Allison Bias
Odd Days
One of these mornings,
I'm going to be abducted by aliens
while 1 grind coffee in my white bathrobe
with yellow duckies.
One of these mornings,
I'm going to look at my frazzled hair,
vacant gray eyes and blotchy skin,
crack my neck and flush the Prozac down the toilet.
One of these mornings,
I'm going to flip on the radio
and not hear the words "gun" "accident" "death or "fear"
but "peachy keen" "nifty" "swell" and "lollipop".
One of these mornings,
I'm going to drive to school in an
ice cream truck, eating ice cream and play
duck-duck-goose and hide-n-seek all day.
One of these mornings,
instead of waking up at the crack of dawn
and doing all the things no one wants to do but does,
I'll just go back to sleep.
Allison Bias is a freshman majoring in journalism.
Aaron Shakra
To a jilted poetry teacher:
a viilanelle
You say "It's your own," you say "It's your own"
"Away from the norms, never conformed, this is how writing is bom"
So what's this that you say about poems?
You approach the unknown by line editing your soul
"That rose isn't red — it's all been said — you have to reform"
You say "It's your own," you say "It's your own"
But this teaching is all preaching outgrown tomes
Clothed in blind traditions like religions of an oath you've sworn
So what's this that you say about poems?
Give us readymade quotes so that we may clone
the ashen smoke you exhale on all that won't conform
You say "It's your own," you say "It's your own"
Could you ever be taught, will you never be shone?
Past stillborn authority that says "It's always better in the form"
So what's this that you say about poems?
An old way withers, your clothes, now unsown
Still I learn with rhythm unturned, so I shall cease to scorn
What you say is your own, you say is your own
Now what's this that you say about poems?
I see my life
reflected
in a cup of chai
by the poisoned river
writing poems on my hand.
r
Contact the Pulse editor
at aaronshakra@dailyemerald.com
I
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Wayne Bund
Feasting the Siren
Give me more of tor to weigh and store do feast my blood on shore
a lore the least. East more: high noon in noun, deep verse in verb; hollow
my fallow and pump upon meat. More 1 score of food to flesh the
mouthing cord; I hoard before buoy, beast, or bellow boy, water prior to
the waves within: thirst raise ocean, eye dawn star, and more and more
my endless skin. My voice vectors volatile. Meal are symphonies: teeth
sinking skin syncopation; bones breaking bones tambour; outpouring blood
a river harmonious; flowing syntax my pores. I reach your breach,
fulfill my treat. More food to dine: knowing calfs, showing stomach of young
slaughter, breast, thigh, hip and rib, shoulder, neck, chin and grin, more in
take, more mountains in which to eat. Together we dine. I ache
the arches of your castle form, I crush your columns down, strike soft
your stone. Come on wings made aural and find your place. I flesh
solitude. Do feast on sound to call to death my own. Do rhyme do writher
and come here hither, food to dine an entire line to end. Consume and
perish. Heap the plates, unleash the mounds, murkle drawn circles to
pact intact, derelict the story made lust by fact. You fly, you flee, alone I lie
and die to crest my lyric in coherent brook of house and home. Abhor my
shore and intake more.
Wayne Bund is a senior majoring in theatre arts.
Iris Moon Benson
David Bowie
With one match
at thirteen, I lit
your cigarette
birthday candles
1 leaned forward, blew out
sucked smoke in
kissed
coals in my mouth
words cleaned
on my tongue
As we sang
lips wet
"time takes
a cigarette"
time takes
a quarter
in the slot
and I play
the juke box
wipe years
off my lips
napkins
a chalk board
windshield wipers
smoke sucked down
my throat
Iris Moon Benson is a senior
studying landscape architecture
and a student in the University's
Kidd Tutorial creative writing
program.
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Recipes:
By Natasha Chilingerian
Pulse Reporter
Well-prepared Middle Eastern food has a spe
cial poignancy; the rice is buttery and covered
by a crunchy golden crust, the hummus is laden
by a smooth garlic and olive oil taste and the
beef kebabs have a distinct zing.
But locking in this cuisine's flavors can be
tricky. Timing, temperatures, ingredients and
care all play crucial roles in mastering the art of
Middle Eastern recipes.
Here, 1 will take you step by step through
three of the most loved recipes from the Arab
countries. First, you'll discover how to perfect
tadeeg, a crispy oust that forms at the bottom
of a pot of rice, for a creation of basmati with
sliced potatoes. Next, I'll show you how to make
real, ethnic hummus (you'll never buy the
packaged kind again), perfect with warm pita
bread. Finally, you'll learn how to take charge of
delicious wrapped in flat chewy lavash bread
and fresh greens.
• Potato Rice with Tadeeg
Basmati, the rice used in this recipe, is most
notable for its aromatic, nut-like flavor and
scent. It is small, yet long-grained, and is sold
at most grocery stores. This recipe calls for
turmeric, a spice which gives the rice a yellow
color and an aromatic orange-ginger scent.
T\irmeric can be found in the spice section of
most grocery stores.
1 large russet potato
2 cups basmati rice
4 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
7 cups water
dash of salt
dash of pepper
dash of garlic salt
dash of turmeric
6 tablespoons butter
Slice potato into thick slices across, leaving
skin. In a heavy, nonstick pan, heat 2 table
spoons olive oil and add the potato slices.
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one side only until the cooked side is golden.
Set aside. In a large pot, bring lightly salted water
to a boil. Add rice, bring back to a boil and low
er heat to medium. Boil for about 5 minutes,
then taste the rice — it should be soft on the
outside but crunchy on the inside. Drain rice
into a colander. Rinse rice with cold water. Dry
off pot, pour 2 tablespoons olive oil on bottom
of pot and place potatoes on top, uncooked
side down. Add rice in three layers, adding 2 ta
blespoons butter (cut into chunks) and a dash
of turmeric after each layer. Sprinkle top of rice
with garlic salt, pepper and turmeric. Place pa
per towel sheets on top of pot, cover with lid
and cook on low heat for 35-40 minutes. Rice
is done when paper towel becomes wet.
Trp: Adding extra-virgin olive oil at the bot
tom of the pan is the most essential step for a
crisp tadeeg, as is keeping the heat low to ensure
the crust won't bum.
• Hummus
This dip from the Mediterranean and Mid
dle East regions has become increasingly
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flavored varieties. This recipe guarantees an
original homemade taste. Tahini, which gives
hummus its toasted, nutty flavor, is a paste de
rived from ground sesame seeds. You can buy
tahini at high-end or specialty grocery stores.
White pepper comes from ripe peppercorns
which have been shelled of their skin (black
pepper is the result of dried, unshelled pep
percorns). Paprika, a spice made from ground
and dried chili peppers, is used simply to add
color. White pepper and paprika can be found
at most grocery stores.
2 cans chickpeas (reserve 4 tablespoons
chickpea juice)
6 cloves garlic
4 tablespoons tahini
1- 2 tablespoons lemon juice
2- 3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
pinch of salt
pinch of white pepper
1/4 cup black olives
1 bunch parsley
pinch of paprika
Empty drained chickpeas into a food
piuctrssoi aim auu ‘i laDiespoons or cnicicpea
juice from the cans. Blend with garlic, tahini,
salt and pepper, adding lemon juice a little at
a time until smooth. Scrape onto a platter,
sprinkle with paprika, drizzle with olive oil
and decorate with black olives and parsley.
Serve with heated pita bread.
Tip: Begin blending with 1 tablespoon
lemon juice, and taste hummus before adding
a second tablespoon. The flavor should have a
slight citrus tone, but not be overpowered by
the lemon.
• Beef Kebabs
A sprinkle of sumac is recommended here to
add a real zip to kebabs. This spice comes from
the fruit of a wild Mediterranean bush, and is
often used as a souring agent in Arab cooking,
as is lemon and vinegar. It can be found at spe
cialty international or Middle Eastern grocery
stores. Lavash is a soft, flat unleavened bread of
Armenian origin which comes in the form of a
large sheet most upscale and high-end grocery
stores carry it.
2 pounds ground beef (15 percent fat)
i onion
legg
pinch of salt
pinch of pepper
pinch of allspice
1 package lavash bread
parsley, green onions, and sumac (to serve)
3-4 flat, 20-centimeter, stainless steel skewers
Grate onion into the meat Add egg, salt pep
per and allspice and knead together. Cover with
wax paper and let stand for 30 minutes. Wet
hands and mold meat into long, thin shapes
around skewers. Grill about 5 minutes on each
side Add a portion of the bread to the grill for
the last 2 minutes to heat. Place kebabs on a
platter on top of warmed bread. Serve as a
sandwich with green onions, parsley and a
sprinkling of sumac and wrapped in remain
ing and warmed bread.
Tip: The secret to a great kebab is making
sure the meat stays put on the skewers. It can
take some practice, but be sure to pack meat
on good, and tight before taking it to the grill.
Contact the Pulse reporter
at natashachilingerian@dailyemerald.com.
ay oari aurmoerg
Pulse Columnist
It's these places that th<
real source of humanity ex
ists. It's these dark and hu
mid rooms, halls, bars anc
garages that people will se<
that it's still okay to b<
alive. To know that th<
sickness that persuade!
people to do evil thing;
with their minds and bod
ies can be forgiven anc
that inner peace will be
found again. The horror;
of our modem America ex
ist elsewhere. This is 2
place of music. This is a
hall of sound.
These musicians who
stand on their soapbox in a
significant circle lay out the
real truth. Music is the only
truth. No matter what peo
ple try and do, music will
never lie. It will never mis
lead. It will never die. It ex
ists without us, amongst us,
in every breeze, in every
sunset, in the birds, in the
ocean and in the moun
tains. It is everywhere. It has
a will of its own.
The outside of this place
will be in stark opposition.
People around, frightening.
Thoughts, terrible. Actions,
disgusting. Killing, raping,
stealing, hurting, shoving,
lying. The Ten Command
ments sacrificed on any giv
en street comer, in any giv
en home, at any given time,
somewhere. But not here.
This is a holy ground. Not
in any religious sense, but a
spiritual sense, if you will. A
room, a simple room with
people playing music that
speaks in the universal
tongue. Expressing pain, ex
citement joy, anguish, sad
ness, and pleasure. Talking
in a way that any man,
woman or child can hear
and complete with their
own minds and souls.
It does not impose fear,
dom, this jazz, this rock,
this funk, this blues. This
spilling from the instru
ments. Tonight it is a saxo
phone. Alongside that, it
I could be drums and guitar.
Across the stage maybe a
bass and a violin. These
: players, all of them, any of
( them, are helping us out
1 here. They are helping us
become one mind, for
maybe a short interval, a
song duration, a tempo
change, but there it is.
Nothing mind-boggling.
Nothing complex. This is
simply music.
Here I sit no longer pain
ing myself over events that
have taken place in the
past. It's stupid to let any
war, any drunk, any rainy
day, any conflicting inter
ests, or any one person
make me feel any sort of
mental distress. No, tonight
I will choose to listen on
my own. Away from every
one, in the comer, if that is i
what it takes, with a smile 1
on my face, no longer ac
cepting judgment or dish
ing it out, however hard
that is. I can only place the
jazz in my head and con
vert it to energy to use to 1
gain strength from the ’
small things that may just 1
come to mean nothing.
I'm trying to empty the
sickness, expel the misery.
I clear my head at these
dark nightclubs of bleed
ing jazz and roiling blues, |
and these little things, the
notes, they make me re
member who 1 am. ,
Sometimes I forget that I i
love nothing more com- <
pletely than music until I
hear it again as it fills me up
and flows from me. It is a !
sacred and personal peace.
And I will remain with it as ,
it will with me, until I die.
The saxophone line is <
avviiiiug in my iiCdU
... the guitar is coming in
over the top, doubling the
sax in fourths, the violin
plays a tremolo pitch that is
so eerie and bohemian,
perfect as the drummer
belts out a driving back
bone of 7/8 time, behind
that the bassist is grinding
away with a bow, creating
this lulling swing gypsy
rhythm that has placed me
near the fifth sun, the place
I have come to recognize is
die final resting place of the
soul, the last stop before we
forge into new material,
that place that makes us re
alize we still have a long
way to go.
And you can see it burn
ing red now and you can
feel the music lifting you up
past the fence of your
dumb awareness so that
fou can get a glimpse of it,
he music pushing you
ligher and higher, until it
las hit its peak, extended its
?rasp, and you are almost
trying, because you know
here will be a time when
rou will no longer be able
:o know this music, where
ill earthly connections will
>e lost, except possibly fad
id strange memories, and
rou will know this is true
ight before you reach up
ind touch the sun, for the
ast and only time, as it falls
indemeath like the last
lotes of that powerfully
xanscendent hypnotic
nelody that these simple
lumans have created, right
here in front of you.
Contact the Pulse columnist
it carlsundberg@
lailyemerald.com.
His opinions do not
lecessarily represent those
>f the Emerald,
rhis piece is from
in upcoming short
itory/poetry collection,
The Unjust Righteous
ind the Idiot Savant.”
Photo illustration and design by Killian Mcllroy