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THE NOISELESS SPIDER



Vol. I No. I FaU 1971



Statement of Editorial Policy

The editorial board of The Noiseless
Spider agrees with Henry Miller that the pangs
of birth relate not to the body but to the
spirit. It was demanded of us to know love,
experience union and communion, and thus
achieve liberation from the wheel of life and
death . But we have chosen to remain this side
of Paradise and to create through art the il-
lusory substance of our dreams. In a profound
sense we are forever delaying the act. We flirt
with destiny and lull ourselves to sleep with
myth. We die in the throes of our own tragic
legends, like spiders caught in our own web.



UNIVERSITY OF NEW HAVEN

Published by the English Club of the University of New Haven



Table of Contents



Poetry



Close Quarters


Tim Cox


2


Untitled


Robert Finley


4


Untitled


Robert Finley


5


To Doris Day


Jim Zaino


6


Unseen Solitude


Aust Fenn


8


Poem


t.a. keller


10


The Legendary Remains






of Oedipus At Colonus


Lynn Hagman


12


Pemmican Sunday


Ruggiero


13


Two Untitled Poems


Tony Crocamo


14


Untitled


Robert Finley


15


Who's Right?


Carl Falcigno


16


Untitled


Tony Crocamo


17


Let Me Live !


Aust Fenn


18


Time


E. M. Glosser


18


Untitled


Robert Finley


19


Ice Break


Michael W. York


20


Dedication for Sagirah


Obamola


22


Tag


Georgia Lee McElhaney


23


To Lawrence


Ruggiero


24


Everything As It Was


Ramon Parenti


25


Desert Song


Ruggiero
Prose


26


Lot's Wife (Lot's Words)


A Listener


27


Three Blended Fragments


Robert Adamski


30



Cover

Two photographs

Drawing



Art



Phyllis Ceccolini
James T. Stevens
Kenneth Morgan



9, 21
29



$50 PRIZE WINNER

Tony Crocamo's "I'd Call It Silence," appearing on page 14, is the Fall,
1971, winner of the fifty dollar cash prize awarded each semester by THE
NOISELESS SPIDER to the best contribution submitted to the magazine
by a student. Special mention also goes to two strong runner-up items:
Ruggiero's "Pemmican Sunday" and Obamola's "Dedication for Sagirah."



Close Quarters

Have You
Ever Lived

In A

Small Room

With Only
Four Comers?

I Can

Honestly Say

That It's
Not Worth

The Price
I Pay.

The Figure
Is One

Hundred Dollars
Per Month,

But That
Doesn't Include

Taxes Like
Extreme Loneliness,

Emptiness, Helplessness,
Deprivation And

Starvation, And
Utter Despair,



And Other
Less Trivial

Inconveniences By
The Pair.

Yes, Only
Four Close

Corners In
This Tiny

Niche I
Did Say:

Y M
C A.



— Tim Cox



^



I live a thousand times and more, I do a million things

All free for everyone but taken by only the few.
I've loved ten times that I should, and hated not at all.

I slay not and am not slain

Yet I see all men die in myriad fashions

And I perish with them.
But my nerves do not throb and tear with pain.

My heartbeat is the only sign of their passing

There is no sign at all of their ever having been here.

I take, with adventurous men, treasures, crafted

In a diligent past, that only grow in worth and beauty.

I sail through brigands on a lone barkentine and am

Awe-struck by a simple society whose honesty shames me then
Gives me hope.

I have grown strong in my individuality: I have asserted

What appears to be "God" given, and found that it was only
"God" taken.

I have raised and led the people of the earth— to victory
That too soon becomes a yoke, and defeat that brings
Freedom to the fortunate dead .

I read a lot.

— Robert Finley



NOW IS WORKING TIME,

AND AS I DO THE EVERYDAY
I THINK OF YESTERDAY.

WE TALKED AND DRANK COFFEE . . .
SOMETHING ELSE THAT'S EVERYDAY
BUT I SAW YOU THEN.

— Robert Finley



To Doris Day

No! i am no Rock Hudson
returning like a spring afternoon
with showers to profit
your garden
i am not the screen
reflecting the silver moonlight
i am not the torch
to light in dark damp weather
& set your thighs aglow
i am not the star

which breaks through black clouds
i am not the window which gathers
in the sun nor the door

that Wolfe sought nor the key that Joyce brought
nor have i heard the jugjugjug of Eliot's lines
reverberate down windy streets on
Burroughs-sick mornings
Oh Doris to which the celluloid resounds
The chorus responds

But who remembers you when your beauty was hot?
when your all-innocence provoked the florid lusts
of bombchildren?



II.

To make you in a spasm of freckles
Explode in you like hydrogen atoms
In midair beneath doom's petals
Pierce you with umbrella-phallus
Break your automatic posture
Your synthetic-sick delusion
Of applepie holocausts!



III.

Urgent liquids burned & burst from eyesockets
Pompeian survivors buy tickets to see your movies
with valuable sculptures intheround of
family & friends
They went to see you
smiling beneath their wounds



IV.

Holding a bloody Shakespearian rag

against her crotch

The real Doris enters from a fire exit door

Completely naked with radiation scars and

sings (piano starts up from backroom): "The parrrrtyyyys

ooooooooooooooVer ..."

— Jim Zaino



1



Unseen Solitude

Loneliness locked behind a simple smile
The lost, aimless calm in

the sparkling of

two innocent eyes
The tranquil expression of a friendly

glowing face
Paints the picture of something
no one can see
or feel
Just the shy-quiet of

someone's reality.

— Aust Fenn




C

CD
-to

CO






^



Poem

We stood in the sun

with our heads

reverently

bowed

low
as the apple cart

(filled with different kinds of apples)
rolled

passed us

to the songs of gypsies

playing on

naugahyde tamborines
and

down
and
around
the

corner

it rolled

passed the
silver pinball club
and the ladies aid society
and nameless green bronze statues

standing
like old metalic Christmas trees

hung (sort of creatively)
with pigeon shit
and passed the pigeons themselves

in search
of
new
targets



down

the

long street

on all eight wheels

to the fisherman's wharf
then back to the town

picking up
the strugglers
and we hid

in the thick green bushes

watching the sweet chariot

swing
low
watching the angelic procession

of performers
solemnly but not seriously
keep in step
to the talegate band
and we stayed behind

waving a fond farewell

with our paper hats
then just sat back
as the strange

summer days

looked at us
and shook their heads
then turned their faces

and walked

away

— t. a. heller



The Legendary Remains of
Oedipus at Colonus

Its pelt made a striking blot on the road:
The glossy fur still looked heavy, bright black.
The white scalplock's surprising, twisted track
Accused its death from wheels that had not slowed.

Its yellow eyes had caught the headlights' glare;
Fear pinioned it for the two swift, blunt blows-
Then left, it crawled, while its numbed panic slows,
Until purpose had passed into night air.

Time and traffic did their indignity;
But the skunk safely past all sensation
After its brief moment of translation,
Scorned the wheels' buffets with serenity.

— Lynn Ragman



IdS



Pemmican Sunday

The smashed icons
Choked in their own juices.

Of course

Their sculptor was upset

And so he tried to patch

The useless bodies

And so he tried to salvage

The remains

Of his pampered children.

It seems the poor choir

Had meant to do its best

But because of official dispatch

It was quietly put to rest.

This rather tasteless exercise

Had taken place for discipline;

Had taken place

Beneath the mothered eye

Of the good master.

And the once proud

Choir captain

Hung gently from his tree.

He was offered no sacrament

And it was plain to see

That since leaking out

Flies were the only priests

His religion could sustain.

And his breakfast

Made him the host

To prompt them to remain.

— Ruggiero



m



Once I lived

In a young world

By a keen city.

On clear days

The Pooh bear would roam free.

But that was before

The three-acre wood

Became a government project.

— Tony Crocamo



I'd call it silence, but

The clock is screaming

While the refrigerator drones

And my cigarette burns too loudly.

This is, I think, the first time

You've gone to bed before me,

And the familiar room of an hour ago

Isolates me in its empty moan.

— Tony Crocamo



Sitting in this vinyl shell and moving
through the rain

I watch the lines of nervous drops

Hustling beneath the strain

And threat of a devastating blade.

It's now I wish you were here
To share the colors that we spoke of,
And trade truths . . . like before.



I feel a vague longing for your body-
To touch, and to be touched
To act out the act.
But that is only vague.



Stronger is the need to know your thoughts

(I thought they resembled mine the last time we talked)
I'm sure they did.

I may not be alone at all,
WE number two.



— Robert Finley



Who's Right?

A man told me how strange I seemed walking upside down.

He said that as he watched me walk, his head went round and round.

He asked just why I walked that way and how it all began.

I told him it started one fine day when I walked upon my hands.

With this he looked at me and smiled, while scratching his head on top.
He said that if I didn't get down, he soon would call a cop.
I told him I was right side up and that he was upside down.
With this he looked quite disturbed as his face took on a frown.

He said, "Young man, you're very sick and should be put away."
I told him that I liked this spot and did intend to stay.
With that he called an officer and shouted his demands,
But to his surprise the officer was walking on his hands.

— Carl Falcigno



When the sacrifices of

these hours
Seem small
When I can't recall the painful chill

of nightly storms
And the molten heat of

these days
Slips
Into a distant recess of

my mind,
When the loneliness of

these weeks
Never returns;
When the deadly fear of

these months
Fades . . .
When this year becomes

conversation
To those who ask

"What was it like?"
When this eternity is just

a memory.
I wait for that time.

— Tony Crocamo



Let Me Live!

Oceans, Oceans of thought;
Too deep to swim.
Engulfing waves will soon drown me.
Awake Poseidon!
Let Me Live.
Calm the storm!

— Aust Fenn



Time

|t#> Time



the future

will foretell.
Time

the past went by
so fast.
Time

at present

is standing still.

— E. M. Glosser



I think I'll tell you nothing new

When I say that no one else has caught me
Quite off my guard as you have.

These walls that I have built

To protect me from the social storm
Seem not so much walls to keep things out
As to accent your curiosity about the prisoner.

So now you're here . . . within

Will you begin to raze the barrier?

Or will you leave and force me to make yet another

Wall for you and people like you in the future.



I heard the sound you made when you came in.
You didn't creep or sneak in, you just didn't know
You weren't supposed to be here at all.

But now you can't leave either . .
At least not all of you,

I've taken what I like and I'll keep it forever
You can't have it back.

— Robert Finley



Ice break

Black branches stand naked
against the cold snow sky
cold, hard winds chill my bones;
yet it is time to sheath the killing-
knife

for I have a vision of life
new grass, green,
and spring

such as man has rarely seen
When Woden's poetic nature and his
Christ-like death and rebirth

shame Thor
shame death
shame hate
shame rage
and leave only a
whisper

and
love

— Michael W. York




James T. Stevens



Dedication

for Sagirah

Now as I sing

seek not my fame

on anyone's

top ten;

nor count the years

on tour

I've been;

and there's no use

in knowing the number

of gold records

I've produced.

I ask only
that you hear
this song of mine
for each time
I sing, I sing
for the first time.

— Obamola



Tag ....

which is a game, which is a means of identification,

which is a race .... a name, a rank, a

serial number, a social security number, a man;

a dying soldier is tagged "name, rank, serial number,
social security number (are you socially secure? have you a
number? One?) What is your tax account number? Who

is your next of kin? We cannot admit you to the receiving station

until you fill out

a card (ace of spades) number, next of

kin"

ship you parcel post (US inspected grade A meat)
Rh factor, transfused transubstantiated body

substantial, substantiated; ship via helicopter
parcelled Parcel Post, posted, stamped US grade A

cancelled, cancellation, is this program cancelled
counsel? Console someone in the consulate, late
last of kin, kind, kinship, come *p

came into this world with a tag, toddler, tugging a birth-controlled
bracelet, brace yourself

brag, baby, build a body to die, a diamond in the rough

gone out of this world worded, wardened, wearing a brackish tag
"name, rank, serial number, social security number, income tax number"
nominated on demand
numb, nobly tagged, togged, taped

shut.

— Georgia Lee McElhaney



To Lawrence

There is no regulating fevers.
When the thirsty illness comes
No cure to be bought
No panacea to drug the demons.

Beneath his old northern oak
Was once alive the Druid's heart
Impaled so the tides might flow
And provide all pressures room.

Beneath the old mounting moon
Mistletoe injecting strength
Blue warriors must rise
From hungry beds.

— Ruggiero



Everything As It Was

Everything is as it was!

Said the stone
And the earth
Smiled!

Everything as it was!
Sang the water
And the riverbed
Chuckled!

Everything as it was!
Hoped the man
And the woman
Laughed!

— Ramon Parenti



Desert Song

On this wasteland
Ebenezer sleeps in my chest
All all regiments do their best
To force their best.

On this wasteland

Ebenezer dances in the mind

While spinsters are primping

For the moon

A bit fresh from the circus

A bit stale

Past their prime.

And Ebenezer
Sounds his trumpet
Not for me to rush.
In all this gutted land
There is no tree
To play in . . .
Only him my nature.

— Ruggiero



Lot's Wife (Lot's Words)

The silence on this campus is so intense that the flies are
beginning to wake up on the walls. The women look more
and more cruel with every passing week. Some whisper their
names in your ear, some merely walk away. The eyes of the
men are furtive. They seem never to have beheld either in-
nocence or grief. They are eyes that need never weep. I don't
mind, of course. I merely stand here among the other pillars
of salt. I take in the silence.

If I could tell you who I am, I probably would. But who
really cares? Whenever I am tempted to, I remember (in the
nick of time) how deaf by-standers have to be to each others'
predicaments. I am no healthier than I need to be, but I am
becoming simpler all the time— much simpler than those I try
to listen to around me.

Everyone here seems obsessed with "succeeding" without
having the faintest idea how to go about it. They are all
idealists. They court a numb cunt. They relish virginity. Their
purity of heart is as great as that of Tibetan monks or of
Allen Ginsberg, Nixon's secret agent. But I fall in love each
day with a new dung heap.

Once I walked in a salt-colored blizzard deep in Montana
late at night. No one noticed me. Another time, I spent a
whole Tuesday with a mangy dog climbing the steep cliffs in
Rio to take a really close look at the statue of Christ stretch-
ing its arms out over the harbor. And once I twisted my jaw
irreparably trying to pronounce my mother's name before a
mirror, empty-handed. More and more, I find that I love only
art, children, and death.

I hate those I love most of all because they cost me the
most. The others I tolerate with infinitesimal smiles; they
keep me going. I see in them the salt of the earth. (I never go
back on what I write because I write blind. I'm no better
than you. If I could silence these lines, I probably would).

Do you remember how, once upon a time, we all believed
it was possible to end one's own life at the drop of a hat?
Well, nobody wears hats anymore. Which hand holds the



winning number, the right or the left? No one has yet in-
vented the seismograph that can record our inner tremors.
My own ears never hear what I say.

What's left is for everyone to continue interpreting the
buzzings inside the statues around him. The grass has stopped
growing once more. The only vulnerable people these days
are the pigs snuffling placidly at the troughs, up to their ears
in milk. If I could tell you who I am, I probably would. But I
like too much the taste of salt on my teeth. So I'll quietly
continue to sort out the silences.

— A Listener








drawing by Kenneth Morgan



Three Blended Fragments

(Excerpts from a longer work in progress)

Sleeping alone isn't good for your health. Your mental
health, that is. Sleeping with somebody you don't dig for
two nights in a row is worse.

Nobody agrees with anybody about anything. Not even
themselves.

Mornings are never happy. Sleep is beautiful.

There is no freedom. Man killed it with greed.

Artists die of conformity.

Love is killed by immediate satisfaction.

See that mother over there? Her son died of power.

Fat Imogene watches TV alone. Her only friend, cousin
Mary, got married last week and moved to Topeka.

Sweet Julie bed hops, trying to keep in touch with love.

Smoke filled rooms breed cloud filled people.

Lovers kill lovers over love.

Witch doctors are more ethical than surgeons.

Judges are corrupt. Lawyers are tools.

Nashville Johnny died of long cigars and one night
stands. They buried him in the River Hotel, and send a
^j% visitor down once a week with alms, always someone dif-

f£p|Jy ferent.

Lonely Maggie runs down to the river, thinks again, and
jumps in.

College professors teach theory on how to better their
own lives.

People are so stupid they're sickening to have around.
Life is so lonely. Especially when you know you're lonely
because you have to be, not because you want to be.

Everybody is everything they condemned as children—
but became.

People lock themselves in cells to lock out the world.

All troubadours die before they reach Bombay.

Honkey Tonks and bars don't dot this land. They blan-
ket it!



Nobody has any balls.

Demon Rum gives you early death without living.

Pot doesn't last long enough. Acid frustrates, won't turn
you loose soon enough. Speed kills and tangles. Heroin
wins you a long life in the slams.

Trying to live on your land you're killed by something
two miles away carried by the wind and the rain.

Countless unknown failures have no advice except ex-
perience. Successes have no experience.

Consider what happens when you die! You rot. But
sometimes you come up again as something useful! Walt
Whitman said you come up as blades of grass. That's not
too bad at all.

Who knows what there is after death anyway? I've never
seen any evidence of an afterlife; in fact I doubt if there is
one. And if there is it can't be any worse than this life. So
you have to figure that you're giving yourself a break either
way. I'll probably go straight to heaven anyway, because I
never thought I was doing wrong; I followed my soul, and
if I did commit a sin I was forced to do it, so it cancels
out.

I decided to use sleeping pills to croak on. I wouldn't
want a violent death and with pills you can just go to
sleep. Not a bad way to check out.

I bought a bunch of Seconals and Librium, a six pack of ai

beer, and waited until no one was at home. I turned on ^1
some Bob Dylan, his early stuff, when he was really into
looking at life and showing it for what it is, laid down on
my bed and popped pills while drinking my beer. Some-
times I would eat a Librium or two and then switch to the
red Seconals for variety. I was about half way through the
stash when I started getting groggy. I wanted to fight it but
it kept coming on stronger and stronger. I wanted to keep
drinking the beer. I wanted to finish the six pack before I
went. I wanted to finish all of the pills too. But I knew I
wouldn't have time. I was slipping faster and faster, slowly
sinking the ship. I just laid there eating the pills; slowly
drinking the beer; paying no attention to the room; paying
attention to details of paintings. The little Saxifrage flower



on the wall could never split that rock. It was just a lie.
Flowers always die young! My stomach was upset, but I
knew I wouldn't barf. It was freedom I was getting; or I
was giving it away. It didn't matter anyway. In a few
minutes it would all be over. The pills made me high. I
didn't give a shit whether I died or not! I knew it was
going to be this way. I wouldn't have been able to do it
any other way. If I was hanging myself I would never get
up the courage to jump out of the tree. Or if I was going
to OD on dope I would never have the courage to squeeze
it into my arm. I had it made!

Life is dreadfully screechingly howlingly

unfuckingdenyably im/ucfemgpossibly painful!

Suicide is painless.

— Robert Adamski



EDITORIAL BOARD

Professor Srilekha Bell

Phyllis Ceccolini — Co-Editor-in-Chief

Professor Carroll Cole

Ellen Glosser

Professor Bertrand Mathieu — Faculty Advisor

Jim Zaino — Co-Editor-in-Chief



ALTERNATE MEMBERS

Professor Ramona Beeken

Tony Crocamo

Bob Finley

George Montano

Professor Douglas Robillard

Professor Kay Stevenson



Managing Editor — Bob Adamski
Asst. Managing Editor — Chris Hogan



We would like to give special thanks to Mr. Nathaniel
Kaplan for his valuable assistance.



I nuirk'cl VAlntre on u Mfle pvomovy^ory "" stock!

MnrKcl hov/ ^o explore -Hio vacxm^ Vas^ Ay

_£Ur round! no ; Ay

If IciuncK'd forth filahri^At,fi(rAWc\eK\t F filani&^, Ay

out of i-tadf, -^L_

Evr.r unrC el >V\cj -Hrcm, cvor -Hrt,lr/ssU sp^cKno

/Wl you O my .soul where, you stand,
^urround^d, detached, in measureless occcirv;

of' space,
Caralessty nr\u6»v\a, vcVvturin^ttirovvira , se^ekmj

/ ■ +hc spheres -to conned; ftan,
"fill -the bndae nou will need be form I , -Ml the

^ductile anchor hold,
fdl +he gossamer thread you -fling catch
/ v somewhere , rny souk /



Wall Ulhilman






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