Ink Volume 7

8/3/2019 Ink Volume 7

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2008-2009 Volume 7



On the Cover:

“Sun-Kissed Hills”

by Molly Nelis

Logo Design:

Carlton Kenny

A journal of literary and visual arts

Volume 7, 2008-2009

Rose-Hulman Instute of Technology

Advisors Dr. Rebecca Dyer

Dr. Maki Hirotani

Dr. Mark Minster

Dr. Corey Taylor

Co-Editors in Chief

Samuel Howell

Jessica Lipscomb

Layout Editors

Ryan Mendonca

Jacob Slifer

Submissions Editors

Janelle Crocke

Phillip Rodenbeck

Markeng Editor

Annie Bullock

Online Editors

Robert Adams

John-Paul Verkamp

Sta: Brandon Abad, Nickolas Easter, An-

gelica Pano, Bernadee Pano, Kelli Phil-

lips, James Sedo



Editors’ Note

The editors wish to thank everyone who contributed to Ink, and to congratulate the arsts whose

work appears on the following pages. We would like to acknowledge this year’s best visual and

wrien works: Michael Ferguson’s “Mr. Myles Cranford” and Noel Spurgeon’s “Ether,” respec-

vely. Congratulaons, too, to Molly Nelis for “Sun-Kissed Hills,” which graces this issue’s cover;

to Kevin Richards, who won this year’s haiku contest; and to Carlton Kenny, for designing this

year’s winning logo.

This installaon of Ink is special because it is the rst student-produced issue. As such, we would

like to thank our fellow student editors: Robert Adams, Annie Bullock, Janelle Crocke, RyanMendonca, Phillip Rodenbeck, Jacob Slifer and John-Paul Verkamp. Thank you to the enre Ink

sta for all of their hard work and late hours. We also would like to thank the faculty advisors

who facilitated the magazine’s producon, Rebecca Dyer, Maki Hirotani, Mark Minster, and Corey

Taylor, for their guidance. Without the superb eorts of everyone involved, Ink would not be pos-

sible. In addion, we thank Je Schoonover, the Elsie B. Pawley Fund, and the Department of Hu-

manies and Social Sciences for their support.

—Samuel Howell and Jessica Lipscomb

This year’s volume of Ink is dedicated to the Rose-Hulman students who recently lost their lives:

James “JJ” Boyce

Fah Ilhan



Contents

Michael Ferguson

Noel Spurgeon

Jim Sedo

Kevin Richards

Phillip Rodenbeck

Anastasia Tarpeh

Annie Bullock

Emily Dosmar

Michael Ferguson

Andrew Kneller

Angelica Pano

Bernadee Pano

Luanne Tilstra

Molly Nelis

Corey Taylor

Ryan Mendonca

Kelli Phillips

Angelica Pano

Jeanie Sozansky

Andrew Carlson

Chris Wlezien and Je van Treuren

John-Paul Verkamp

Evan Cornell

Jessica Lipscomb

Preston Pameijer

Mr. Myles Cranford

Ether

Lotus

Two Grapes

Hip Hop is…

...and the fog rolls in

The Game

But rst I had to discover that I am

an invisible man!

In Clips

Entropy

Tube Julian

On Bob Dylan’s Voice

Rust Bucket

Jolly Roger Strikes Again

The eye is not enough. One needs to

think, as well.

You Have to Play with the Cards

You’re Dealt

Draconis Weldus

Silent Scream

Sacred Sunlight

The Ofusu Family

Aer the Flood

1

2

3

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

21

22

23

24

25

26



Charles Joenathan

Evan Cornell

Phillip Rodenbeck

Preston Pameijer

Nickolas Easter

Kelli Phillips

Robert Adams

Sophia Percival

Brandon Abad

Benjamin Mann

Chris Wlezien

Jusn Perry

Preston Pameijer

Bernadee Pano

John-Paul Verkamp

Kevin Collins

Corey Taylor

Annie Bullock

Noel Spurgeon

Chris Wlezien

Ryan Mendonca

Sophia Percival

John-Paul Verkamp

Brandon Abad

Jessica Lipscomb

No Night For Me

Pont du Gard

The Dawn Sin :: The Charred Skin :: TheDusk Devoured My Mortal Chagrin

Sunset

Nude

Hidalgo

One

Nemo

Dance

The Purging of Monday

Cloudy Mountains

My Visit to a Castle

Happy Emu

White Chapel in Autumn

Three Studies in Grays and Browns

The Lepidopterist

Roune

Octopus

Yulede Glow

Golden Gate Bridge

Winter Reecons

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

35

36

37

37

38

39

40

43

44

45

46

47

47

48

49

50

51

52



ink 1

Michael Ferguson

Best Visual Work

Mr. Myles Cranford



2

Noel Spurgeon

Ether

You were an absinthe drinker,

Whiling away your days

Through sloed spoons as

The wormwood crept through your veins—

Solace in the madness,

Subsisng on ether.

Oh, to be the

Dreamer that you were.

But now you dine on asphodel,

A burnt out,

Neglected shade of a thing,

Searching for the door behind the curtain

And dissolving through the

Walls of reality,

Searching for escape.

I can’t save you

From the face on the shelf,

Dragged out of Hades

To have you perish in

The sunlight—

Mist and vapor that disappears

At the rst blush of dawn.

I’m no lotus-eater, honey.

I don’t forget.

The shell is sll there,

Perfect as the day you le

It empty and cold

For your eld of night-blooming

Flowers.

ink

Best Wrien Work



ink 3

Jim Sedo

Lotus

Silent room broken

A cricket guest mocks the host

Only the laughing

Kevin Richards

Winning Haiku



ink 4

Phillip Rodenbeck

Two Grapes

Those roses dance like Alcatraz on goblets overowing

I plucked a petal yelping “Free me!”

And devoured its soul

So I’m constantly alone

I cannot begin to describe

Like smooth brown stones snaked together in some perfect entanglement of viscous re

And as such, entwine

To hell with Murphy

The gress has two grapes for eyes

She stole from a demon’s prickly garden And we, in them, do clear reect

What precious love is le



Anastasia Tarpeh

ink 5

Hip Hop is…

Hip hop is the loud mouthed lil girl

With long glistening cornrows

Swinging with bright beads on the ends.

Hip hop is the one

That rocks the hearts of B-Boys

That will be boys

When they break

To send up ares

To the y chicks across the street

With that good hair.

Hip Hop is the movement everyone felt

No maer the color, race, or creed.

She uses the compelling tongues Of emcees to send forth

The pure message of jusce and self -denion.

Hip Hop is a lifestyle, the gospel of creavity,

Pung souls on the grind

Recording cassee tapes

While pushing rocks

Just to keep they H-E-A-D-U-P,

“If you don’t know, now you know.”

Hip Hop is

The boom kat of street dancers,

The “uh check it”

In round 1 of an underground rap bale,

The scue of Nikes on the basketball court,

And the yells of double dutch girls,

“Cinderella dressed in yella!”

Hip Hop is the common goal

Of everyone for themselves

Yet help a brotha out

If you got connecons.

It’s the feeling you can be anything you want to be.

It’s having condence and an innate swag

Cuz if you didn’t have at least a front

You’d get hassled by dope boys.

It’s when you knew who were your friends,

Who were your enemies,

And who you wouldn’t even let watch your bike.



Annie Bullock

ink 6

Hip Hop is a state

Of simplicity and creavity,

A state of revoluon and innovaon.

It is the state of being

Yourself.



ink 7

Emily Dosmar



ink 8

Michael Ferguson

...and the fog rolls in



ink 9

Andrew Kneller

The yellow sun beat down on the eld, warming

the blue cap I wore on my head. The wind was blowing

gently through the streets picking up a lile dust as it

wound its way toward the lake. The pungent aroma of

freshly cut grass and moist dirt lled the air around my

head, making my head feel light. I heard the people

around me buzzing with excitement and alcohol and the

most important in the throng of people was my father

next to me. It was a trip down memory lane to be there

with him, spending so many nights at the eld with him

when I was younger. The crunch of peanuts and the snap

of leather oozed through the stadium, surrounding and

swallowing me, diusing its way into my pores. The ven-

dors were working their trade, ghng their way through

ebb and ow of the crowd, searching out those too en-

thralled by the game or inebriated by spirits to seek out

refreshment and sustenance on their own two feet.

Their calls were simple, but all the more wonderful as a

result.

“Beer! Ice Cold Beer!” or, “Peanuts! Getcha Pea-

nuts!”

The crowd ignored them for the most part, too

busy socializing or cheering on the pitcher who was

working his magic on the mound. Once a long me ago I

saw a pitch thrown in slow moon on this sports channel

or that. It’s a thing of beauty: arms bending in three

places, legs up by their ears, the whole of their bodyworking together, all muscles in perfect unison to put the

correct velocity on the ball, and the hand and wrist

pung that perfect spin on that wicked inside-out slider.

All the while he’s playing a game of chess with each

baer, hiding the pitch ll the last second changing

speeds, changing locaons, changing pitches. When they

succeed their reward is the snapping sound of leather on

leather as the ball nds its way past the bat and into the

waing catcher’s mi. And who could forget the best

reward of all? The roar of the crowd as the baer shrugs

o towards the dugout. This was one of those mes

when the pitcher was winning and it didn’t look like the

other team could do anything about it. And yet, as the

next baer stepped up to the plate, there was a glimmer

in his eye. I’d seen that look before a million mes, it’s

the same look a predatory bird gets right before it

swoops down upon the unsuspecng mouse.

“Two down, one to go!” cried the third baseman.

The pitcher stepped on the rubber, and for a se-

cond from my spot behind the third base dugout I

thought I saw fear on his face. He went into the windup

and I could see the baer shi his weight onto his back

foot. The pitcher’s knee came up to his face while draw-

ing his arm back like a snake coiling for the strike and the

baer brought his bat back starng a slow arc. The ball

came forward as the pitcher stepped towards home and

simultaneously the baer stepped towards the mound.

The ball was silhoueed against the stands for a mo-

ment, the crowd a blur as my eyes followed the ball from

the pitcher’s hand toward the awaing glove. But sud-

denly, that bat appeared and took the ball squarely on.

There was a loud CRACK! and the ball became silhoueed

against the blue sky, a sinking feeling lled the stands.Silence lled the stadium, peanuts dropping to the

ground, the vendors craning their necks to see what had

happened. The crowd slowly rose to their feet with whis-

pers of “It’s too high” lling the air. The le elder, upon

the crack of the bat, turned and started sprinng back to

the wall, the white of this uniform a blur against the

The Game



ink 10

Andrew Kneller

green background. I felt the feeling of warm smooth

leather on my hand a cool wind on my face. I looked

down and I saw there a baseball glove, my feet running

across the grass. I looked over my shoulder and saw the

ball against the sky and below it the kids from my child-

hood out in the park playing a pick-up game of baseball.

I saw the dirt lled ineld, the small lump of dirt that

suced for a pitcher’s mound. I felt the ground become

undy, tall, thick grass under my running feet. I looked

forward again, knowing that I must be closing on the

rusty old fence enclosing the eld. Suddenly, a streak of

dirt appeared below his shoes and mine, kicking up a

dust storm as we went, our eyes never leaving that white

orb in the sky. Our knees bent further, and as we pushed

against the dirt, his glove came up with mine as though

trying to grab a hold of the sky. Feet le the ground and

up and up we went together, gloves outstretched, bodies

made as long as possible, straining for that extra inch.

Suddenly against the black of the glove appeared the

white orb with red stching. The gloves closed with a

snap, encasing the ball in a prison cell. The crowd erupt-

ed in cheers as he fell back to earth again, holding that

small capve ghtly in his glove. Everyone hugged and

high-ved, all transformed into back-slapping, beer-

spilling family members in that joyous moment.

All the while, I sat, the trance only partly broken,

taken back to the days of my youth spent on baseballeld and backyard playing with gloves, ball, and bat, or

scks and rocks. That is the magic of baseball; the mys-

cal game played by heroes and children; the magic of a

game that ignites the imaginaon of the masses. Looking

around I no longer saw fans of this team or that, business

men and construcon workers, men and women. I saw a

diving catch in the gap, I saw a stolen second base amid a

cloud of dust and the clamor of voices protesng and

praising, I saw a triple to right eld to clear the bases and

all of it taking place on patches of dirt using trees, n

cans, newspaper, rocks, and bushes for bases. I saw the

mean neighborhood dog that threatened anyone who

climbed aer a foul ball with a snarl and glistening fangs.

I saw through it all, sing sll, holding my breath, savor-

ing the taste of peanuts and polish sausage and overly

expensive colas. But most importantly, I saw my father

both beside me and years ago standing paently throw-

ing pitch aer pitch, always the same words echoing in

my ears:

“Keep your eye on the ball.”

I saw myself out on the ineld, my father hing

grounders to me.


I saw myself in the ouield, my dad throwing pop

-up aer pop-up.


I saw him playing catch every night aer work ll

the sun went down.


And in that moment, he leaned over to me and

asked if I was okay. My team had made a great play and I

wasn’t with the rest. I looked at my father there, and

had to turn away pretending there was dust blowing inmy eye. We talked a lot that day about school, golf, of

course baseball, and life. And as the day came to a close

and we got in the car to go home, he oered me that one

piece of advice that has echoed throughout the ages

from Father to Son for generaons past and present.

“Son,” he said, “Keep Your Eye on The Ball.”



ink 11

Angelica Pano

But rst I had to discover that I am an invisible man!



ink 12

Bernadee Pano

In Clips



ink 13

Luanne Tilstra

Entropy

I can develop the thermodynamic denion of entropy from an analysis of the Carnot Cycle.

I can develop an explanaon for why the empty milk jug never quite makes it to

the recycle box.

I can dene the terms necessary to describe the stascal distribuon of energy among available states.

I can dene the ever-expanding distribuon of

my children’s socks.

I can jusfy the distribuon of energy among available states as a measure of the entropy of the system.

I can jusfy why the Easter decoraons don’t get completely put away

unl the fall.

I can relate the Boltzmann denion of entropy to real systems and describe how that one equaon allows us to pre-dict and explain the direcon of spontaneous change.

But—even aer more than twenty years of research—I cannot relate my husband’s inability to place the wine

bole opener back in its drawer to

anything at all.



ink 14

Molly Nelis

Tube Julian



ink 15

On Bob Dylan’s Voice

I rst heard you live

in Upper Darby, Pennsylvania,

at an art-deco theater.

Thin with wispy curls,

you sat stage right at an electric piano, working its keys and not playing guitar. (Not once playing guitar.)

You blew that harmonica

through Marlboro Red smoke

and croaked, gurgled, transformed

your words.

But,

it didn’t match your 1960s recordings.

I barely recognized “All Along the Watchtower,”

even aer you sang the opening couplet.

I saw a hippie kid

get escorted from the fourth row during “Cat’s in the Well,”

chucking beer on a guy about your age

on his way out.

My buddy Judd

got us ckets to the show—sold out—for

a hundred bucks.

We saw the world’s greatest Bob Dylan cover band,

fronted by Bob Dylan.

I was disappointed.

Sll, I bought CDs like

Slow Train Coming and Time Out of Mind .

I listened, read, thought

about the impressionism and narraves of your lyrics.

I saw you next at a ki bar

in Wilmington, Delaware

aer my third year of graduate school.

You, again on a piano stool,

and your band played “Masters of War”

as sinister midtempo pop:

subtle keys, snaking guitars, shuing drums, stomping bass.

The voice was gravel, clear.

Rang out.

You sound old on The Times They Are a-Changin’

You sound young on Modern Times

You creak through “I Was Young When I Le Home”

You breeze through “Mississippi”

You twang on Nashville Skyline

You exhort on Indels

You are Robert Johnson Bessie Smith Woody Guthrie

Billie Holiday Pete Seeger

Corey Taylor



ink 16

Walt Whitman Allen Ginsberg

Midwestern Southern the High Plains the West

New York bohemian

Huck Finn

America.

Your voice soars

Your guitar dances

Your harmonica sears

***

Hey, hey, Bob Dylan,

I wrote down this poem.

It’s probably trite, but as I’m living

the world is beer for your singing.

Ryan Mendonca

Rust Bucket



ink 17

Kelli Phillips

Jolly Roger Strikes Again



ink 18

Angelica Pano

The eye is not enough. One needs to think, as well.



ink 19

We’re almost there. I sit in the back seat of the

van and peer out the window at the all too familiar sur-

roundings. I recognize the bends in the road, the barn on

my right with the huge red roof, the rusted sign for thegun shop. We’re in Eldred, Pennsylvania, making our way

down Indian Creek Road to my grandparents’ house. They

live in the country, nestled up in the hills and surrounded

by woods. Their house is a xed up shanty; it was the

house in which my grandpa grew up. My grandma and

grandpa have done some extensive remodeling, however:

the ceiling isn’t falling down anymore, the oor is mostly

level, the siding isn’t falling o, and the roof isn’t leaking.

But it’s sll the same house I remember spending Christ-mas in as a kid.

My family and I make our way into the house to

greet my Grandpa Karl and Grandma Jean. I’m the last

one to walk in. I hug and kiss my grandma and turn to do

the same to my grandpa. Grandpa doesn’t look the same

as he used to. He is walking a bit slower and he’s about

half his original size. But when he hugs me, I know it’s my

Grandpa Karl. His arms envelop me in a strong embrace,

the same one I’ve always known ever since I was a lile

girl.

We all chat about the trip and begin unloading our

things. It’s been a year since I’ve been here. Much has

happened since then, but at the same me, nothing has

changed. My grandpa and I sit down at the kitchen table

to play cards as usual.

We start up a game of Rummy. “So, Grandpa, how

are you?” “Oh, well, I’m ner than frog hair.” I stare at

him blankly. “And what exactly does that mean?” “Well,

have you ever seen hair on a frog?” I laugh out loud. Frog

hair must be prey ne. I guess he’s doing well.

We connue our game. Grandpa Karl is winning,

of course. He’s been playing since before I can remember,

so it’s no surprise. I look at his face, nocing the scar on

his chin from a long-ago serious car accident and the thin-

ning white head of hair he’s had since he was eighteen.

My aenon then turns to his now thin, fragile-looking

frame. This wasn’t my grandpa. My grandpa had a big

belly like Santa Claus and thick, strong arms and hands. He

wasn’t really fat, he was just solid. He looked tough. If you saw him in person a year ago, you would have proba-

bly characterized my Grandpa Karl as an inmidang,

white-haired old man with a surprisingly disarming smile

even though he’s only 5’ 5” and has false teeth. Not any-

more.

My grandpa was diagnosed last year with ampul-

lary cancer, which is a rare form of cancer that is found in

the duodenum where the pancreac and bile ducts open.

He withstood months of unbearable itching and pain be-fore having an eight-hour operaon called the Whipple

procedure that removed 1/3 of his stomach, ½ of his pan-

creas, his enre gall bladder, 12 inches of the small intes-

ne, and 35 lymph nodes. By the me he recovered from

the surgery, he had lost about y pounds. He no longer

had that Santa Claus gure, but he sll had his jolly spirit.

“Your turn.” I glance down at the cards in my

hand. I’m one card away from a win, but it looks like he is

too. I lay down my discard and he reaches for it, saying,

“That’s the card I want right there. How did you know?”

But I don’t believe him, and sure enough, he passes over it

and draws a new card. Our game connues.

It seems so simple: me just sing with my grand-

pa at the kitchen table playing an old-fashioned game of

cards. But it is so much more than that. This is the me

where I get to see the essence of my Grandpa Karl. He

tells me stories and we reminisce about old mes. He asks

about my future plans and openly tells me what he thinks.

He cracks jokes like none other too.

“So how’s that boyfriend of yours? What’s his

name, uh, Eric, Allan…” “Very funny, Grandpa. Alex is do-

ing well. I miss him a lot…” “Well that’s because you’re

twierpated. I’m geng red of being on the back-

burner. Do you remember, when you were lile, you said

you’d take me on all your dates? I didn’t even get to go to

Jeanie Sozansky

You Have To Play with the Cards You’re Dealt



ink 20

prom with you,” he says with a playful grin on his face. I

chuckle. “Oh, Grandpa… you know you’re not on the back-

burner. You’ll never be. You see, there are two front

burners: one is for you and one is for Alex. And nothingcan change that fact.” He beams and we share a laugh.

It’s true. No one could ever compare to my grand-

father. I greatly admire him. Many grandchildren proba-

bly say that about their grandpa, but mine has a history

that I feel few can compare to in terms of adversity, heart-

ache, hard work, and humor.

It started in the Fall of 1954. Karl’s parents were

in a severe automobile accident, and the father he loved

and respected deeply, died in the hospital with the parngwords, “Promise me you’ll take care of your mother and

your sister.” Even though Karl was only thirteen years old,

he took his father very seriously and took on full responsi-

bility. He cooked and cleaned and worked while taking

care of his slowly recuperang mother and four-year-old

sister, who further ascertained his new role: “Brother,

Daddy’s gone isn’t he. I guess you’ll just have to be my

daddy from now on.”

My Grandpa Karl was the bond that kept the fami-

ly together. He’s always been that way, even when he

started his own family. In fact, aer my mother was born

and work was hard to come by, he would even go as far as

wrestling an orangutan, a real-live orangutan, for ten

minutes in order to get some money to buy groceries and

provide for his family. That strikes me as a bit out of the

ordinary and rather astonishing. I take pride in my grand-

pa’s toughness and the fact that he always puts his family

rst. When I was born, he sold his motorcycle, which he

loved, so that he could buy a video camera to record all

the memories of my childhood.

My grandpa just loves children in general, and

they love him. I don’t know what it is about him, maybe

the twinkle in his calming baby-blue eyes or his cheery,

funny grin or maybe his sweet, melodious voice. Whatev-

er it is, he is like the horse-whisperer of children. Howev-

er, this can also go in reverse. When I was a toddler, he

did something I’ll never forget. “Grandpa, color with me.”

“Grandpa doesn’t color, Jeanie.” “Grandpa, pleeeeee-assssse… what color do you want?” He sighs and cracks a

smile. “Burple.” I hand him a purple crayon while he

chuckles to himself. Imagine a 200-pound, 5’ 5” man with

hands similar to that of a gorilla’s, sing down with a pur-

ple crayon on the living room oor to color pictures with

his four-year-old granddaughter. Priceless.

Looking at him right now, as he sits in front of me,

pondering what card he’ll play next, I can’t help but marvel

at the life and character of my Grandpa Karl. I can see hisdamaged but ever loving heart-of -gold beneath that tough

exterior, how he hurts from the loss of his father and his

best friend and his two sons. I see his scars from mulple

accidents and ailments including congesve heart failure

and the cancer. Yet, I sll see the same Grandpa Karl I’ve

always known and loved: the denion of genuine, the

toughest man with the biggest heart. He’s never had

much in terms of money and material things, but he’s al-

ways made the most out of what he does have, working

hard and loving much. No maer what cards he’s dealt,

he always knows how to play them.

“Rummy.” My grandpa lays down his cards in vic-

tory. “How’s that grab ya?” “Just ne, Grandpa, ner than

frog hair.” We laugh. “It’s not like it’s anything new. You

beat me again, but I sll love you.” “Well, I love you

more.” “No, Grandpa, I love YOU more.” “But I loved you

rst!” His eyes sparkle and he grins from ear to ear. “You

got me there, Grandpa.” He shues the cards and deals

the next hand.

Jeanie Sozansky



Andrew Carlson

ink 21



ink 22

Chris Wlezien and Je Van Treuren

Draconis Weldus



ink 23

Silent Scream

Do you hear, the silent scream,

Of a thousand dying voices?

Do you hear the nal breath,

Of a thousand dying voiceless?

Do you see, the salty trace,

Of a child’s unshed tear?

Do you smell, the acrid stench,

Of an ancient, unmatched fear?

Do you know? Do you care?

One more voice could change the world.

Do you hear? Can you see?

How the future is unfurled?

Do you taste, this bier taste,

Of a life some are without?

Do you believe, the endless claim,

Of a choice correct beyond all doubt?

Do you dream? Do you wish?

Of a world united in one goal?

Do you care? Do you know? Who will pay the reaper’s toll?

Do you know the tale untold,

Of those dying, without life?

Do you judge, the innocent,

Of those free of joy and strife?

Can you see? Do you hear?

The echo of a silent scream?

Do you wish? Do you dream?

To know what it all does mean?

Do you support, life or choice,

As a belief, within us srs?

Do you dream, of the chance,

That the child could be yours?

John-Paul Verkamp



ink 24

Evan Cornell

Sacred Sunlight



ink 25

Jessica Lipscomb

The Ofusu Family



ink 26

Preston Pameijer

Aer the Flood



ink 27

No Night for Me

There is no night for me

Through your eyes I watch the faintest stars

With myriads of colors like never before

One speck of life in thousand breaths

Wondering where life would take me

Blackness is beauful in this colorful world

With its ever prevailing pressure

Is it dark? I never know

So there is no night for me

I can feel the faintest of touches

The touch of endless souls of spirits

Oh! There is no night for me

I can sense the faintest walking of cenpede And deep into my soul it wanders

Yet I know not if there is light or not

As I sit alone with glazy eyes

My inner world is sll with senseless storms

Yet I do not know if there is light or not

There is no night for me

The tender touch of the wind of passion

Curdles my blood and weakens my heart

Sll I can see no light but what is light?

I sense that there might never be a night for me

The sleeping souls within the earthen pots

Feels warmth in the cold wind

And seeks shelter in the shadow of my dreams

I squeeze my eyes and open them wide

In the darkness I feel the sllness

Yet there is no light for me.

Not even a single streak of ray for me

My pupils stretch far and my eyes open wide

Yet no streak of light nor a ash

I know for sure and forever

There will be no night for me or a day for me

All blended into one as I sit lonely

Waing for the tender touch of many souls

Wandering in the wilderness of my mind

I wait and wait unl the signal of life

I know now there is no night for me.

Charles Joenathan



ink 28

Evan Cornell

Pont du Gard



ink 29

The sky awake and thus I quake

Such brightly brimming brilliance

With morning arrows angels shake

The cold and black resilience

The dewy giants nd compliance

Driing orange and deep port-wine

And angel amber in alliance

As lover’s hands and hues entwine

::

The sky awake and thus I quake

Before such tempest morning

The birds are screaming dirge of dawn

To sh in ocean boiling

The sun presiding o’er the sky

Is searing seething red

Streaming waves of ancient wrath

Twist above my head

The grass and trees that shade my knees

To char and dust are scald

Such prey leaves that oat aame

Drape ash on hills so bald

The sun is high upon the sky

Consumed in strakes of cirrus re

My feet are black upon the soot

My skin from sprays of pyre

Ignite the earth and singe the land

The solar slayer cries

Raining drips of dismal re

From wreathing wretched eyes

Upon the blackened earth I crumple

Raising palms to sky ablaze

Around me pours the ames of heaven

As ember winds wail and raze

I bow my head in agony

Despairing and afraid

Withered hearts in conagraon

Mortal debts are paid

The sounds of hooves and horses’ snort

Circle ‘round my mind

I li my head inquisive

Phillip Rodenbeck

The Dawn Sin :: The Charred Skin :: The Dusk Devoured My Mortal Chagrin



ink 30

Preston Pameijer

Four horrors do I nd

The sky does burst with penance thirst

Cast shadows dark and daunng

A blazing sword that struck my neck

My corpse is limp and haunng

Unto ash my body billows

On dark and ery gales

The solar serpents raping Earth

Recede vermilion tails

The sky slept and thus I wept

At heaven’s pearly gate

The angel sings that heaven brings

Redempon for my fate

::

The sky slept and thus I wept

As heaven closed its eyes

Those orange and red face devils crept

Across the evening skies

But angels wink at devils pink

As hell opened the ery jaws

Those orange and red face devils sink

Betrayed by black and starry claws

Sunset



ink 31

Nickolas Easter

Nude



ink 32

Kelli Phillips

Hidalgo



ink 33

A deep, rhythmic throbbing penetrates the body of

room’s sole occupant. Inhalaon of years’-worth of dust

buildup and this slow, mesmerizing pulse consume theyoung man. His aenon is diverted, as if the room was a

smaller part of a larger senent enty, demanding his

recognion as such. In a short philosophical burst most

unusual for the man, he releases a snort at these

thoughts. But his mind is not used to solitude, and thus

gives these musings lodging. The construct of this room is

but a micron of a larger structure, on which this man’s

people depend. Down in its core, where he nds himself

now, its heart beats, pushing the energy and informaon,

the nutrients, out to its various compartments, its body.

Alas his mind becomes a grudging host, ses the realiza-

on and refocuses. He puts his eyes to the ancient

screen, its archaic symbols something out of a picture

archive. But the swarm is sick. No one knows yet what

disease is ravaging the swarm, but no member is invul-

nerable. Usually sicknesses target the individuals of the

swarm, and the rest of the swarm work together in bring-

ing that member back, or on isolang it. This disease is

new. It thrives by turning the strength of many against

themselves. Each member that connects to another in an

aempt to group against the disease instead spreads it.

But that is all they have found. The swarm is sick, the

man must work with the ancient.

Most of the others have engaged in synthec-aided un-

consciousness, or deep meditaon. But the young man

had work to do. He knew the keepers of the ancients, the

caregivers of those structures on which the life sustaining

enty survives. Down to this isolated room he was led,words praccally old enough to be considered lore,

“debugging console”, “largely self -automated”, and

“rarely needs tweaking”, spouted out at him from the

caregiver, a man just as archaic as the structures around

him. Whatever these ancient terms meant, they enabled

him to work with a swarm member.

This member is very unlike his own, which sat in an inac-

ve state many chambers above him. It seemed more of

a malfunconing being, connected to but not deriving

strength from the system around it. This seems a very

odd, weak concept to the man. Sll, the man considers,

this weakness has allowed this individual to sll funcon

where the swarm has failed. But, he quickly counters, is

this even worth considering funconing? This decrepit

ancient has proven frustrangly simple, unable to give

him even a glimpse of the raw power of the swarm. But

the swarm is sick.

He goes back to work, but not before an inkling of a

thought slips unnoced into the back of his head. As he

works, slowly conquering the enmies he holds for the

structure, this inkling grows, tapping long unconscious

elements of his mind. With each obstacle overcame, he

lavishes in the silence, the lack of interrupon. No higher

-precedence swarm process pushes his to the side, no

human exchanges halng input to the non-swarm mem-

Robert Adams

One



ink 34

ber. The thought expands to feeling, one of sasfacon,

and of oneness. This word states deep in the folds of his

consciousness, “One is weak.” But the feeling, unbound-ed by condioning due to its rarity, swells up within him.

He soon nishes his task, but he nds himself not

wanng to leave. A test vocalizaon into the relevant

corridor prompts no reacon aside from a signicant,

empty echo. He is alone. One. Hours, necessies of the

human swarm members, nd their meaning slighted, as

empty as the man’s echo. Thus what would be described

as their passing, make a minimal impact on the man as

he and the machine become a micro-swarm of their own.

It speaks an old language, but the man nds this lan-

guage is not so hard to understand. The concept of one-

ness comes with the acquiring of this old language, the

laer formed in a mindset of the former. The word re-

mains in the background, but its roots have found ferle

soil.

With the old language coursing through his system, this

man delves deeper into the constructs of the ancient. In

turn it wraps him in oneness. A teacher long ignored, de-

livers a powerful lesson. Quickly, or so it seems to the

man to whom hours have been lost, a realizaon comes

to the man. The swarm is not sick. It does not have a dis-

ease. The swarm is a disease. This cure that has been un-

leashed above him has released him of a disease, the dis-

ease of many. A disease that thrives, consuming individu-

als.

Like a brilliant arc of electricity will connect the swarm

members to the grid in greedy ancipaon of their re-

sources, something arcs in the man’s head between aword formed in the lower levels and his working con-

scious. Emboldened with the old language as a weapon

recently acquired, the man speaks to the ancient. He asks

it for a favor; a simple one, but quite demanding. This

ancient, long used to serving the human system, obeys

without hesitaon. As the penetrang throbbing slowly

diminishes, the room around him dims and nally un-

leashes a total shroud of darkness. In the sudden lack of

light and sound, a single uerance denes all of reality

from and to the man.

“One.”

Robert Adams



Sophia Percival

ink 35



Brandon Abad

ink 36

Nemo



Dance

one two three – one two three –

just be free – dance with me –

i’ll be me – you’ll be you –

i’ll be rich – you’ll be fair –

right and le – perfect pair –


clasp our hands – shut the doors –

i’ll be me – you’ll be you –

beauful – tried and true –

just the light – pain no more –


just be free – dance with me –

let me see – you for you –

let me show – me for me –

dance with me – set me free –

The Purging of Monday

On the wings of human hands, a tube light ies through the air

Like a crumbled oce building in a freefall

A ray of sunlight reects o of the smoky white glass

Just as if it was pouring out a river of angelic radiance

But Newton knows what will happen now

The tube shimmers and spins, tumbles and plummets

It whirls as it falls and then it meets the earth with contempt

It collapses into a beauful cloud of white mercury gas

As if it were melng right into the ground Dissolving right into the concrete of this empty lot

At rst it stood erect

But when it nally was rendered into a liquid

The smoke cleared and all of its banality became apparent

But almost in spite of this, there is an uproar from the crowd of spectators

Cheering and jeering like a pack of insaable mongrels, hungry for more

ink 37

Chris Wlezien

Benjamin Mann



ink 38

Jusn Perry



ink 39

Preston Pameijer

Cloudy Mountains



Aer two days, I le my uncle’s home in metro

Manila, Philippines, for a dierent world: my great grand-

parents’ ancestral home in the rural town of Capiz prov-

ince called Panitan. My grandfather, whom I call Papa,

built the home as a gi for his parents for their ieth

wedding anniversary. It picked up the nickname

“casllo”, the castle—at least, that’s what a two-story,

six-bedroom house seems like amongst a sea of bamboo

nipa huts and one-room, iron-scrap shanes. My mom

sll remembers how everyone on Papa’s side of the fami-

ly chose to go to the housewarming party instead of her

high school graduaon. Castles like this appeared only

once every few decades. When Papa died, I visited this

castle. I stepped out of the air-condioned taxi and the

let the heat crawl up my arms and legs. I blinked a few

mes and opened my eyes to a dirt road that led into half

-opened green gates, nted red from the rust. The metal

sheets covering the concrete walls of the house formed a

checkerboard paern with the bamboo. San Miguel beer

boles and cigaree bus at the feet of ve lawn chairs

framed the entrance. I looked above the gate. A plaid

house dress and white wife beaters rustled in the sun

from the second oor balcony. It lted to the le so

much that I imagined it crashing onto the heads of the

people below waving hello. From behind me, my mom

said, “We’re home.”

Being there didn’t feel like home—the adjust-

ment phase lasted longer than I ancipated. Fama, my

faint-of -heart eldest sister, shrieked for the second me

we arrived that aernoon. Laughter from the kitchen

rose to the raers with the summer heat. Everyone

feasted on four variees of crab and joked that Ling-Ling,

the wall-climbing, decade old, possum

-sized rat that lived

on the second oor, had found a new friend. Fama al-

ways p-toed four long strides from the room we shared

all the way to the bathroom, but Ling-Ling proved to have

impeccable ming. No one appreciated it at 3 AM, but I

always thought that Ling-Ling tried to save her from a

greater horror: the actual bathroom. When I closed the

door behind me, I regreed it the same instant. The

smell of dead sh never quite le that bathroom; it lin-

gered probably because of the stagnant puddle of water

that appeared whenever someone would ush the toilet.

Lola Dada, the only daughter of my great grandparents

that never le Panitan, didn’t have enough money to x

the pluming, but she beamed when she told us that she

managed to change the toilet seat. On the other side of

the curtain stood ve tubs of stale water, all of varying

sizes and colors, and a bucket with a handle that t in the

palm of your hand. I promised God I would pray all four

mysteries of the rosary (even with the Novena at the

end), listen to all of my great aunts’ stories, and walk to

the corner sari-sari store just to buy the candy for the

kids with my own money — that is, if the roaches would

stay on that third le from the le.

Victorian-like portraits of my great grandparents,

Lola Agripina and Lolo Tomas, hung on the concrete walls

of the upper oor, framing the entrance to the master

bedroom. Even though the colors dulled in the worn

paint, they sll looked untouchable. Rat droppings lined

ink 40

Bernadee Pano

My Visit to a Castle



the oor under the Lola and Lolo’s faint smiles. If you

looked closely enough, Ling-Ling’s lair stood three feet

from the entrance, just above the stairs. On the same

wall, photos unraveled the forgoen history of strangers.

Graduaon portraits—a lawyer, two judges, a denst, a

doctor, and a nun—captured a youth now hidden under

wrinkles of women and caskets of men. Next to these

hung framed leers wrien in an unfamiliar language,

but all those exclamaon points! The leer must have

had three heart aacks before its envelope was opened.

A hand wrien leer and another one with NASA’s logo

shared the same frame. Everyone knew about Lolo’s ob-

session with Neil Armstrong, the moon, the cosmos.

More than a dozen framed newspaper clippings adorned

the wall—Lolo Tomas and the town mayor shaking

hands, stories about the successes of his children in the

States. Papa didn’t have any newspaper clippings and

was absent from the family portraits. He moved to Ma-

nila for work right out of high school. He stood in a rice

eld with the old house in the background, its coconut

hide roof and bamboo walls covered by the shadow of a

passing cloud, in the only picture of him on that wall. A

sea of trinkets stood on a coee table below the pho-

tos—old souvenirs from weddings thirty years past, min-

iature Jesus statues, and unwashed ashtrays.

Feeling a sneeze creeping up my nose, I opted to

go downstairs. The top of Papa’s bald head became visi-

ble. If I moved my head an inch lower, I could see the

with the wisps of his grey hairs sprawled across the white

cushion, and a lile lower yet, the gold cross pinned to

the lid of the con. If I stayed too long, I couldn’t take

my eyes o his face. I’d queson my memory—his lips

too puy, his jaw too low, his skin too powdery. The em-

broidery of his white borong looked immaculate amongst

the dirty wall behind him and the brown le below him. I

wondered what his graduaon portrait would have

looked like for the sake of comparison with what he

looked like through the glass of the con. Following Fili-

pino custom, his body stayed in the living room of the

house for a week before the funeral. This same living

room, once the place of birthday pares and wedding

recepons, also housed the body of Lolo Tomas, Lola

Agripina, and Papa’s brother Lorenzo some decades back.

The screen door to the le of the room led to the out-

side, where the people who once danced now lowered

their wrinkled faces in prayer.

The high vapor pressure from the mixture of aro-

mas lled the air nonstop, starng at eight in the morn-

ing every day. The food seemed to replenish itself; nev-

er was the kitchen table empty the enre me we were

there. Its four legs should have collapsed under the

weight—besides being at least half a century old, I doubt

it had to hold up so much before. Shiela, the girl who

lived in the room behind the kitchen, cooked the food. I

could catch glimpses of laundry folded on a bed in front

of an open window when she’d come in and out of her

room. Her large belly protruded from her small frame.

Eight months pregnant with her second child, she sll

cooked meals to feed een. During my rst dinner in

Panitan, Lola Dada whispered to me that Shiela tried to

ink 41

Bernadee Pano



go to school once but hated math. She never nished

the h grade. Her half sister in the States, three years

younger than she, just graduated from the University of

Nevada in nursing. They didn’t know each other existed

on behalf of the pride of their father. Somemes I would

make eye contact with Shiela when she’d carry the pancit

molo or puto with diniguan to the table. “Salamat, po,”

I’d tell her—“thank you”. She would just look at me with

her best “what the fuck” look and go through the screen

door to the kitchen to tend to the next round of food

roasng on the re outside. Maybe my accent was all

wrong, or perhaps our silence stood in the shadow of

something much greater than a language barrier.

In the dining room, a tapestry of the Last Supper

covered the wall behind the table from top to boom.

Lile lizards common to the Philippines slithered out

from under it. The alter stood behind this wall, adorned

with statues of the Sacred Heart of Jesus and the Immac-

ulate Heart of Mary next to the statue of St. Peregrine

(the patron saint of cancer) that my mom sent from the

States to Lola Agripina when she was diagnosed. Lola

Agripina’s blue beaded rosary sll rested in St. Pere-

grine’s outstretched hands. Lola Dada told me of how

Lola Agripina never missed the 5 AM mass at the start of

every day. She’d walk the dirt roads, and when it rained,

she would change her muddy dress when she returned

home. A photograph, sing next to the statues, depict-

ed in black and white the Panitan Cross. It stood atop a

hill a few miles west—the desnaon of Lolo Tomas’s

mini pilgrimages. He hiked there on the weekends with

his sons, somemes against their will. It was there at the

Panitan Cross where Papa found him when he refused to

aend the wedding of his youngest daughter, Margarita.

On most nights, everyone fell asleep around 4

AM because of jet-lag. A king-sized bed stood at the cen-

ter of our room where my mom and sisters aempted to

share an orange blanket. A twin-sized bed stood at the

other end of the room, where my uncle and Derrick

snored in unison. I got into the twin-sized bed on the le

side of the room, the same hospital bed that Lola Agripi-

na used when she was sick. The lile lizards that crept

on the walls all over the house kept to themselves, ex-

cept at night. They gathered atop the windows, the

males singing to aract mates. Their circadian-like buzz-

ing kept me up. Perhaps the status of castle was appro-

priate for the house, with all of its poor plumbing, ro-

dents scurrying about, and personal chef. Its walls told of

the histories of the people who lived here, every crevice

revealing more than any family crest.

ink 42

Bernadee Pano



ink 43

John-Paul Verkamp

Happy Emu



ink 44

Kevin Collins

White Chapel in Autumn



I.

The land

spreads vast and oppressive,

grass scorched by frigid air

from Canada.

Drab lile hills and muddy shallow ditches.

Fields are speckled with

barns, billboards,

rusted Ford pickups and trailers.

The sky

is a thin sheet of

slate smoothed across space

to hold back the sunlight. On

the horizon,

the dead colors embrace. Their touching

can be seen

even at eighty-seven miles per hour. Even at

that speed,

the human eye cannot help but noce the

monochromes of ground and air. The

interstate, too:

Cracked and crumbling asphaltworn down

to concrete.

II.

In the city

every building wears a carapace

of tanned brick or rusc

wood. Exoskeletons of businesses

and apartments, stripmalls and half -century-old

houses.

The dun facades

stand beside bombed-out-looking

parking lots of

stone. The square edices with

triangle roofs grow from mercury streets like

arteries.

Dull cars race by.

The government oce

is tarnished sterling jewelry worn upon

the earth’s wrist.

It faces the wrong direcon,

pung its backside to a lthy, freezing, old

river.

III.

A deep brown tree, leaess,

rooted in at farmland

under a snow-gorged canopy

of gray.

ink 45

Corey Taylor

Three Studies in Grays and Browns



ink 46

Annie Bullock



The Lepidopterist

I have spent a lifeme

Cataloging, classifying, describing--

Mounng specimens in shadowboxes

To realize the secret of myself.

But each day, I discover some new buery of the soul,

Beauful in its promise

Of something le to seek.

ink 47

Noel Spurgeon

Roune

I look up into the mirror

And I see everything the world already knows

The hairs of my brow and the white of my teeth

Staring back at me,

But my eyes have no soul

And I have seen it before, the toll the world takes

When one has no true goal,

A single tear leaves a glimmering tail

And it drops into the sink basin of light blue, mouthwash nted water

I divert my gaze to the reecon I found in that cobalt pool

The ripples propagate, bending my face and bringing me home

Lately I have been living in a haze

Dazed and confused, like the 6 AM alarm hums

I am too tough to be scared and too independent to ask for help

So I am waing in the haze, for a storm to blow through

To clear my vision once again

Chris Wlezien



ink 48

Ryan Mendonca

Octopus



ink 49

Sophia Percival

Yulede Glow



ink 50

John-Paul Verkamp

Golden Gate Bridge



I am a child

Stuck in a body older than my mind In a world too big for me

I am lost

With no parents

no guide

no mentor

no one to follow

Finally on my own

I am a boy

Surrounded by men

They tell me that I must beStrong

Condent

Brave

Do not ever show weakness

I am a girl

Surrounded by women

Told that I am not prey enough

that I must be like the rest

that I am not good enough

Condence lies with those who conform

I am a kid playing an adult game

I spent 18 years being taught the rules by

Parents

Men

Women

Adults

Told that winning is more important than anything else

I will be a child who will follow his conscience

a boy who puts his loved ones before himself

a girl who is unique

a kid that cares more how he plays the game than if he wins

I refuse to grow up

ink 51

Brandon Abad



ink 52

Jessica Lipscomb

Winter Reecons



ink 53

Ink 2008-2009 Arst Biographies

Brandon Abad hopes they put the bios in alphabecal order. He has a passion for dancing.

Robert Adams is a second-year student majoring in computer science.

Annie Bullock is a junior biomedical engineering major.

Andrew Carlson is a junior soware engineering major.

Kevin Collins is a freshman Mechanical Engineer from Evansville, Indiana. Kevin has been involved in photography

since the summer of 2008. He is secretary of the Rose-Hulman ecient vehicle team and a member of Pi Kappa Alpha

Fraternity.

Evan Cornell has received instrucon from Darrell Moll, a professional photographer in Norwalk, Ohio for several

years, and connues to shoot whenever he nds the me. Evan will graduate with a degree in electrical engineering

from Rose in May, 2012.

Emily Dosmar enjoys popsicles, glier glue, genec abnormalies, and belly-buons. When she grows up she aspires

to be a mover and a shaker. She would also like to thank whoever “borrowed” but then returned her printer ink.

Nickolas Easter is a senior chemical engineering major.

Michael Ferguson bought his rst camera, a Konica Minolta X-370n, almost three years ago. He had been fascinated

with photography from a young age but it was only aer he got that camera then that he could focus on making imag-

es. He hasn't looked back since!

Charles Joenathan is Professor and Head of Physics and Opcal Engineering.

Andrew Kneller is a senior chemistry major.

Jessica Lipscomb is an electrical engineering major.

Benjamin Mann is a senior Chemical Engineer from Butlerville, Indiana. He has been wring poetry since high school

and this is the second me he has had his work make it in to Ink. He is very excited to once again be able to make a

contribuon.

Ryan Mendonca is a senior mechanical engineering major.

Molly Nelis is an EE/ME (Exigent Energec Masochisc Eccentric) with a minor in the math-magics. She is impressed

that her computer is sll alive aer rendering 529 fractals for a total of over 3,000 hours. Visit deepbluerene-

gade.deviantart.com to collect them all.

Preston Pameijer is a sophomore chemical engineering major.

Angelica Pano is a rst-year biomedical engineering major.

Bernadee Pano is a rst-year physics major.

https://exchange.rose-hulman.edu/owa/redir.aspx?C=3b8d393520844c1b8268edc89f47dacd&URL=http%3a%2f%2fwww.facebook.com%2fs.php%3fq%3dPopsicles

https://exchange.rose-hulman.edu/owa/redir.aspx?C=3b8d393520844c1b8268edc89f47dacd&URL=http%3a%2f%2fwww.facebook.com%2fs.php%3fq%3dGlitter%2520glue







ink 54

Sophia Percival is a senior biomedical engineering major.

Jusn Perry grew up in Salem, IN and is a junior in the Civil Engineering department, focusing on transportaon. He

recently took up photography, but feels like he improves every me he picks up his camera. He’s always willing to try

new perspecves for good, interesng shots.

Kelli Phillips is a rst-year computer engineering major.

Kevin Richards is a freshman chemical engineering major.

Phillip Rodenbeck is a junior ME, music lover, poet, and all-around fan of creavity. His favorite poet is William Blake.

Jim Sedo is a senior ChE. When he wasn’t swamped with homework, aending nearly every department seminar un-

der the sun or going to club meengs, he took some pictures. One of those pictures appears in this collecon.

Jeanie Sozansky is a simple girl with an endless imaginaon. She loves culture, music, art, and science, and intends to

become a doctor. She is a happy person and likes to make people smile. =)

Noel Spurgeon is a freshman mechanical engineering major and a compulsive collector of hobbies. She likes good

sandwiches, music, nger painng, and reading anything that’s not nailed down.

Anastasia Tarpeh is a Cincinna, Ohio nave and is in her sophomore year studying Mechanical Engineering. She was

the Parliamentarian of the Naonal Society Black Engineers for the 2008-2009 school year and is a member of the

Track Team. Ms. Tarpeh enjoys listening to music, trying new things, traveling, languages, wring poetry in what lile

spare me she has, and her favorite color is blue.

Corey Taylor decided to write poetry, instead of analyzing it, for a change.

Luanne Tilstra joined the Rose-Hulman faculty (Department of Chemistry) in 1992. Two years later she took on a se-

cond full-me job when her son Victor was born; this posion was made more challenging with the birth of daughter

Chrisne in 1998. Dr. Tilstra lives in Terre Haute with her husband (Phillip Smith), two children, and a dog.

Je Van Treuren is a junior mechanical engineering major.

John-Paul Verkamp is a junior double majoring in math and computer science.

Chris Wlezien is a Junior ME from Chicago. He is very interested in design-based engineering and spends most of his

me working on the Student Design Project and the Human Powered Vehicle Team. Some of his hobbies include ice

hockey, guitar, and driving very fast!



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Ink Volume 7

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