along their necks.
Today I sit in my mom’s garden,
“Damn weeds”
she says.
I cringe
with
every
yank
as
dirt
flies
through the air;
watching an army of ants carry away my childhood.
6
BLUE STREETLIGHTS
CHRISTOPHER NOLAN
I am sitting outside
at 1:51 a.m.
staring at a sculpture;
a memory
floods my mind.
Underneath streetlights–
she wished were blue–
something radiated,
a conversation
forever in motion.
She talked of heaven
as we sat in it.
I talked of heartbreak
as memories faded.
She opened her hand
and I gave her two words:
“it’s me.”
She smiled.
As I started to unravel
we sat under
a mass of chrome.
Shimmering lines
mapping the metal
reflected light onto
her skin–
like topaz.
In an instant
the streetlights became soft,
blue,
a soft blue.
7
PROTECTOR
marshall argenta
underglaze painted earthenware
8
CLAIR DE LUNE
mary frances eshleman
conte crayon & white pencil
9
WE DREAM OF THE STARS IN
A HALL OF MAJESTY
JOHN URDIALES
“Great love can change small things into great ones, and it is
only love which lends value to our actions.”
– St. Maria Faustina Kowalska
The starlight knows love more deeply than the depths of the
oceans, the hearts of the cavernous cells of the mighty seabeasts. The knightly slayer of monstrous fish still lurks in the
deep, waiting for those beasts of the mighty ocean to attack
the sailing ships of mariners not well prepared to fight an
immense animal hiding in the dark void of the ocean. The
waters swallow up the ships and crunch the bones of sailors
who waited to cast out the anchor from the port bow. No—
when you sail away to sea, you understand that there are no
stars waiting for you out in the light years of space. Those
stars are really hiding in the ocean, deep in the darkness of
dense water and coral wonder. They dimly shine because
the deep density of water forces its dark blackness upon
the heart of a shining face, a shining star. And so we come
to the heart of the starlight, hiding deep within the sea. The
light pierces through the dark, briny depths to discover its
own heart, its shining love hidden within itself, within the sea.
The starlight has its own love, a great love which pierces the
brine like the light of its face of grandeur. The starlight is tiny,
yet strong, and holds its strength against the impacting
density, the strength of one thousand thousand destinies.
10
HELIOSVSELENE
ANDREW HUSSEY
A swirling bubble of gas and air,
Coronal king with style and flare,
I am the fiery soul of life,
The bringer and ender of all strife.
Space rock shaped by Earth’s own hand,
Eclipsing queen of sea and land,
I am the lantern in the pitch of night,
Master of tides and courier of light.
Courier of light? Rather thief of glory!
Your pale aura stolen from my boundless quarry.
Gloomy imitation of my blazing molecules,
Lusterless derivative of my trove of joules.
Derivative? You are but one of countless stars!
You are not even as exciting as water on Mars.
As your sneaking ultraviolet rays burn hides,
I refresh all in need with soft and cooling tides.
.........
.........
My ego is the largest in the system, ‘tis true,
Yet even I was jealous at your beauteous debut.
Relying on clouds to weather my might,
Unable to choose between blessing and blight.
11
You? Regret? My splendor cannot compare
To your brilliance, each month I despair.
Without my own soul, forced from you to borrow
Light that casts an unseen shadow of sorrow.
A sublime duet, photon to photon,
A celestial waltz, performance of two,
Both wardens of life in one pantheon,
Proud gourmet chefs of primordial stew.
GROUNDED
sarah bishop
acrylic on clay
BLACKER THE BERRY
zack baker
black & white film photograph
13
7/6/15
HOLLY ZUIDERVEEN
This morning (just any morning) stole my breath,
Stunning in softness,
While the mist rose -- incense beyond
One lopsided tree
That, still, stands poetic. Branches bowed
To the weight of glory robbed.
14
RIPTIDES
CHRISTOPHER NOLAN
There is a girl lying in a boy’s bed. She is on her
stomach, drunk and high. He is next to her– anxious
but okay. The two are entangled in sheets. He asks,
“Are you all right?” She responds, “No.” He probes,
“What happened?” A current carries her farther from
shore; he wades in the shallows– anxious but okay.
He throws her a lifeline, “What is it like being high?”
“Everything moves super slow, but really fast at the
same time, you know?” He becomes silent, then a
ringing in his ears, like water scraping sand. A light
flares; a beam breaks the horizon, and calls the boy.
He breaches and then reaches for his phone. A text.
“Is that me?” She scans the vast blue, lost and dazed.
“No, it’s me,” he pretends to put his phone down as
he types. He coughs up salt and treads water, “You’ll
be all right in the end. You’ll be all right.” She chokes
as the depths drag her down.
15
GESTURE IN COLOR
reilly gordon
colored pencils
16
THROUGH THE FOG
LIES THE CLARITY
tracy burton
black & white film photograph
THE GHOUL
ANDREW HUSSEY
Lying in your bed at night,
Under covers, out of sight,
Imagine terrors of the dark,
Shapes that screech and howl and bark.
—you hear a piercing moaning—
Stirred awake from false nightmare,
Just to find a worthy scare,
What are these noises up above?
Sounds of fear and not of love.
—you sense a fitful groaning—
The telltale calling of a Ghoul,
To seek it out you’d be a fool...
...Clamber up the stairs to find
A face not cruel, but sweet and kind.
—you stare into the droning...
...Voice of your mother as she cries in pain,
Her whimpering a suffering refrain,
The wail of a woman who’s beaten death,
But pays for victory with every breath.
18
I READ A POEM BY
RAYMOND CARVER TODAY
ZACHARY CAHILL
Today
I was depressed and
my stomach hurt
like a motherfucker.
I sat and read
“NyQuil” by Raymond Carver
and thought about drinking
some,
slipping down into
myself,
even though there’s
nobody worth talking to down there.
So I wait and I wait, for
building forts
and sleeping in hammocks
and playing pool
(“do you play pool?”)
(“yes but I’m not any good.”)
(“me neither.”)
(“that’s okay.”)
(“yes it is.”)
and feeling Happy
without an asterisk.
If that’s even possible.
TRIANGLES
marcella flury
pigment inkjet print
CAPTURING LIGHT
REBECCA BLASIUS
On summer days
The green leaves that hung over head
Formed a ceiling
Like an umbrella in the rain.
My bicycle tires rolled against
Crunchy leaves and dirt as we peddled forward.
We strayed off the path
Into the forest of
Thick oak trees and blank, open space.
I remember the laughter of the forest
The way the leaves rustled against the bark
And my sister’s tires wound faster as she tried
Catching the light between the spaces of trees.
But we never quite mastered reaching that round ball
Of light
Because no matter how fast we swung our tires through the tree openings
It was a maze we could not complete.
The sun would set and sink beneath the ground
And not show its face till the following day.
Every summer we would try chasing the light
But dimmed
Yet, we knew the light would pop out of the earth
Shining once again.
Capturing that light was our mission
Because life is like a flickering light
It dims,
But it always comes back
Shining light between the paths of trees.
21
INTO THE WIND
annamarie williams
watercolor, pen & ink
HUMMINGBIRD
allison brady
acrylic on canvas
DREAMING OF SUMMER IN THE SUMMER
ANDREW HUSSEY
In summer I lie in the forest beside the creek,
Gnats gnawing, mosquitos sucking at my cheek.
In dream the noble frogs defend my blood,
And soon sunned sand replaces all the mud.
In summer woodpeckers rap a steady beat—
Incessant as jackhammers murdering cold concrete.
In dream the golden trees sing silver song;
The birds croon and winds whistle along.
In summer wasps and hornets accept a new mission:
Pursue and sting the mark after target acquisition.
In dream the bees coast along the pollen highway,
Each exit ramp a promise for a bountiful bouquet.
In summer caterpillars consume both leaf and petal,
Their free meals leave behind enormous debts to settle.
In dream clouds of butterflies rain rapture on the meadow,
Their very presence fertilizer to help the blossoms grow.
In summer I shut my eyes—the heat is diamond-dense—
And fall asleep to dream of Summer in defense.
In dream Summer skies are amethyst, and clouds are pearl;
I live in sleep and breathe sunlight as maple seeds twirl.
24
ANGEL OAK
annamarie williams
watercolor
SCUTTLEBUTT
MICHAELA HOYLE
27
There is a small wood in the back of my backyard.
The trees are young, the trees are old
Some bending, some breaking.
If you walk carefully over
The fallen trunk of an aged elm,
Down the brown path of dirt and leaves,
You’ll find a small cranny
Where the trees bow their crowns,
Touching foreheads like gossips in a circle
With their murmurs and hisses
Carried to the ear
By the ruffle of the wind through their leaves.
There is no gap between,
So close are these trees,
And the sunlight filters in peridot.
When it rains, the water pools
Dripping from leaf to leaf
Until it drops from the last one,
Closest to the ground,
Into little crevices in the soil.
The sunlight doesn’t reach these makeshift ponds
They are the most long-lived among puddles.
Then all the green-capped gossips
Put out their roots
Casting about for moisture.
Talking so long
Has made them parched.
The water disappears,
Sip by sip
And the greenery continues
To whisper.
TILES
jerry cupples
acrylic on canvas
BREAK
emily price
pigment inkjet print
SOUTH
MADISON WEBSTER
There was a bird in my rafters
With hazy, ashy eyes
And a round, tapered beak like a Rose bud.
I cried and I cried and I cried
But the blood had dried
And I smelled like attic dust and old pennies.
I remember laughing breathless
But my lungs are so full now;
I miss finding wonder in the sunrise.
I remember your palms,
Callused and yearningBut my ribs are so bare this winter;
I miss the thunder of your heartbeat.
The bird flies south,
My blood flies south,
My heart flies south,
A river of words flies south
Choking my mouth
And falling from my lips like snow.
I’m so afraid
You won’t miss the sway
Of my hips
As I dance away
And you stay
With your eyes looking down.
30
MOTHER TO DAUGHTER 1963
MARLEE SCHILBE
when I was your age my momma told me
not to trust people that smile all the time
‘cause true happiness only lasts so long
when I was your age my momma told me
to smile more often
‘cause it made me look pretty
when I was your age my momma told me
that being beautiful wasn’t nearly as
important as being smart
when I was your age my momma told me
not to worry about my grades
‘cause I would marry a man with a good job
when I was your age my momma told me
hard work is the most rewarding thing
a person can do in their life
when I was your age my momma told me
I wasn’t good enough at anything to find work
so I should quit while I was ahead and start a family
when I was your age my momma told me
having a family was the most amazing accomplishment
‘cause children are a gift from God
31
when I was your age my momma told me
she wished I had never been born
‘cause her life was so sweet before I came
when I was your age my momma told me
I was worthless without ever muttering the words
I wish I’d never listened
ALL MY INSIDES
allie koning
black & white film photograph
32
HOPE
chelsea bertagnoli
underglazed ceramics
STAY.
CHRISTOPHER NOLAN
Sitting in a sanctuary
Searching for my sanctuary
I step up, break the bread, drink the cup
The taste lingers
The same old words fall before me
I fall to my knees
I beg for air
Breath to come easy
I beg for hope
Believing to hurt less
I pause my prayer
stay stay stay stay stay stay stay
My eyes struggle open
My hands unfold
I rise up on broken wings
The eagles are gone
I limp to my pew
I sit next to Mother
This is my devotion
This is my destruction
34
CACTUS
samantha smith
underglaze painted earthenware
35
ADAM, AFTER THE FALL
BY JESSE CORNEA
The sun
burns
in the pale sky.
He never noticed
how it
burned before.
The woman
stumbles next to him.
She was never
intended
to suffer like this.
Suffering like
this. That was
all that
they learned.
She had said
The serpent
promised the truth.
If this is the
truth,
he thinks,
the lie
was far more
pleasant.
The woman falls,
tears streaming
off her face
and soaking into
the... sand.
Sand.
He knows what it is.
He knows now.
He can never
not know
now.
He picks her up.
They may have been exiled.
But he will not leave her.
That is his truth.
36
EVE, AFTER THE FALL
BY JESSE CORNEA
37
She wades
through
the darkness
alone.
“Eat.”
“For you are hungry.”
Eat.
She had never known
that she
was hungry.
She should have
never listened.
But he was
so sincere.
His eyes
were like
the first star
of the morning.
She had never seen
stars
before.
There had been
no time
in Eden.
Stars now fill
her horizon.
The man
says they have to
keep moving.
She no longer
knows
him. His
words
are unfamiliar
to both of
them.
There
is a great
guilt
in his eyes.
She wants
to go back.
She didn’t
want
to know.
But she does.
She believes
now.
Believes
in him.
Believes in
Herself.
He’ll
need her.
She knows.
She knew first.
NOT EVERYTHING IS AS IT SEEMS
jackie mow
pastel
38
UNTITLED
ZACHARY CAHILL
39
the sound of my boots on this rotting wooden floor is
distinct and comforting in that I know that I am making
it but also deafening in the cacophonous way in which it
mixes with the noises in my head and I know that I will not
sleep for another few days but before I can consciously
consider the implications of this it starts to happen early
tonight and the mist begins to rise from the cracks in the
floor and I flee to my fragile wooden chair in the corner
of this little room and now the mist is seeping up but
staying low and I can’t stop watching the door although
I know that no light will illuminate the tiny empty spaces
between it and the wall and it will never open with a gust
of clean mountain air and you will never try to find the key
or pick the lock or knock politely or even just break the
goddamn thing down and so instead I watch watch watch
that door while my body shakes and sweats and rusts
and the pieces begin to fall away and now the mist rises
further, all-yellow and foul-smelling, and then it stops and
lingers without dissipating and I can’t breathe it in, cannot
inhale so it just looms about, unmoving and terrifying in
its frozen state, making it harder for me to see the door
but I still try so hard to see through the all-yellow and
it’s not like my eyes work well anymore anyways so I try
to move but it’s past 9:30 so I cannot and instead I think
about how when I was a child I thought jim morrison was
still alive and about magic tricks and the politics of noah’s
ark and fifty days at iliam and coming to somewhere from
a country that no longer exists and the closing sentences
of to the lighthouse and the closing sentences of
everything hemingway ever wrote and how cold snow
can be and how I love albert camus and naguib
mahfouz equally and that I always enjoy things titled “I
love my mother” or some similar thing and how in a past
life I used to be a gas-station attendant who yelled a lot
and wrote songs when I wasn’t huffing aerosols or
guzzling listerine and now fuck I’m shaking again and
vomiting on myself and I can smell the gasoline through
all my lives and I cannot escape myself but I just want
some water so I can stop choking and maybe then I could
really try and leave and think about other things like
high-schoolers reading slaughterhouse-five and college
kids reading lolita and nobody reading ulysses, although
I hear the best time to read ulysses is at sunset on a warm
summer evening but who in the hell has the time and are
there even enough nice sunsets on warm summer
evenings to finish it and at what cost, but I suppose
during some summer in my life I’ll try to find a nice
paperback edition of ulysses and I’ll try to find you and
I’ll try to find a nice porch for us to sit on and we will read
together at least the beginning and the middle of
ulysses and we can reclaim the evening until the stern,
harsh, caring, motherly moonlight comes and tells us to
be tired and to go to bed.
40
MALE GAZE
maggie chambers
watercolor
I’M GOING TO FLY
annamarie williams
oil on canvas
THE GIRL WHO STOPPED PAINTING
REBECCA BLASIUS
A curly, brown hair girl
Is no longer a child
But she is her shadow
Bursting out when sun hits
But hiding away when clouds come.
She doesn’t believe she can paint the world
With her hand prints.
Instead, she runs away.
And once, when she tries to paint the statues
A scolded no ruptures in her ears
And races to her veins.
If her grandma was still here
She would tell the girl to not run
But to paint her fingerprints everywhere
And to blob color— red, blue, green, and yellow
Until there is no white space
44
REAL SUN
MICHAELA HOYLE
I.
I know that the sun is real
I know the feel of peeling, burned skin
And the warm fur of a sun-drenched cat
And the way its light casts shadows larger than life
And the way a magnifying glass can focus it to a pinpoint
And the increasing darkness that comes with its absence.
But I have never been to the sun personally,
Nor looked at it for longer than a few seconds at a time
I have been told that it’s a great big star,
A ball of hot plasma – whatever that is.
For all I know, the sun is a giant eyeball, monitoring us all
And burning brightly to discourage a closer second look,
Or maybe a circular rip in the space-time continuum
Leading to a time and place in which an atom bomb
continually explodes.
But whatever the sun may be, I know how it affects my world
So it is real to me.
45
DREAMS & REALITY
cassidy shankleton
acrylic on plaster
TRASH COW
jason bursach
gouache on clay
47
SUN KISSED DUNES
GRANT HILL
Burgers, Busch and cigarettes linger in the air
Cracked linoleum and splintered men
When did he become a father?
When did he become his father?
Pizza tastes like chew
Granulated fiber glass and pepperoni
Shredding his mouth.
Just enough to dull the edge.
Yellowed teeth worn down to tender enamel
Shrinking dunes
Livers beaten
It’ll give him one more decade
Of days at the mill and nights at
People are not snowflakes.
Working at the glass factory on Gamble,
Until your back breaks like a discarded action figure.
Spending worker’s comp on thirty racks and the town bicycle
48
FROM AUTUMN AS THE
UNBOUNDED ECHO
JOHN URDIALES
On the Discovery of Things
The rapping of a pen. The sniffling of a small child. The
grass, tediously yet fervently growing. The miniscule plant
wafting oxygen into your lungs. The ink-pen, staining the
page beneath your touch. A songbird, gently resting on the
tree limb, waiting for its love to return. Blind birdies shed
tears when the seasonal winds change from passionate
summer suns to temperate autumn reveries. In all things
there is one commonality, one communion: they embrace
their state of existence.
On Listening
Doves, cooing. Limbs, shaking. Leaves, crescendo. The
earth, swelling. Tree trunks, pruning. The wind, laughing.
Flower-buds wait patiently in the palms of the trees for life
to take shape as you mold your hands around the earth and
breathe life into it, praying your clay-bird will one day fly away.
49
On Ending
Allow yourself to fall into the earth, to be caught up in her
web of cyclical life. Let the earth be your tomb and the dirt
your place of repose. Dying is as writing: we arrive at some
culmination of being. The words on the page stop—there is
nothing else. But what, then, of ending?
CLAY PIGEONS
emily price
underglazed ceramics
50
pine river anthology
STAFF
CREATIVE DIRECTOR
cassidy shankleton ‘16
LAYOUT COORDINATOR
& COVER DESIGN
cassidy shankleton ‘16
WEB DESIGNER/EDITOR
josie sabo ‘17
PHOTOGRAPHERS
rebekah irani ‘16
calliandra perry ‘16
ART STAFF
allison brady ‘16
ashley derrer ‘16
mary frances eshleman ‘16
emily price ‘17
ENGLISH EDITOR
marissa cook ‘16
FACULTY ADVISORS
sandy lopez-isnardi, art
laura von wallmenich, english
SPECIAL THANKS
Pine River Anthology staff would like to thank all those who
submitted creative work for their contribution to Alma College.
Special thanks to McKay Press and Scott McDonald, for his professional printing guidance. Many thanks to the Art, English, and
New Media Studies Departments, our wonderful faculty advisors
and student congress’ monetary support.