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Full text of "First the Blade, 1937"

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For the earth bringeth forth fruit 
of herself; first the blade, then 
the ear, after that the full corn in 
the ear. 

St. Mark 4:28 



Digitized by the Internet Archive 

in 2012 with funding from 

LYRASIS Members and Sloan Foundation 



http://archive.org/details/firstblade193710vari 



First the Blade 

13b 



VOLUME X 



MOUNT SAINT MARY'S COLLEGE 

LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA 

Publishing for 

THE CALIFORNIA INTERCOLLEGIATE FELLOWSHIP 
OF CREATIVE ART 

J 937 



Printed by The Ward Ritchie Press 
Los Angeles, California 



FOREWORD 



|^]pHE FIRST CONFERENCES concerning the 
!| publishing of student verse in an annual volume 

Jl took place during 192 7- 192 8. Three conferences 
were held at Fullerton, and delegates from Whittier Col- 
lege, Santa Rosa Junior College, Pomona Junior College, 
Long Beach Junior College, Santa Ana Junior College, 
Glendale Junior College, the University of Redlands, and 
Pasadena Junior College joined in discussion with the 
members of the Fullerton Junior College English Club, in 
formulating plans. 

Volume I of First the Blade, an Intercollegiate Anthol- 
ogy of Student Verse, appeared in June, 1928. The editor- 
in-chief was Mildred Jean Stewart, then a student at Whit- 
tier College. Poems from Santa Rosa Junior College, 
Whittier College, Sacramento Junior College, La Verne 
College, Occidental College, the University of Redlands, 
and Fullerton Junior College were included in this book 
of forty pages. A small edition of one hundred and fifty 
copies was printed by the Fullerton Junior College Press. 
So completely was this edition— a "first edition"— sold out, 
that Volume I is definitely a collector's item. 

Dr. Lawrence Emerson Nelson, poet, and chairman of 
the English Department, University of Redlands, early 
began to attend conferences and to take an active part in 
planning the new work. Consequently, during the year 
1928-29, he supervised the publication of Volume II under 
the editorship of U. of R. chapter of Sigma Tau Delta, 
national English fraternity. Thirty-three institutions of 
higher learning in California submitted over four hundred 
and fifty contributions from the pens of one hundred and 
forty-one writers. The number of copies published was 
also increased, and after the appearance of Volume II, it 
was evident that the Intercollegiate Fellowship of Crea- 
tive Art was a going concern. 



A conference was held Saturday, May n, 1929, at the 
University of Redlands and attended by faculty and stu- 
dent supporters of the Fellowship. At this time the con- 
stitution of the organization was adopted,— a constitution 
which, more in the breach than the observance, is tech- 
nically still in operation, except for slight amendments. 

Carrol A. Montague was student editor-in-chief of 
Volume II. The book contained verse from twenty-nine 
colleges and universities of California, and demonstrated 
genuine powers of discrimination on the part of all con- 
cerned. The volume contained sixty-two pages. 

Professor William S. Ament, now President of Clare- 
mont Colleges, was on the campus the day of the confer- 
ence just mentioned, and he readily undertook, as Chair- 
man of the Faculties at Scripps College, the supervision of 
the publication of Volume III for 1930. No records of the 
conference held at Scripps College in the spring of 1930 
are at hand. But a foreword in Volume III records that 
the English Club at Scripps, with Caroline Bennett as 
editor and Professor William S. Ament as faculty adviser, 
read some five hundred poems submitted by one hundred 
and fifty-seven students of thirty-five institutions of col- 
legiate rank in the state. An attempt was made, as in pre- 
vious years, to choose "only the best." Volume III con- 
tained eighty-two pages. 

Dr. Tempe E. Allison, Dean of Women, San Bernar- 
dino Union Junior College, and William Robert Miller, 
student editor, were leaders in the publication of Volume 
IV, which was distributed at the spring conference at 
San Bernardino, May 16, 193 1. The growth of interest in 
First the Blade was shown in the submission of nearly one 
thousand poems by students throughout California. Vol- 
ume IV contained eighty-six pages. 

Two institutions offered to publish Volume V at the 
San Bernardino conference,— Pasadena Junior College and 
Pomona Junior College. The lot fell to Pasadena. 



VI 



Minutes of the San Bernardino conference also show 
that eleven colleges were represented at the 193 1 con- 
ference,— Redlands, U.C.L.A., U.S.C., Pomona, Pomona 
Junior, Compton Junior, Holmby College, Pasadena Jun- 
ior, Fullerton Junior, L.A.J.C., and San Bernardino Union 
Junior College. 

Mr. Murray G. Hill, head of the English department, 
Pasadena Junior College, had been identified with the 
work from the beginning. Through his cooperation, in 
1932 Miss Harriet L. McClay as faculty adviser, assisted 
by Jean Louise Backus, as student editor, and David 
Brockton Brown, as business manager, published Volume 
V, a book of ninety-four pages. The editorial task was 
augmented greatly through the appearance on the edi- 
torial desk of fifteen hundred poems by two hundred and 
thirty-six contributors, from forty-five institutions of col- 
legiate rank. 

In 1933 San Diego State College, through the leadership 
of Gamma Psi, honorary literary society, published Vol- 
ume VI. The editor, Rachel Harris Campbell, poet and 
winner of prizes in previous volumes, was assisted by Eliz- 
abeth Louise Kilbourne. Faculty adviser was Spencer Lee 
Rogers, faculty member of Gamma Psi. He says in the 
foreword of Volume VI: "In the opinion of those who 
have had the pleasure of watching the volume grow into 
being, the task of handling six hundred poems from one 
hundred and thirty contributors, representing thirty-two 
colleges has been executed with order and fairness." Vol- 
ume VI was a sumptuous publication of seventy-eight 
pages. 

Volume VII, published by Los Angeles Junior College, 
was edited by George Papermaster and George Ramsay 
with Joseph E. Johnson of the English faculty advising. 
A unique method of judging poems was introduced: three 
California poets served as jury. They were Hildegarde 
Flanner, Helen Hoyt, and Maurice Lesemann. Over 

vii 



seven hundred poems were submitted to them from one 
hundred and fifty student contributors, representing 
twenty-eight colleges and universities. The Three Arts 
Club was directly in charge of publishing this book of 
eighty-one pages. 

A firm friend of the Fellowship from its inception is 
Thomas H. Glenn, Head of the English Department, 
Santa Ana Junior College. Volume VIII, 1935, appeared 
in May as the result of his leadership. Physically Volume 
VIII was the most ambitious and successful of this length- 
ening shelf. The Tavern Tatlers, the Santa Ana literary 
society, served as editors, and through the enthusiastic ef- 
forts of Thomas E. Williams, director of the College Fine 
Arts Press, were able to produce a master-piece of print- 
ing. Four hundred copies of this book were published. 
Thirty-six collegiate institutions are represented in Vol- 
ume VIII. 

At the very beginning of the history of the Fellowship, 
Miss Genevieve G. A4ott, Head of the English Depart- 
ment, Santa Rosa Junior College, demonstrated her inter- 
est by sending a conference delegate to Fullerton. Under 
her advisership Volume IX, for 1936 was produced. 
Forty colleges submitted poems, and over fifteen hundred 
manuscripts were received by the editor, Harrison Smith. 
In commenting on the verse submitted to this contest, 
Professor E. O. James, of Mills College, chairman of the 
judges, said: 

"Not many of the poems sent to us were trivial. I felt 
in most of these poems an emotional eagerness and sin- 
cerity. Often indeed the intent was better than the exe- 
cution. Sometimes emotional excitement became a bit in- 
coherent; often a fine intent, well written in the main, was 
marred by an awkward line or an infelicitous image. 
Could I have the chance to advise any of these young 
writers, I would urge them to cultivate the patience to re- 
vise their work more. Pour a poem out like hot lava— 



Vlll 



yes; but acquire also the mastery to replace a word, to 
iron out a dull or awkward line the next day or the next 
week. First inspiration and speed; then patient revision." 
Space does not permit the mention by name of the 
great company of students, judges, and teachers, and don- 
ors of prizes who have served First the Blade and the I.F. 
C.A. during these ten years. Their work is a votive offer- 
ing to the aspiration— latent and expressed— which flames 
in the souls of our California youth. In their poems we 
hear, like Walt Whitman, "America singing." 

Fullerton, California richard warner borst 

November 25, 1936 



I 



y ] ; ^HIS tenth fruition of First the Blade marks a 
signal achievement in the forward march of col- 
legiate verse. If from its inception this plant had 
not been tended by able hands, skilled in the task of culti- 
vating untried ground, it would have long since faded into 
the oblivion of brave little publications which died be- 
cause of a lack of discrimination in their leaders. 

First the Blade, in having passed this milestone, has 
proven itself a sturdy plant with its roots well down. 
Mount Saint Mary's College feels itself honored to have 
the privilege of editing this volume which marks the com- 
ing of age of so worthy an enterprise. 

The Parnassians, the literary society of Mount Saint 
Mary's College, express sincere appreciation to Mr. Rich- 
ard Warner Borst who contributed the history of the first 
nine years of First the Blade. His article serves as a fore- 
word to this tenth volume. We are also indebted to those 
who gave so generously of their time and talents in the 
judging of the many poems submitted by thirty-one Cali- 
fornia collegiate institutions. 

ELIZABETH ANN JOYCE 



IX 



THE STAFF 



Editor-in-Chief 

Literary Editors 

Business Manager 
Publicity Manager 
Faculty Adviser 



BARBARA WILLIAMS 

ELIZABETH ANN JOYCE 

JEANNE LAURENDEAU 

MARIAN MCGRATH 

MARGARET DONOVAN 

VIVIENNE MARTIN 

SISTER MARIE DE LOURDES 



Judges of the prize-winning poems: 

LUCIA TRENT 

EVELYN CLEMENT 

SNOW LONGLEY HOUSH 

CAPTAIN C. M. BRUNE 

HON. JOHN STEVEN MCGROARTY 



XI 



AWARDS 

THE MOST REVEREND JOHN J. CANTWELL, D.D., PRIZE 

For the best religious poem, $20.00 

The Vigil Light 
by Anna Jane Marshall, Mount Saint Mary's College 

HONORABLE MENTION 

Master of Sea and Sky 
by Frances Bucher, Santa Monica Junior College 

THE STUDENT BODY OF 
MOUNT SAINT MARY's COLLEGE, PRIZE 

For the best poem submitted, $15.00 

Wives of Henry the Eighth 
by Kathryn W. Daly, University of California, Berkeley 

Blind Farmer 
by W. W. Burt, Occidental College 

(These poems tied for the prize) 

THE PRESIDENT OF 
MOUNT SAINT MARY's COLLEGE, PRIZE 

For the best ode, $10.00 

Ode 
by Louise Popham, Scripps College 

HONORABLE MENTION 

Ode to Memorial Day 
by William Bell, University of California at Los Angeles 

THE PRESS CLUB OF OCCIDENTAL COLLEGE, PRIZE 

For the best sonnet, $10.00 

Wives of Henry the Eighth 
by Kathryn W. Daly, University of California, Berkeley 

xiii 



THE STUDENT BODY OF LOYOLA UNIVERSITY, PRIZE 

For the best ballad, $10.00 

Billy the Kid Rides South 
by Robert Coudy, Los Angeles Junior College 

HONORABLE MENTION 

The Wolf and the Fool 
by Kathryn W. Daly, University of California, Berkeley 



xiv 



The prize poems are printed first in the book, 
in the following order: 

I . THE VIGIL LIGHT 

2 . MASTER OF SEA AND SKY 

3 . WIVES OF HENRY THE EIGHTH 

4. BLIND FARMER 

5. ODE 

6. ODE TO MEMORIAL DAY 

7. BILLY THE KID RIDES SOUTH 

8. THE WOLF AND THE FOOL 



XV 



CONTENTS 

ANTELOPE VALLEY JOINT UNION JUNIOR COLLEGE 

masao ekimoto— At Twilight, 17 

CHAFFEY JUNIOR COLLEGE 
MARY DUTTON— Quest, 45 

CHICO STATE COLLEGE 

ramon Armstrong— Of Thee I Sing, 19 

— A Cristo Crucificado, 19 
Bernard ide— On Sleep, 63 

FULLERTON JUNIOR COLLEGE 

lola m. payne— The Salt and the Sea, 70 
dick little john— Defeat, 75 

HOLMBY COLLEGE 

rosemary hannan— Song for Goodbye, 58 

LA VERNE COLLEGE 

MARY M. KNEEL AND— Benares, 62 
MARGARET GRANT— Hokkll, 53 

robert stortz— The Quail, 34 

LOS ANGELES JUNIOR COLLEGE 

william Petersen— What Can a Foem Do Now?, 69 
robert coudy— Billy the Kid Rides South, 1 1 

LOYOLA UNIVERSITY 

john mc elroy— Lament for the Machine Age, 64 
richard grace— Maiden Love, 48 
frank burns— Dilemma, 32 

MODESTO JUNIOR COLLEGE 

rosalind odell— That's Different, 67 

maria j. roderic— Faith, 78 

ida vincent— Lullaby , 17 

pershing olson— Sonnet to Lost Shells, 57 

william nye— Plea for a Flower, 63 

xvii 



MOUNT SAINT MARY'S COLLEGE 

sister c. s. j. of orange— To California, 35 
lorraine gibson— The Desert, 50 

BETTY JANE MITCHELL— Medusa, 6 1 

jeanne laurendeau— Mary, Queen of Scots, J 6 
renee crum— Sunrise, 39 

genoveva saavedra hidalgo— Gypsy Mother* s Song, 55 
anna jane Marshall— The Vigil Light, I 

OCCIDENTAL COLLEGE 

w. w. burt— Blind Farmer, 5 
martha wickham— Beauty Gave Me All, 30 
— / Am Penelope, 30 

MAR YE PAYLOR— Flight, J 2 

guy nunn— Sonnet (Keen to the Coiling Seasons), 6$ 

—To Descartes, 66 
nancy e. garrett— The Seasons in Cinquains, 54 
—Summer Horizon, 43 

ELEANOR WALTER— To the Hills, 2 3 

PASADENA JUNIOR COLLEGE 

FRANKLIN PATTERSON— Sound at Night, J I 

—Dana Point, 15 

POMONA COLLEGE 

Virginia esterly— Pray er, 18 

POMONA JUNIOR COLLEGE 

leonie hunter— Sea Gulls Coming Home, 56 

REEDLEY JUNIOR COLLEGE 

WINIFRED AHLSTROM— Life, 2 I 

fred kern— Gardens, 5 1 

FRED BAYLESS— Roads, 29 

xviii 



RIVERSIDE JUNIOR COLLEGE 

george p. elliott— Ode to Erato, 26 
jeanette m. allen— Star Rising in the East, 20 

SACRAMENTO JUNIOR COLLEGE 

eloise hornstein— Bazaar, 49 

carol dorothy— Retribution, 42 

ruth e. allen— Dark Wings, 20 

olga paula ALMAZOFF— In a Chinese Garden, 1 6 

SAN DIEGO STATE COLLEGE 

mary-em hardie— We Journeyed Side by Side, 60 
anne e. young— For My Mother, 16 
Elizabeth t. Harrington— Prayer, 47 

SAN FRANCISCO STATE COLLEGE 
THELMA STARKE RICH— Cat, J 5 

SAN MATEO JUNIOR COLLEGE 

jeanette Jennings— Autumn Triolet, 59 
willard Stephens— Phrases, 33 

SANTA ANA JUNIOR COLLEGE 

HELEN LOUISE GRIGSBY— Music, $2 

ola orrell— Fantasy, 6$ 



ELBERT STEWART— Ramon, 2 



■9 



Frances was— A Foothill Scene, 28 

JOSEPH LANGLAND— COWS, 74 

— Ode to Grey Hairs, y6 
Constance crane— Mother Earth Hold My Baby, 42 
ruth kelbourne— The Cottonwood, 61 
Elizabeth robinson— To a Magnolia, 72 
gordon bishop— The Mole, 34 
john reade— The Making of Siapo, 73 
albert clark— Portrait, 36 
alice com-Pton— Meditation, 44 

xix 



helen Marshall— Fantasy, 58 

NORMAN MENNES— Child Musiflg, 60 
SANTA BARBARA STATE COLLEGE 

ruth COMM.AGERE— Trees on a Hill y 39 
evelyn engle— Senile Dementia, 1 8 

SANTA MONICA JUNIOR COLLEGE 

annabelle jossman— A Writer's Thought, 64 
Frances bucher— The Master of Sea and Sky, 1 

BETTY GRAY BOWLING—/ Am JudaS, 2 J 
SCRIPPS COLLEGE 

margaret frames— Prayer of the Wanderer to 

His Madonna, 49 
grace dickey— College Dance, 43 
louisa popham— Ode, 7 
rene sanford— Madonna in the Woods, 36 

—UHorloge, 34 
lydiane vermeulen— Alma Mater, 7 1 

JANET EASTMAN— Kites, 23 

verna brydon— Wisteria, 20 
janet fowler— Inspiration, 44 

STANFORD UNIVERSITY 

katherine chastain— Lines in Autumn, 39 

—Lines in Midsummer, 40 
ann Stanford— Sonnet ( We Have No Fart) , 3 3 

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT BERKELEY 

margaret RAU— Paper Blossoms in the Snow, 77 
kathryn w. daly— Wives of Henry the VIII, 2 
—Wolf and the Fool, 1 3 

ELAINE L. GOLDBERG— The AthetSt, 5 I 

harbison parker— Fire Engines, 68 
edgar ewing— The Stain, 25 

—Adventures, 23 
francis a. shier— Why Art Thou Sorrow?, 35 

xx 



UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES 

Barbara HiRSCHFELD— To James Stephens, 59 
William bell— Ode on Memorial Day, 8 
mary condon—/ Remember, 41 

WALDO WINGER— Soflfiet, 2 2 

john berry— Sorrows of Worter, 3 2 
—A Looking Glass, 48 

UNIVERSITY OF REDLANDS 

bess porter Adams— House-Breaker, 22 
carrole birchfield— A Pagan's Prayer, 31 
William d. mccallister— Disarmament, 66 

UNIVERSITY OF SANTA CLARA 

FRANCIS SANGUINETTT— Night MUSW, 37 

franklin cullen— California Quest, 40 

—While Dusting in Varsi Library, 40 

UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA 

Harriett wiley— Cosmic Cataract, 24 

WHITTIER COLLEGE 

ben Hamilton, jr.— St. Pierre-Miquelon, 57 



xxi 



FIRST THE BLADE 



If THE VIGIL LIGHT 

The sanctuary light burns in its wine-red cup. 

Casting a golden halo on the chapel ceiling. 

Oh, God, 

Make my devotion burn constant in the blood-red cup 

of my heart. 
Let it keep eternal vigilance before Your presence. 
Let it never die; let the flame leap higher with each new 

devotion 
Until it casts a small warm circle of love 
On the ceiling of heaven. 

ANNA JANE MARSHALL 



| THE MASTER OF SEA AND SKY 

No house of God nor sermon within 

Can breach the space 'twixt heart and soul. 
Nor wayside shrine nor chapel dimmed 

Make easy the path to the heavenly goal. 
But love of Him whose hand has wrought 

The velvet petals of the rose; 
The songs of birds as morning dawns; 

The hush of eve'n in lulled repose; 
The silver streak 'cross rippled sea, 

Caressing the sun's rays stream; 
The smell of clover freshly sweet; 

The radiance of setting sun; 
The icy wonder of snow and sleet; 

These are the things that He has giv'n 
To prove to man His place on High; 

He is the King of earth and Heav'n 

He is the Master of sea and sky. 

FRANCES BUCHER 



Tf WIVES OF HENRY THE VIII 

(To Cornelia Otis Skinner) 

I— ARAGONAISE 

In frowning English hall and vaulted court 
She wanders, dreaming, picturing again 
The swaying sails of galleons of Spain, 
Low lapping waters of a Spanish port. 
The time for memories is always short; 
She bears the brown-eyed English heir with pain; 
It is a Spanish child, each throbbing vein 
Holding red blood of southern town and fort. 
The lonely Catharine takes her daughter's hand; 
Two strangers stand alone with troubled mind, 
And hearts grow fierce, as dim dreams struggle on 
Away from fog-realms to an old warm land, 
Across dry valleys and far fields to find 
The shepherds and the flocks of Aragon. 

II— FLOWER OF FRANCE 

The muddy Thames flowed slowly at the tower 

Upon the death day of the famous Anne, 

When cynics say she waved a little fan, 

And laughed at death, defiant, in its hour. 

They say that she remembered every flower 

That she had thrown, the face of every man, 

As catching each small fragrant bloom he ran 

To bow to her, acknowledging her power. 

The cynics say she thought these things, and seemed 

To greet her executioner with ease. 

But poets say there could have been a chance 

That Anne, in that death hour, might have dreamed 

Of inland ridges, singing poplar trees, 

And sharp waves breaking on the coast of France! 



Ill— WHITE BIRD 

Her fearful agony was England's gain; 
Two other queens with hating hearts had tried 
To bear the prince; each time the court would hide 
Its longing for the boy some day to reign. 
No one in London Town could ease her pain; 
The news was bitter when the young queen died, 
And softly through the English countryside 
The House of Seymour mourns its little Jane. 
She was the fairest thing among the living; 
Like a short-lasting reverie she flashed 
Across the hearts of England but to die- 
As all life's fairest dreams must die— in giving 
What England wanted most; this longing dashed 
A white bird from a cloudless summer sky. 

IV— LITTLE DUTCH GIRL 

Anne came to court, fresh from the country loam, 
With open wonder on her round red face; 
All childish awkwardness that was half grace, 
And eyes as gray as drifting ocean foam. 
Dressed in the best court satins, she would roam 
The muddy garden paths, dragging her lace, 
And longing for Dutch fields, the fragrant place! 
Disgusted then, Fat Henry sent her home. 
She would not pay the solemn court its dues; 
Liking the rustling of fine silks, it's true, 
But Irking more the rustling of Dutch leaves, 
And homesick for the click of wooden shoes, 
And yellow tulips shining in the dew— 
A village mistress, little Anne of Cleves. 



V— LADY DRESSED IN SCARLET 

The lady dressed in scarlet held her head 

Above all others; Katheryn filled the air 

With perfumed presence, and she did not care 

To be subdued, advised, or wisely led. 

She was the heart of every group; the red 

Of sunsets matched her plumes, and she would dare 

As queen to turn men's hearts; the court laid bare 

Her loves, and unrelenting struck her dead. 

The lady dressed in scarlet, mute and still 

Lies in the Tower, chestnut hair still curled 

On severed head, as in a poet's dream; 

And, as though living, Howard seems to fill 

With her magnetic self the English world, 

That in strained ears still hears her last wild scream. 

VI— THE WIFE 

She had no burning, secret loves to mar 

Her queenship; unemotional she came, 

Older than the others, into fame, 

A sturdy veteran, wise Katharine Parr. 

She had no startling beauty and was far 

From being tender, trait that graced the name 

Of Jane; she did not sparkle as the flame 

Of Howard, or like Anne glow as a star. 

She was an honest, unassuming wife; 

Though she had married England's king, she kept 

Within the lavish court a simple pride. 

This honesty had been her plan of life; 

And though false friends around her falsely wept, 

She knitted calmly while the fat king died. 

KATHRYN W. DALY 



If BLIND FARMER 

I felt the room grow stuffy 
with her presence. 

Her movements near me, 
with the slow precision 
of her nightly routine, 
fatigued my dragging thoughts 
as if once more I stumbled 
in the furrow of the plow, 
adjusting it fiercely 
to the bucking earth 
in shame at my resentment, 
and convulsing my grip 
upon the smooth-worn handles 
to balance my ingratitude. 

She waited for my mood to pass, 
before her— "Coming, Jud? It's late," 
as if in harness, at the fence, she paused 
for me to turn the plow. 

My pipe sucked out, 

and in a moment I had strode ahead 

across the unfurrowed years. 

The desert would but armor her 

against elapse of time. 

Its pungent soil would strengthen 

and enrich the deep-seated stamen 

of her bloom, 

while its hot wind would hollow out 

erosion in the cliffs 

of my ambition. 



I escaped her in the hall. 

The stairs awoke. 

The back porch door 

barked at my heels. 

I fumbled out across the sand and sage 

to bleed my nostrils 

on the cooled and tempered steel 

of twilight desert air. 

And yet emotion in me seemed in depth 

as false as was the endlessness 

of wasteland 

bounded by the hills beyond. 

The smooth-worn handles 
burned within my palms. 
I shuddered as from cold. 

Asthmatic breathings 

rattled from an aching sky. 

The thick organic stench of death 

from putrifying bones 

held and cauterized my throat. 

The quietness, 

soft and vibrant as a candle flame, 

was of a sudden 

drawn into the windy draft 

of some coyote's howl. 

The silence scattered 
to the little pieces of the stars 
that tuned themselves in disarray 
as if the sky's vast orchestra 
were testing out its notes. 



Heat lightning flared 

a crash of brass. 

A falling star descended 

its discordant pitch. 

A drift of clouds moved slowly 

like a curtain being drawn. 

The wind stirred with the expectation 

that whispers across an audience. 

Then, in a crescendo 

of pale soprano light, 

the white moon 

filled the empty darkness of the world 

with drenching volume. 

My senses flooded, 

like the voice of an outworn singer 

who in the seclusion of his thoughts 

hurls aloft an aria 

to the listening people of his mind. 

I held in swaying balance 

that last sustaining modulation 

and turned back 

towards the house, 

the smell of hay and cattle, 

the stairs, the room, 

and her. 



w. w. BURT 



][ODE 

O God, I have wasted another blue day- 
Shiny and clean, all its silver and blue 
Have slipped through my fingers and gone far away 
Lord, I have wasted another blue day- 
Young and untouched, it has gone back to you. 



I have done nothing in all this blue day- 
Nothing of value and nothing that's true- 
But lie in the sunlight and walk in the wind- 
No good and no evil— I wish I had sinned 
And so had a reason for talking to you— 
But I have done nothing in all this blue day. 

When I give a present, I'd rather it broke 

Than be set on a shelf and left hidden away. 

You, God, I suppose, are like all other folk, 

And are angry with me for not using my day. 

O Lord, I admit it. In this I have sinned— 

That its golden and green— that its silver and blue 

Have slipped through my fingers and gone back to you, 

While I lay in the sunlight and walked in the wind- 
While I, like a fool, went and walked in the wind. 

LOUISA POPHAM 



If ODE ON MEMORIAL DAY 

This day we scatter flowers, this day we dedicate 

From all the days, to heroes' memories 

Our love and honour, hoping it will please 

Those who are living, and those who passed the final gate 

Of death, that this, their land, might live. 

With smiles upon their lips they went to war. 

Carving Pygmalion-like the hearts they bore 

So gallantly, and now we give 

Our thanks that, like Pygmalion's statue, those 

brave hearts 
So carved into an image of a land 
Both fair and free, were brought to life by God's 

great arts; 
The country which they carved, that noble band, 
Now scatters flowers about on graves to every hand. 



O land of liberty, of turbulent, brave-eyed folk, 
It is most fit that thou should'st consecrate 
One day to these brave dead and living great, 
Who fought and gave their lives to keep thee from 

the yoke 
Of foreign tyranny; and yet, 
Tho' "taps" are played this day, and, sadly slow, 
Some few with stricken eyes walk to and fro, 
The most rejoice, for they forget, 
In spite of flower-strewn graves and speeches, that 

the cost 
Of war continues after victory 
Has dulled the sorrow; and all that thou, my land, 

hast lost 
Remains unheard, because the rhapsody 
Of victory-crowned peace is being played to thee. 

Since time began, tho' men knew well the cost of war, 

For petty greed, or hate, or glory's charms 

Great kings have forced their subjects into arms 

And sent them off to die; each army learned, before 

The fight was won or lost, that pride 

And dancing banners were but opiates 

Which deadened men, and sent them to their fates 

Unknowing that the awful tide 

Of war sweeps over armies, leaving them but shells 

Of hosts, begrimed with blood, disease, and dirt, 

And sweeps them back at last, those that still live, 

from hells 
Of death with naught but memories that hurt,— 
Perhaps a crown of leaves about their brows begirt. 



War takes the bloody nourishment the nations bring 

And swallows it, as Cyclops greedily 

Devoured the men of that great argosy 

Which sought but peace; the pendulum of fate must 

swing 
From songs of war to bitter tears. 
When shocks of arms and battle-din subside 
And cold dark dusk comes like a wind-swept tide, 
Though every battle through the years 
Has had this dusk, yet never then has there been heard 
A voice that spoke of "honour" or of "hate"; 
The only sounds, when aught but scavengers have stirred, 
Have been the moans of wounded and the prate 
Of broken-hearted women, sobbing desolate. 

When men returned from war, in all those ancient days, 

They sought, as they do now, to vindicate 

Their deeds by talk of "glory," to inflate 

Their sons' young minds with tales of "honour" and 

of praise. 
As they do now, these sons would go 
With smiling lips when brazen trumpets blared; 
Their sires kept silence still, as they prepared 
Each his own sword and shield and bow. 
When catapults were changed to cannon, spears to guns, 
Then men were equalized, but still they keep 
The age-old plan of war; that those selected ones 
Who fight are best and bravest; thus the heap 
Of sacrifice before Wargods is never cheap. 



We scatter flowers today upon the tombs of part 

Of this heaped, bloody mountain-peak of men 

Who died in war through ages past. Again 

The thrill of victory and peace runs through my heart, 

land of mine, but dedicate, 

1 pray, not all that heart to joy in peace; 

Let it resolve that thoughts of war must cease, 

That never wilt thou consecrate 

Again thy bravest as a sop for Mars' great thirst. 

These men are dead; the banners that they bore 

Lie in proud state or on the battle-fields they cursed— 

Forget them not, but vow that nevermore 

Shalt thou be ravished of thy sons by fruitless war. 

WILLIAM BELL 

Tf BILLY THE KID RIDES SOUTH 

Bill Bonney trapped in a 'dobe hut 
With neither food nor drink, 
Declared, "I'd like to leave here, but 
They'd shoot me in a wink. 

"The posse fills the hills behind; 
The canyon drops ahead; 
Whichever way I make the break 
I'm just as good as dead. 

"My horse roams close beside the hut 
With bridle, rein and bit; 
If he could span them canyon walls, 
The southbound trail I'd hit." 

From east to west he watched the sun, 
Each hour slowly passed, 
Until the hills shut out its rays; 
The time was near at last. 

ii 



Then through the dusty cottonwoods 
The moon shed down its light; 
Bill Bonney loosed his guns a bit 
And pulled his belt up tight. 

He ground his smoke beneath his heel 
And crouched close to the floor; 
Then quietly he threw the bolt 
And slipped out through the door. 

His horse grazed near, beside the hut, 
Fed, rested, primed to run; 
Young Billy dropped against the earth 
And pulled himself a gun. 

He crawled to reach his waiting horse 
And mounting, whispered "Pard, 
It's up to you to span them walls." 
Then drove his spurs in hard. 

The iron hoofs gnawed the silver dust 
And broke into a run; 
Bill knew he had to make the leap 
Or else his life was done. 

Far down below the canyon rims 
The rock-bound river lashed; 
With scarcely twenty yards ahead, 
The valiant partners dashed. 

Hoarse shouts rang out among the hills; 
The Kid bent to his ride; 
His cayuse flew the crumbling brink 
And hit the other side. 



Bill Bonney crouched against his horse 
Amid the bullets rain, 
Then waved his hat and smiled a smile 
And headed south again. 

ROBERT COUDY 



If THE WOLF AND THE FOOL 

(A Tale of a Siberian Village) 

The wolves come down to our village 

And howl around the door, 
And when they come, the children run 

And will not play any more. 

They once had one to comfort them, 
To hold their hands and sing; 

The children called him glorious, 
A hero and a king. 

He would sing above the howling 

A song so fierce and wild, 
And though his face was ugly, 

His heart was the heart of a child. 

But the grown-ups called him brutish, 
They feared his fang-like teeth, 

They called his song "wolf's howling," 
They said he was "wolf underneath." 

They said next time a Wolf came down, 

They'd give it living prey, 
They'd feed the Wolf with human meat 

So that it would not stay. 



And so when next the Wolf came down, 

They drove the Fool away, 
Outside into the winter night, 

And they thought they heard him say: 

"Oh, I've got a strange sort of fear, Wolf, 

A fear that I can't explain, 
That I belong with you, Wolf, 

That you'll take me back again, 
Back to the bleak, cold forest, 

Back to the gray wolf's den- 
On, let me die an outcast here, 

Forsaken by all men— 
For I've got a strange sort of fear, Wolf, 

A fear that is not of death, 
A fear that you'll take me back with you, 

That I'm a wolf underneath. 
Oh, kill me here and now, Wolf, 
Oh, kill me, if you can, 
And end my strange sort of fear, Wolf, 

The fear that I'm not a man." 

Next day they found what was left there, 

A Fool, driven out by men, 
But death had stilled his terror, 

The fear of the gray Wolf's den. 

The Wolf had killed and eaten 

Outside a cabin door, 
But the gray Wolf's prey who had prayed to die 

Had been given his wish and more. 

He died a fool and an outcast, 

Hated and scourged by men, 
But God took his soul to heaven 

Away from the gray Wolf's den. 



God lifted up to heaven 

This soul that welcomed death, 
For the Fool that sang for children 

Could not be a wolf underneath. 

The wolves still come to our village 

And howl around our door, 
And when they come, the children run 

And won't play any more. 

But the grown-ups shrink in terror, 

With faces pale and gray; 
While through the howling of the wolves 

The Fool still seems to say: 

"Oh, I've got a strange sort of fear, Wolf, 

A fear that is not of death, 
A fear that you'll take me back with you, 

That I'm a wolf underneath. 
Oh, kill me here and now Wolf, 

Oh, kill me, if you can, 
And kill my strange sort of fear, Wolf, 

The fear that I'm not a man." 

KATHRYN W. DALY 



][ DANA POINT 

The mountain in the dark, masses on the headland, 
Taking stance against the sea and rising at the ecstasy 
Of the shaking stars . . 

Rolling down hillward to the plains, likewise to the sea 
Where the blind white waves forever stumble in the 

dark . . . 
Thrusting the ebony of night-time's green to the sky. 

FRANKLIN PATTERSON 



If FOR MY MOTHER 

Why does my mother weep in the night? 

Are the sheaves in her field too scarce for gathering, 

And the season too late for another sowing? 

From fertile fields to the south 

The wind crosses the skies, 

Bringing chaff from her neighbors' winnowing 

To sting her eyes. 

I cannot stop her crying through the dusk; 
I cannot explain Thy ways of wind and rain, 
Nor know Thy reason for the drought of years 
That dried the earth and seared her grain. 

I cannot still the hurt 

For all my love and longing— 

Oh, God, may she rest in Thy arms tonight? 

May she sleep with the tears in her eyes, 

And they be gone by morning? 

ANNE E. YOUNG 



If IN A CHINESE GARDEN 

The shadows cast 

In silhouette 

The dwarf pine tree 

The moon-shaped bridge 

The thin bamboo. 

But it cast 
No shadow 
On the Lotus bud 
In bloom! 



OLGA PAULA ALMAZOFF 



16 



If LULLABY 

Papoose, swaying in the wind, 
Mother will be coming soon, 
Hush thy sighing, little bird, 
Peaceful rests the blue lagoon. 

Father is an Indian brave, 
Fighting foe beyond the wood 
To save his tribe and family too- 
Fighting as all warriors should. 

Mother is working the whole night through, 
Working in the tall, tall corn, 
Meal and bread she'll make of it, 
When she comes tomorrow morn. 

Sleep babe, in your blanket warm, 
Close your eyes and dream of day. 
Dream that Mother rocks your bed, 
Night will too soon pass away. 



IDA VINCENT 



I AT TWILIGHT 

Its day being done, a soul has embarked 
Upon the uncharted seas, 
Guided by stars, to the unknown shore 
Borne by the heavenly breeze. 

The strife is over, and life is done, 

(And now he'll sin— never!) 

Life's challenge was met, and the battle won; 

Joy and peace forever! 

MASAO EKIMOTO 

17 



If SENILE DEMENTIA 

As records on an ancient gramophone 
Whose coils while new may take another song, 
But when the spiral grooves have been there long 
Are more impregnable than flinty stone; 
The cylinder once hardened now is prone 
To take no new impressions— whether strong 
Or weak is negligible— these belong 
To the fresh imprint and to it alone. 

So is it with the facile human brain 
Which time congeals; the old and senile man, 
To years and generations wholly blind, 
Is still a youth and at his prime again; 
And at his oldest never older than 
The last thin etching on his brittle mind. 



EVELYN ENGLE 



^PRAYER 

Oh Lord, 

Let my feet dance to gay tunes; 

Let stars stir in singing trees 

And make music 

For my feet. 

Let my voice sing happy songs 

To drift through summer forests 

Toward the blue sea. 

Oh Lord, 

Let my eyes see sweet unclouded pictures 

Which delight. 

Let hyacinths at my touch bloom white. 



VIRGINIA ESTERLY 



18 



I OF THEE I SING 

Of Thee I sing as of the stars and sky 

As of the multicolored symphony 

Of rainbow arched above a calming sea, 

As visions that reach up to Heaven; I 

Sing still of Thee when ecstasy, perched high, 

Smiles down in glowing radiance on me, 

As when some grotesque Caliban is free 

To chide me with his melancholy cry. 

No rare etherial beauty, sanguine strife 
Can alter tune or lyric of my song 
Nor can a single word or note belong 
To lesser deities. Thou canst suffice 
To give to earth a tinge of Paradise; 
Of Thee I sing, Thou are my song of life. 

RAMON ARMSTRONG 

If A TRANSLATION OF 
"A CRISTO CRUCIFICADO" 

The Heaven Thou hast promised does not move 
My heart to love Thee, God, nor does the fear 
Of Hell prevent me from offending here, 
On my terrestrial way, Thy tender love. 
Above these hopes and fears, they sound, above 
Such power as would move the soul, I hear 
Thy insults, driven nails that wound Thee. Near 
To Heaven am I moved. Thou dying Dove, 
Though there might be no Heaven, I should still 
Be moved to worship Thee, and though I knew 
No fear of Hell, nor hope of a reward, 
Though every dream or hope be lost, and ill 
Encompass me about, I should be true, 
And Thou alone, Thou God of all, adored. 

RAMON ARMSTRONG 
19 



T[ WISTERIA 

In the warm sun the wisteria lay 

Decking with mauve the old walls of grey, 

Weaving bright patterns with checkered light 
On fallen petals of blue and white. 

VERNA BRYDON 



| STAR RISING IN THE EAST 

I like to think that star, 
Hanging so precariously, 
So low, against the East, 
Was hung there just for me; 

To think that, when this earth 
Was but a blazing nebulae 
And life a vague potentiality, 
God hung that star against the sky 

Because He knew— after aeons— 
I, lonely and afraid, would see 
Its steadfast flame burn high 
And know He would remember me. 

JEANETTE M. ALLEN 



If DARK WINGS 

The night sighs, 

Rustling its dark wings, 

The stars weep softly, their tears 

Dew in silver dust of moonlight. 

RUTH E. ALLEN 



20 



U LIFE 

From the bus window what do I see? 

Houses— ugly, barren, squalid; with dirty yelling 

children and yelping dogs. 
Houses— small, neat, pretty; with sprinklers sparkling 
on the green lawns. 
Houses— large, sprawling, prosperous; with tall, aged 
trees and late, autumn flowers. 

From the bus window what do I see? 

Vineyards— straggling, dried up, hiding their neglect 

behind ripe pomegranite trees. 
Vineyards— well-kept, with late afternoon sunshine 

smiling on their green and yellowed leaves. 

From the bus window what do I see? 
Automobiles— scratched, carefree, rattling along. 
Automobiles— new, sleek, a whirl of shiny metal flying 
past. 

From the bus window what do I see? 
People— gay, students, boys, and girls, with books 

hunched to their sides. 
Children riding bicycles recklessly on the streets and 

sidewalks. 
Tramps— shaggy, ragged, tired-looking, shuffling along 

the highway. 

From the bus window what do I see? 
I see life— ugly, beautiful, real. 

WINIFRED AHLSTROM 



21 



1 HOUSE-BREAKER 

"I know, now, all the clever little wiles 

You used, to break into my house before. 

The falsely spoken words, deceitful smiles . . . 

So now, oh fickle one, I bar the door 

With heavy rods of anguish-tempered steel, 

And draw the casement shades, before one star 

Can flash an eye at me in mute appeal 

To let you in again. Stay where you are, 

You, Love, with drooping wings and downward glance, 

And air of humble penitence, I'm through! 

In vain, you plead for still another chance 

To break my heart . . .", I said; and turning to 

The hearth, saw there . . . (ah, should I smile or weep? ) 
A rueful, smudgy, gold- winged chimney-sweep! 

BESS PORTER ADAMS 

If SONNET 

There is no end of Beauty, and no death 
When her white arms spread moonlight on the sea; 
No hand that reaches towards eternity 
Can for a moment even stop her breath. 
Save hermit blossoms not forsworn to death 
(That absent Spring leaves in the memory), 
Or when the bowed wind tunes the aspen tree- 
There is no word for Beauty's shibboleth! 

Take, lute, all golden sound! Lute, stretch your song 
On alabaster! Drape the Parian stones 
With music's measured rhapsody! the least 
And best and all of Beauty's tenant throng 
Brandish the dust of their voluptuous bones 
When ageless Lesbos sings them to the feast! 

WALDO WINGER 

22 



f KITES 

Green kites and red kites 

In a world of blue 
Acting so superior 

Just as if they knew 
They were up near God- 
Much nearer Him than you. 

JANET EASTMAN 

1 TO THE HILLS 

Behind me are the hills 

Now dim and shadowed in twilight. 

Hills that held me bound throughout 

The long warm day, urging me to 

Their peaks that softly blurred out 

Other hills, more distant and blue. 

High on their slopes I found their 

Treasures of small winds and 

Glimpses of broad valleys warm 

In the late sun. 

With slow step, I leave the hills. 

Swiftly they withdraw, 

Along with the low-swung stars. 

ELEANOR WALTER 

| ADVENTURERS 

Ah, pilot, swing the wheel about! 

—Off the ruled line! 

Would you fly forever the charted course? 

Come! Swing it off, and I will shout 

To those below— We've had a change! 

Go to the windows now and see! 

And who would tremble in his seat? 

EDGAR EWING 



If COSMIC CATARACT 

Snow storms through red rays of sun 
Dry leaves fly in confused chaos 
They that take the sword, shall perish 

Dead matter fills the spheric ether 
And perfumes space with rotting fern 
Dust thou art 

Dark night stole all color from debris 
And froze to frost each fribble foliage 
To dust thou wilt return 

Wind surged through spheres of ruined space 
And loudly laughed at lifeless aeons . . . 
Upon the sand a house was built 



Then space read upon the slate of sky 
The message smoked by soaring zephyr 

Great signs shall there be from heaven 

Dawn's smile flashed light into seance 
And clouds gave birth to crystal rain 
/ am the light, I am the life 

From tear mist dew each petal lived 
Reincarnated from ash to form 
Except a man be born again 

Flowers flow through electric mist 
Carried by winds to myriad worlds 
Peace I leave unto you 



24 



The lightning bowed in last farewell 
And framed in sun a caloric cross 
Lo, I am with you alway 

The blinding light made worlds confused 
Each blooming vine turned questing eyes 
Toward glaring fire and nescient felt . . . 
From Infinite came rays of warmth 
And faith was known as blood of life . . . 
Receive thy sight 
Thy -faith hath saved thee 



HARRIETT WILEY 



| THE STAIN 

Set the eagle free, man! 

Loose him! 

I cringe to see his pain 

In that cage. Who can 

Bear to hem his world with iron? 

Black sin! to hem his world so; 

And blacker still 

To show his soul the stain 

That smears our own— 

A mania for bars. 

Loose him, I say. Let him go! 

This rugged son of freedom, 

This mountain by a hill, 

This crag among the stars! 



EDGAR EWING 



2 5 



If ODE TO ERATO 

Descend, O muse! O rarest Erato! 
Pause a time in thy sweet Hippocrenic 
Pastimes, tripping quickly in the scenic 
Glades of sacred Helicon. Return below 
From thy prolonged sojourn— as frought of woe 
For us as joy for thee— at that fair fountain 
Gushing from the Neptune-ordered blow 
Of Pegasus on the proudly swelling mountain. 
Deign, O muse, to wreathe once more a human brow! 

thou most graceful, charming fair of nine, 
Dispatch upon this dread voyage no nymphic 
Messenger, no Oread; but in triumphic 
Passage, wing with steadfast swiftness thine 
Own untried Hesperian way, and divine 
Forever render this occidental shore. 

And taunt not with thy thirst-whetting shadow— shine 
With unadulterated radiance, or, 
Stern Muse, remain perverse in thy Boeotian shrine. 
Ah, myrtle-crowned, wouldst thou— wouldst thou, 

guide 
My inept hand to sweep the heavenly lyre, 
Too long unstrung or harshly plucked, with higher 
Strains of harmony than ever sighed 
From Western harp before?— But I have tried, 

1 know, thy mercy vainly. "Impertinent 
Beggar of a prosaic day, thou pride 

Puffed pleader for immortal accomplishment, 
Shame!" Thus my outraged reason justly cried. 



26 



And I, O Muse, submit. I cannot cope 
With reason's onslaughts. I admit my crass 
Presumption, blush ashamed to view my glass. 
And yet— however vain, I fondly ope 
The pregnant stores of various fancy. My scope 
Is boundless and my dreams unbounded. Then hear, 
Contemptuous muse, mounting thy sunny slope, 
This the boastful prayer from one sincere 
Who would, but cannot be, the sad singer of lost hope. 

l'envoi 
Hear, indulgent Erato, pray hear, 
And pray forgive, this foolish song.— Nay, stop 
Tight thine ears: give nothing, sweet severe, 
Or all, to me, the would-be sad singer of lost hope. 

GEORGE P. ELLIOTT 



1 1 AM JUDAS 

Black and silver in thirty pieces- 
Garden of shadows heavy with 
Tears of night. 

In hazy skies of coming dawn- 
Three crosses stood heavy with 
Flesh and blood. 

Knees ground in filth and silver- 
Bleating, soulless, saneless 
Empty eyes. 

Weary feet plodding blood drenched earth- 
Hated, hating— 
"I am Judas?' 

BETTY GRAY BOWLING 

2 7 



If A FOOTHILL SCENE 

i 

I saw the glowing sweep of grain 

In the arms of surrounding hills; 

I paused and gazed at the vigorous, still 

Color of the core, letting it's warmth sink in and in, 

Deeper and deeper into my being, 

Until I could feel the joy and the pulsing 

Of the grain in its own story. 

ii 

My eyes caressed the golden brown 

And traveled slowly upward 

Along the silent, swooping line 

Of the rising ground. One solitary tree, 

Its deep hue made dull 

By the soft, tufty couch that lay round about it, 

Stood alone and shrank its leaves 

Close to the mother branches, 

in 

As if it would give them light and life 
From the russet thatch below. 
Again I looked at the beauty, saw 
The hush and the calm of the yellow, 
The peace of the brown, and the shine 
Of the red, and the life of the golden. 
Again I watched the shrinking tree 
Drawing light from the field. 

IV 

And I thought of life and the shrinking weak 
And the glowing, warming strong. 

FRANCES WAS 



28 



If ROADS 

One road leads out to the country side; 
One road goes by on its way to town; 
And always, as long as the sun is guide, 
The feet that love them go up and down. 
After the evening star's white light 
Has lured from the hills or the lighted town, 
There are other feet all through the night 
Following dreams up and down. 

FRED BAYLESS 
Died March 6, 1937. 

Tf RAMON 

Few sounds I've ever heard have rung so clear 

Through all the years of life 

As one old woman's feeble voice. 

I heard it through the jungle in the night, 

When we were fighting on the island of Luzon, 

And still I hear that weary voice 

That called so pleadingly, "Ramon!" 

For I had seen him on the day before, 

When he was lying dead upon the ground; 

A bullet from a white man's gun 

Had drilled him through. 

Arid all the lonely night time, far and near, 

A gentle voice, a pleading voice 

Called out the name "Ramon, Ramon, Ramon!" 

I heard it in the distance, as she wandered far away, 
And growing yet more anguished as the night wore on; 
And still I hear it as I heard it then— 
A woman's voice that called, "Ramon, Ramon, Ramon!" 

ELBERT STEWART 
29 



Tf BEAUTY GAVE ME ALL 

Sufficient now is beauty to my need, 
Emotionless as rock and pure as flame. 
The tide of ecstacy beyond all creed, 
Beating the mind to thoughts without a name, 
Has turned to ebb, as flowing dreams must cease, 
And silence whispering through my life now heeds 
The calm; the quiet mind has learned its peace 
At last, the ardent heart no longer bleeds. 

For seeing branches bright across the sun 
I do not weep for distant dreams and small; 
Though nothing wait of all that I have won, 
Beyond the last dark hill, the ultimate wall; 
Though now my pride and pain and joy be done— 
When I had nothing beauty gave me all. 

MARTHA WIGKHAM 

Tf I AM PENELOPE 

Helen's face is delicate and rich, 
But I am plain Penelope; I stitch 
A crafty web of colored strings 
While warriors die and Helen sings. 

I am the patient one who sits 
And clinks her needles as she knits. 
Helen's hand is slender white 
Above the warriors like a light. 

I am proud Penelope who sews 
And weeps while ever past me goes 
Blown along the vacant air 
Helen's streaming golden hair. 

MARTHA WIGKHAM 
30 



f A PAGAN'S PRAYER 

God, as children pray, I lift my voice in all simplicity. 

1 raise my head, my eyes; I lift my heart. 

I need not, can not bow in prayer; so true- 
So deep it asks no pose— is my humility. 

God, a Pagan born, I cannot talk to you with others 
near. 

You came to me alone; alone I pray. 

1 call no church my own, no robe divine. 
My sermons live in life; I need no presbyter. 

O God, I know no creed, no pious words of prayer, 

And yet, count you my faith the less sincere? 

The Book was made for others, not for me, 

For words grown cold from thoughts long gone are bare. 

O God, if I accept the truths of wise men other than 

your Son— 
And who shall say that they were not his kin?— 
Can such a heart as yours call me untrue? 
Can such a heart as yours have room for only one? 

O God, if I be Pagan, grant to others who can name 

their faith 
A Pagan's tolerance of station, race and creed, 
Religion that exceeds religion's name, 
And peace that comes of life, that fears no death. 

CARROLE BIRCHFIELD 



3 1 



I SORROWS OF WORTER 

Yes, sticks and stones 
May break my bones, 
But 'tis the words that crush me. 

A billion words 
Like giddy birds 
Diurnally ambush me. 



Much of the sound 
From tongues unbound 
Were better not. I hush me. 



JOHN BERRY 



I DILEMMA 

They look at life with eager eyes 
These two whose love is young, 

They seek amid the worldly wise 
The way of joy unsung. 

But never comes the answer clear, 
Nor fortune smoothes their way. 

Deep in their hearts there is no fear 
To love, but to betray. 

'Tis humbly, in the holy place, 

They ask God's aid, in prayer; 
It swiftly comes, the way of grace, 

The courage to forbear. 

FRANK BURNS 



3 2 



If PHRASES 

From the Little Fugue in G Minor of Johann Sebastian 

Bach as Interpreted at the Vesper Hour. 

The fabric is rich blue, 
With gray interpolations, 

Lithographs, 

Patterns. 

Vibrant ocean surf- 
Drooping swallows' wings- 
Austere evergreens- 
Daggers' blades- 
Stalks of bamboo- 
Masts of a clipper ship— 
The fabric is rich blue. 

WILLARD STEPHENS 



If SONNET 

We have no part in these, the quiet spread 
Of wild oat down the hill, the calm descent 
Of live oak to the lake. The larva's head 
Tearing the leaf, the parasite's intent 
Find the warm foliage is indifferent. 
Man cannot be so patient, having known 
The steady dissolution of the days, 
The cleavage of the body from the bone, 
And has no wish to lie alone and raise 
Cool eyes on nature while his pulse decays. 
Gregariously he spreads upon the hill 
His table, gazing at the scene until 
He dares not leave off laughing lest he stare 
On resignation come too soon to bear. 

ANN STANFORD 

33 



TfTHE MOLE 

Little one with velvet cloak, 
Soft as eider, dark as smoke, 
Worker, slave to fruitless toil, 
Scavenger of the senseless soil,- 
What are sun and stars to you, 
Rover of buried avenue? 



GORDON BISHOP 



1f THE QUAIL 

Running 
Across the road 
On tiny feet, a prim 
Duchess in a blue gown and a 
Plumed hat. 

ROBERT STORTZ 



f L'HORLOGE 

Dawn is a yellow spotted deer 
Running swiftly through the trees; 

Day is a buck on a rocky hill 
Taking wind of a summer breeze; 

Dusk is a simple trembling doe 
Lying in the grey-green brush; 

Night is a hungry mountain cat 
Padding through the forest hush. 



RENE SANFORD 



34 



If WHY ART THOU SORROW? 

Why art thou sorrow and not joy to me, 

Thou wolf insatiate, whose hungry tongue 

Hast fired my quivering flanks with ecstacy, 

Who huntest down my mind? Thy scent hast clung 

About the desert growth where we have gone 

Panting in frolic race and fierce pursuit, 

About the water springs, where to were drawn 

Both trembling antelope and snarling brute. 

I in my fervor lash among the brush 

Of my entangled memories, and prowl 

Seeking thy footprints, through the twilight hush 

Howling and listening for thine answering howl. 

Let not the moon go down upon my cry. 

Come from thy covert with a deep reply. 



FRANCES A. SHIER 



If TO CALIFORNIA 

Your shores were hallowed by a saint's desire! 

You, El Dorado, holy Serra trod, 

And stooping, gently lifted up to God 

The chaliced poppy, cup of living fire, 

Meet symbol of the love of ardent friar 

Who sowed the seeds of faith upon your sod 

And ceaselessly traversed its every rod 

To fan that name of faith still higher. 

Ah, California, lovely golden land, 

Your true wealth lies along the King's Highway! 

A Spanish litany, a mission trail— 

Those broken, purple-shadowed arches stand 

A noble monument in this our day 

To gallant men, who conquering, seemed to fail. 

SISTER C. S. J. OF ORANGE 

35 



If MADONNA IN THE WOODS 

Madonna stood in the pine woods 
And her halo was golden bright; 
At her feet a pool of water 
Reflected the holy light. 

The moon was blue and crystal, 
And the night was warm and mild; 
The wind bore lambkin bleatings 
And the cry of a new-born Child. 



RENE SANFORD 



| PORTRAIT 

Prosperity left it 
Semi-residential— 
Scattered houses; 
Lots of lots, 
Browsing in the sun. 

On a stretch of sidewalk, 
Weed-o'er-grown, 
Hattie comes 
In her coaster-wagon— 
Push, push, push, 
Up the unkempt sidewalk- 
Push, push, push, 
By the old lady's house. 
And the old lady, on her 
Sun-porch 
Rocking, rocking, 
Sees Hattie. 
Hattie pushing, pushing 
And the old lady watching. 



ALBERT CLARK 

36 



I NIGHT MUSIC 

I 

O the sound of the wild wind sighing, 

And the gentle pain within; 
O the eve-mist settling over 

All the city's fading din. 

O the call of the fragrant pine trees! 

And the yearning heart that leaps 
At the twang in air of sea-salt 

While the whole world fitfully sleeps. 

'Tis the evensong of toiling 

And the spirit's rest from care. 
Night! Night! wilt thou bring relief now, 

That the day might be more fair? 

ii 

Stars! Stars! Sing me a song! 
No one shall hear it, 
Though I feel it within me more vibrant and strong 
Than all trumpets and cymbals that sound 
A glad fanfare of joy all around. 
Yet no one shall hear it- 
Stars! Stars! Sing me a song! 

Moon! Moon! Shed thy dear beams! 
Love must be lighted; 
For each lover is wishing for shimmering dreams 
That need touching by lunar magic 
For the loves that are muted and tragic. 
O love must be lighted! 
Moon! Moon! Shed thy dear beams! 



37 



Ill 

Desires that profane this night! 

Fret me no longer 

With this aching hunger, 
This gnawing restlessness that yearns 

To satisfy itself in dreams 
That soon shall haunt the morrow with their burns. 

Along the moonlit turrets of lunacy 

I walk with ghosts of long-expired sighs; 

And I know not what dream thou art, O night, 
For thou hast mothered a world of subtle lies. 

O niger nox, O atrox nox, 

Thou blind and traitorous night! 
O sweet-breathed night with the soft and fluent eyes, 

O wilt thou heal a blight? 
The mournful mistress of a hundred moods— 
Thou swarthy Negro, hateful symbol of hate, 
Crush me not when thy form above me broods. 
At once thou art my fate, 
And then again the mate, 
Of all the fancies a friendly love includes! 

O warm and friendly night! 
Full in the blissfullness 
Of soft forgetfulness, 
Let me lie in peace with you, 

Your honey and your balm impart 
And let my dreams be but a happy few! 

FRANCIS SANGUINETTI 



38 



Tf TREES ON A HILL 

The trees, like bent old women, 

Go stumbling, bow-backed, down the hill 

One after another, 

Their low-hung branches 

Dustily brushing the ground 

Like fringed shawls. 

RUTH COMMAGERE 



If SUNRISE 

The red light sweeps over the heavens 
Like a great fire dragon 
Finding and consuming here and there 
A star left over by the night. 

RENEE CRUM 



f LINES IN AUTUMN 

Spring- 
Is a phantom flute 
Piping on these hills 
The echo of a summons wildly sweet . . . 
Now lost. 

Autumn 

Is a trumpet 

Of crimson leaves and gold, 

Of winds, and high skies brightly blue 

With challenge. 

KATHARINE CHASTAIN 



39 



If LINES IN MIDSUMMER 

We, 

Standing close on a hilltop, 

Lifted our eyes in the velvet dark 

To a hesitant cascade scoring the summer night 

With falling stars. 

KATHARINE CHASTAIN 



Tf CALIFORNIA QUEST 

Ask you where is California found? 
Go then on the roads which long have wound 
Through the litanied towns of Spanish tone; 
See the silvered shores where the sea-winds moan, 
Serried Missions crumbling, treasured sites, 
Crisp old San Francisco's glistening height, 
Valleys green and glinting arboreal gold, 
Silent peaks— white with winter's cold. 
Ask you where is California found? 
Search long. Look well. Lift your eyes from 
the ground! 

FRANKLIN CULLEN 



| WHILE DUSTING IN VARSI LIBRARY 

Old books and tomes in sheepskin bound, 

And yellowing leaves with pungent, centuried must; 

I wonder if in you is found 

The sparkle of truth— undimmed by History's dust. 

FRANKLIN CULLEN 



4 



1 1 REMEMBER 

The golden glory 
Of the Harp Room 
At sunset, 

The fog-filled valley 

Like 

A soft grey sea, 

The hills 

Looming like black velvet 

Against a faded sky, 

The blue blur 
Of Catalina 
On a dull day, 

The fog 

Darting across the garden 

With swift ghost-fingers, 

The silhouette 
Of voung acacias 
Against a blue sea, 

The silken swirl 

Of weeds 

On the fire break, 

Glimpses 

Of the delicate ivory 

Of a dusty miller 

I remember. 



4< 



MARY CONDON 



I MOTHER EARTH, HOLD 
MY BABY 

Mother Earth, hold 

My baby in your arms 

Tenderly 

As in mine she used to be, 

Cozily in your arms, for me. 

Sturdy Oak, stand by 

Her in the dark 

Assuringly 

Till she's not afraid to be 

So far away from me. 



CONSTANCE CRANE 



Tf RETRIBUTION 

No covenant with peace is mine tonight. 
Nor will there ever be, until the stabbing 
Steel-blue coldness of your eyes recedes 
Down the shaft of memory, dimmed to a puff 
Of ashes. 

No spoken doom has ever chilled a hope 
Nor prefaced dragging anguish more profound 
Than one last frozen glance exposing the dead 
Child of old illusions long burnt out 
And cruelly. 

Your forgiveness or my wan penitence 
Cannot raise old towers. I pray that you 
Forget! My shadow is the look you gave; 
Its livid mark I bear. I shall not forget 
You cared. 

CAROL DOROTHY 

4 2 



Tf COLLEGE DANCE 
{Sonnet in dialogue) 

Freshman girl: 
"Are all boys here-about as dull as these? 
And do they all dance so, with feet of lead?" 

Senior girl: 
"Yea, verily, my child, thus do they tread 
The measured step, eschewing grace and ease!" 

Freshman: 
"And why does yonder yokel clutch and squeeze 
His partner so, as if in mighty dread?" 

Senior: 
" 'Tis done because he knows all hope is dead. 
See how the maiden's face does slowly freeze— 
Contempt and pain are boldly written there." 

Freshman: 
"Alas, that college dreams should fade away 
Before such brutal truth! But why do you, 
O sage, still tolerate this grim affair? " 
Senior: 

" 'Tis not a senile urge for tardy play— 
My thesis, Human Habits, lacks a clue." 

GRACE DICKEY 



]\ SUMMER HORIZON 

The hills 

Are patient rows 

Of camels, kneeling in 

The shimmering turquoise courtyard of 

The sky. 

NANCY E. GARRETT 



43 



Tf MEDITATION 

Oft' in the quiet hours of night 

When silence reigns supreme, 
When all about is cool and wet, 
And o'er the earth a canopy set 

Where the countless stars then gleam, 

I like to find a hidden way 

And wander there, alone; 
And ponder o'er the lovely things 
That life to all humanity brings 

In countless ways unknown. 

ALICE COMPTON 



1 1NSPIRATION 

O world, how thou dost fling thy challenge bold 

To deeds, not only thoughts exalted high, 

The scampering scarlet leaves, the birds that fly 

Black silhouettes against blue mountains cold, 

The lacey trees that sway in sunset's gold, 

The softly swirling snowflakes mutely vie 

With music of the sleigh bells passing by, 

The hour when first thy love thou didst unfold. 

The rising, falling, vivid melody 

Of great symphonic poems that are hurled 

Across the magic waves, with meaning fraught. 

It is most strange that men should hear and see 

And yet not be inspired to help their world. 

God, Grant to men the strength for deed, not thought! 

JANET FOWLER 



44 



If QUEST 

I am a shepherd lad 

A stranger here— 

And you are strange to me. 

My sandaled feet are sand-burned 

For I have travelled far 

And climbed tall hills 

And walked alone; 

Your feet are snug 

And smartly clad, 

Not bruised and caked with dust, 

For you are civilized, 

And wise, 

Not uncouth and lowly like my kind. 

So I have come to worship— 

And to learn. 

I walk with you your city streets, 

I see your shops 

With glittering wares 

And jostling throngs, 

Your clerks with tired eyes. 

I hear your little children say their prayers- 

To Santa Claus. 

A beggar crouches in the street 

You shrink away 

Or hurry with unseeing eyes 

For he is old 

And has no legs 

And soon will die. 

But you have friends 

And you give gifts . . . 



45 



You hurry on and brush aside 

The little child 

With tear-starred eyes 

Who looks up in your face. 

You have no time to smile 

Or touch with loving hands 

The tousled curls 

For you are program chairman— 

And there's a ball— for benefit 

A luncheon 

And a tea. 

Your church chimes ring 

And soon soft light 

Will sift through tinted glass 

To show the world 

You worship God 

And thank Him for His Son. 

You sit inside "on cushioned pews" 

And sing a bit — 

And listen some. 

I try to understand, 

I try 

To use your twentieth century way 

Of thanking God for Christ 

His Gift of Love 

Long years ago 

My grandsires stood upon a windy hill 
Forgive my weakness 
But I wish for one sweet moment 
I could be upon a hill-top now- 
Some hill-top where the night was still 
And crisp 
And cool 

4 6 



And clear. 

Where windswept skies 

Were bright with stars 

And one star flamed with living fire. 

I wish that I 

Might lay my cheek 

Against a fuzzy lamb 

Hear restless stir of drowsy sheep, 

Softly tinkling bells. 

I wish that I 

Might stand up straight and tall 

And hear the angel song 

Of "Peace-goodwill" 

And follow with the star-shine on my face, 

And kneel at last 

Before a Manger Babe. 

MARY DUTTON 



I PRAYER 

Teach me to love with that all healing love 

That sees beyond despite and fear and pain, 

Pride and the selfish eye, greedy of gain, 

And seeing thus finds there the pure, tall life to love, 

Eyes and hands that move to bless, alone to bless, 

The mind reflecting good, knowing happiness. 

Help me to find this year a more abundant youth, 

Bearer of greater beauty, bearer of peace, 

Filled less with strife and want, knowing release 

From all unholy things, from that strange apathy 

That dulls a mind alert, a loving deed. 

Help me to tend a flower born of bright and holy seed. 

ELIZABETH T. HARRINGTON 

47 



Tf A LOOKING GLASS 

In Which I attempt to Apprehend the Obscure 

What are you, Thing in the Looking Glass, 

That would speak silent words 

Of a non-existent language?— 

And would with your wild, dark-light eyes 

See more than is given men to see? 

What are you, that you drop your mask 

To me alone, and stare with cavernous hunger? 

You are a gate, a bed, a cloud-path. 

web of diffident life! 

1 know my soul! 

I know the beauty and the passion, 
Mine is the fierce ugliness, 
Mine the blackness and the hate- 
White horror, steel and pus, 
Wide-irised terror of the loneliness! 
I have calm and I have wisdom. 
I am a germ of isolated consciousness 
Floating in infinite ecstasy and misery- 
Here is truth! It sears the gentle veil of happiness. 
Only the misery, only the ecstasy! 
(Night and a grey gull flying.) 

And which of us is the reflection, 

O hunchback dwarf in search of the Holy Grail! 



JOHN BERRY 



If MAIDEN LOVE 

Throughout the hours of life we live, 

We love in laughter's play. 
But by my side she ever stands 

Madonna of my day. 

RICHARD GRACE 



If PRAYER OF THE WANDERER 

TO HIS MADONNA 

I haven't prayed to you for all these years; 
Nor, silent, knelt before your face divine; 
Nor have I offered penance with my tears, 
Nor burned one candle at your little shrine. 

But I have loved your image in the mild, 
Sweet ecstasy of dawn's own reverence, 
And in the shy gaze of a little child 
I knew your glance with all its innocence. 

No anthem ever sweeter hymned your grace 
Than one wild bird's song in a moonlit hour; 
No altar ever softer framed your face 
Than does the heart of every gentle flower. 

I haven't prayed to you in all these years; 
I did but echo what the faithful led. 
My sins forgive, Madonna, with these tears; 
How could I sweeter say what Nature said? 

MARGARET FRAMES 



If BAZAAR 

Odoriferous fragrances scented the air 

With jasmine and lilac and myrrh; 
The perfumes of Egypt, Assyria, Greece, 

The treasures of kingdoms that were. 
Each fragrance was held in a carved crystal vial, 

Or other containers as fine. 
Above these aromas a placard of white 

Read "Perfume sale, one-sixty-nine." 

ELOISE HORNSTEIN 

49 



1f THE DESERT 

Dawn- 
Gold rimmed mountains 
Foretell the rising run. 
Purple night shadows 
Linger in remote stretches 
Of desert wastes. 
Grotesque Joshua trees 
Guard the portals 
Of the horizon. 
Noon- 
Pointed peaks of red lava 
Reach toward the 
Unclouded sky. 
Patches of dusty cactus 
On calid sands 
Relieve the torrid glare. 
Distant mirages mock 
The thirsty voyager. 
Evening- 
Latticed clumps of sage 
Trace delicate patterns 
On cooling sands. 
Somber shadows of dim ranges 
Create fantastic images. 
Sifted silver moonbeams 
Diffuse everywhere a 
Fairy-like radiance. 

LORRAINE GIBSON 



5° 



I ATHEIST 

Never to know the still, sublime content 
Of faith in some horizon past his sight; 
Never to rest when twilight's banishment 
Of day restores an esoteric night; 
Never to stand and wait with folded hands, 
Knowing the moment whispers to the years; 
Never to feel the pulse of soft commands 
That quell the dissonance of doubts and fears. 

Always the beating fists upon a door 
Of lead that opens only with a key; 
Always the alien on some foreign shore 
Who looks with wistful eyes upon the sea; 
Always the secret yearning for a sign 
That beauty can exist beyond the known; 
Always the searching for an inner shrine 
Where he might kneel and call a prayer his own. 

If only he would take his cap and climb 
To heights where earth and sky and water blend, 
He might reach out to touch the tip of time 
And smile to find he cannot feel the end. 

ELAINE L. GOLDBERG 

If GARDENS 

Small gardens are enclosed by walls, but none can wall 

the sky, 
And none can hide the cheerful tree from those who 

travel by; 
And none can take the apple boughs and claim them for 

his own, 
For nature's beauties on the earth belong to God alone. 

FRED KERN 

51 



If MUSIC 

Please, Musician, play a tune- 
Some throaty notes on your bassoon, 
And let me dream; 
Let think of London fogs, 
Of narrow streets with many jogs, 
And Pudding Lane, and highland bogs- 
So let me dream. 

Take your flute and wind me notes 
As some old Phrygian, herding goats 
On craggy hills 

Might pipe a simple song to me— 
Clear and sweet, in minor key, 
An ageless tune to set me free 
From fancied ills. 

As you pluck your mandolin, 
I watch a Spanish dance begin, 
With half-closed eyes; 
I see bright shawls and olive faces, 
White mantillas made of laces, 
Gory bull-fights, breathless races, 
Turquoise skies. 

Pound your drum with rhythmic beat; 

I close my eyes and feel the heat 

Of jungle lands, 

Feel the savage, frenzied mood, 

Tom-toms calling to the feud, 

Dancing natives, blackly nude 

On tropic sands. 



5 2 



Play each instrument you know 
So I around the world may go; 
Your music seems 
A magic carpet made for me, 
Just woven out of melody, 
To take me over land and sea 
Within my dreams. 

HELEN LOUISE GRIGSBY 



If HOKKU 

Alone 

beside a path 

of bright pansy faces, 

I knelt in prayer and there my faith 

grew strong. 

I wove 

a dream of gold 

last night from web-like threads 

that fell from above in paths of 

moonbeams. 

Softly 

as tinkling glass 

upon a hardwood floor, 

I heard the sharp shattering of 

a heart. 

MARGARET GRANT 



53 



If THE SEASONS IN CINQUAINS 

MOON 

A moon 

Plays hide and seek 

With silver clouds in fields 

Of liquid blue, and daisies are 

The stars. 



MOTH 

Night's wings 

Have scattered with 

The dust of stars the dark 

Blue blossom of the sky, and flown 

Away. 

RAIN 

The rain 

Is bringing Night 

In long grey strands of pearls, 

Each darker than the last, from skies 

Of lead. 

SMOKE 

The wind 

Blows pungent smoke 

In curling pale grey scarves 

Against the velvet studded sky 

Of Night. 

NANCY E. GARRETT 



54 



f GYPSY MOTHER'S SONG 

We roam the valleys 
And tramp the hills, 
Tim, Tirnmy and I, 
And pick the cresses 
Along the rills 
Tim, Timmy and I. 

We gather berries 
And wreath our hair, 
Tim, Timmy and I, 
And skip a brooklet 
And hum an air, 
Tim, Timmy and I. 

And sometimes Timmy 
Rides piggy-back 
On Papa Tim and me, 
And scans the trailets 
For late deer track; 
A big-game hunter is he. 

Cloud shadows 

Play hide-and-seek 

With Tim, Timmy and me, 

But their queer patterns 

Never pique 

Tim, Timmy and me. 

And light and free 
We fling a song 
Tim, Timmy and I 
And hand in hand 
We swing along 
Tim, Timmy and I. 



55 



For God is good 

And faith is strong 

With Tim, Timmy and me. 

And life is new 

And dreams are young 

With Tim, Timmy and me. 



GENOVEVA SAAVEDRA HIDALGO 



| SEA GULLS COMING HOME 

High in the sky against the blue, 

Wings of silver and pearl 
That shine with glory of freedom 

Gracefully glide and swirl, 

Trailing the sunset banners bright 

Of coral, gold and rose 
From far horizons out at sea 

That only a sea gull knows. 

A wild discordant greeting 

Is flung to rising tide, 
And sharp is the pang of longing 

The land-imprisoned hide. 

Down to the warm sand's welcome, 

Dipping thru lacy foam 
While green waves ripple backward,— 

Sea gulls are coming home. 

LEONIE HUNTER 



56 



If SAINT PIERRE-MIQUELON 

(Two small French islands off Newfoundland) 

Ghostly sheets of grey fog 

Roll over jagged rocks; 

A piercing beam shoots from 

The hoary lighthouse on Gallant Head. 

Bearded seamen recite old tales 
As they hobble through narrow streets; 
Comely daughters of New Brittany 
Greet the fishermen from the Banks. 

Noisy wagons, pulled by Newfoundland dogs, 
Rattle past rambling shops 
As night's ultramarine blanket spreads 
Over Saint Pierre, to mark another day. 

BEN HAMILTON, JR. 

T[ SONNET TO LOST SHELLS 

I walked along the silver, shining shore 

To look for colored shells of lovely hue. 

Alas! I found them not, but I found you. 

I could not find the shells, but found more. 

It was a love I never knew before. 

Your radiant face, your eyes like morning dew 

Awoke desire, and fear, and hope I never knew. 

That bit of truth, my heart could not ignore. 

Today I walk alone along that strand 

Still seeking pearly shells I cannot find. 

But you my anguish cannot soothe or still, 

For long ago you left, led by the hand 

That snatches from this world all mortal kind. 

So quietly I walk and wait His will. 

PERSHING OLSON 

57 



f SONG FOR GOOD-BYE 

We wandered down the mountain, we ran through 

the rain. 
We laughed until the passing people thought we were 

insane. 
(The sky was a cloudy flower on a windy stalk.) 
We stepped on our reflections all along the shiny walk. 

We gathered up the candy-tuft to make a wet bouquet. 
We shaped a brazen little tune and sang it all the way. 
(A handful of stars was caught down in the puckered 

lake, 
And there was so much loveliness we though our hearts 

would break.) 

But in the light of morning nothing was the same. 
I didn't speak to you, and you . . . 
... no longer knew my name. 

ROSEMARY HANNAN 



If FANTASY 

Cool, fresh night air, 

Expectant hush, tall shadows of the specter trees 

In feathery rows, as if some careless lady 

Placed her plumed fan upright, 

Lacing grotesque patterns on the gashed black earth. 

The incandescent moon breathes on the sky 

Its mellow fragrance. 

All is still, hushed, as if some greater force said 

"Hold." 

The mortals see, and wonder at the world. 

HELEN MARSHALL 



58 



I TO JAMES STEPHENS 

Then, faith, the Leprecaun— 'tis you, 

A startled, wee-faced one, at that, 

With naughty lights fair sparking from 

Your eyes, your pointed ears back flat; 

An ugly, knowing, elfin face 

You have— and sure, 'tis quick you are, 

For never let them start the chase, 

But frighted you will leap behind 

Bright tatters of the autumn leaves; 

You chortle soundlessly, and wind 

Is taken for your voice, the while 

They seek you in the cold waste land, 

And there you are, all wicked laughs, 

In faery circle's light you stand. 

He is not dead, the Leprecaun, 

The whimsy-fashioned Irish Pan, 

The merry one who dances with 

The Gort na Cloca Mora clan; 

He mocks us now, the impish thing— 

Oh yes, I hid and saw him pass, 

Soft tracing mystic patterns in 

The green and gleaming dew-hung grass. 

BARBARA HIRSHFELD 

If AUTUMN TRIOLET 

With foliage flaming in the sun— 
The air of autumn sharp and crisp, 
The task of winter is begun. 
With foliage flaming in the sun, 
And summer's scorching work is done. 
From wood-fires blazing curls a wisp. 
With foliage flaming in the sun— 
The air of autumn sharp and crisp. 

JEANNETTE JENNINGS 

59 



I WE JOURNEYED SIDE BY SIDE 

We journeyed side by side 
Upon a dim untrodden land, 
The woman and myself marked a passage 
on the sand. 

And as we rode, I said to her 
I'm going on alone 
She looked at me and what I saw 
Made me supress a moan. 

For in that look was sweet compassion 
Not seen or known on earth 
And in it too was not the fire that 
Dances on the hearth. 

It was the fire of all-consuming love 
Known only by the few 
Who feel the impulse not of self 
But only you and you. 

And so my body went its way 

It never reached its goal. 

The grieving woman that looked at me 

Was my discarded soul. 

MARY-EM HARDIE 

f CHILD MUSING 

Seems to me 

Skyscrapers and towers 

Have growed so tall 

Heaven's got no space at all. 
Heaven's lost its privacy, 

Seems to me. 

NORMAN MENNES 
60 



If THE COTTONWOOD 

The most beautiful of things on earth to me 

Is the sun shining on the windblown leaves 

Of a cotton-wood in the spring. 

I like to think that shiny bits of green 

Are streaked with veins of purest silver, 

And that the wind is the smith 

Who fashions of it tiny bracelets 

For the fairies who whisper to each other 

As they sit on the silvered branches; 

I like to think I hear them laugh with glee 

As they bend to see themselves reflected 

In the rushing stream below; 

And I like to think that when the silversmith 

Has finished with the leaves, some unknown alchemist 

Turns them into gold and releases them to fly away 

And down, in the last swirling dance of happy death. 

RUTH KELBOURNE 



T[ MEDUSA 

The sea trips itself in hurry to escape her 

Trees bend, arms flung upward to avoid her wrath 

Fearsome, Medusa's head stares from the storm-rent sky. 

Ragged clouds knit her great, dark brows 
Lightning flashes from her baleful eyes 
Wind-swept torrents writhe in her snaky hair. 

The wind flees, shrieking in mad terror! 

BETTY JANE MITCHELL 



6l 



Tf BENARES (India) 
Dark Mother Ganga slowly winds her way 
Beside the bank, where tier on tier uprise 
Temples and mosques, hotels where rank supplies 
The need of pilgrims who now bathe and pray, 
Believing that the sacred stream will wash their sins 
away. 

The sun beats fiercely down upon the scene, 

Yet may not pierce into the narrow street 

Where lines of puny beggars stand and beat 

Their bowls, or raise their leprous hands unclean, 

To beg a price for food to nourish bodies sick and lean. 

The naked holy man cross-legged stares, 
Beneath his huge umbrella made of palm, 
To silence bound; but muttering "Sita Ram," 
His holy aspiration thus declares— 

To worship his own God, forgetting wine and women's 
snares. 

Along the ghats, the flesh-devouring fires 
Flame 'round the bodies of the white-clad dead, 
Hungrily licking up their last low bed. 
The nauseating smoke sweeps from the pyres; 
Sated with human flesh, soon on the air expires. 

The temple gongs clang out the worship hour; 
The hideous idols gaze in laughing hate 
At pilgrims striving to escape their fate. 
High overhead the temple gateways tower; 
The weird, wild music mingles with the scent of jasmine 
flower. 

MARY M. KNEELAND 



62 



If ON SLEEP 

Beyond the colored blights of consciousness, 

Bound by a thickened blackness of no sight, 

Where strange thought-imps are wakened into flight 

Around my pillow, here I hope to dress 

My hopes, once more, into stateliness, 

To cope with some mad morrow's mental flight; 

To toy with the morning's hopeful light 

When long, dark hours have sunk to thoughtlessness. 

Sleep! Take this body and these outstretched limbs— 
These warm, foul, lips; this aching, clustered brain— 
This lone and tired heart— sweet interims 
Of timeless minutes, take with you this pain . . . 
. . . Cool, placid syllables of half-heard hymns . . . 
Take all! heart, flesh and softly flowing vein. 

BERNARD IDE 

If PLEA FOR A FLOWER 

O stay the hand that plucks the bush's blush. 
No chains could hold its beauty to a vase. 
That bud that bloomed with dawn's first flush 
To such a brilliant paragon of grace. 
Its dulcet velvet lured; the bees caressed 
And carried life through winter's brown to spring. 
That such a small and shriveled seed should wrest 
These colors out of earth; such beauty bring. 
How many seeds within that flower's bowl 
Would you destroy? Flow many future blooms 
To satisfy a whim? Destroy the whole 
That you may have some color in your rooms? 
O stay the hand that would destroy the flower 
Whose fragrant beauty lasts but one brief hour. 

WILLIAM NYE 

63 



If LAMENT FOR THE MACHINE AGE 

Across the sunset's gold, do you see 

That monument to man? 
Or girding all the bay's bright glee, 

That monster, span on span? 

A thousands storms may come and go, 

But steel, they say, shan't fall. 
Yea, hark! what land the four winds blow, 

Machine-might conquers all. 

Yet, look, proud man, your world about: 

Unhappiness is king! 
Are there yet two that may be found 

To share life's precious thing? 

The God of love no longer dear 

Our world has flung aside. 
When will they know His voice to hear, 

That happiness abide? 

JOHN MC ELROY 



I A WRITER'S THOUGHT 

Books and books and books- 
All upon a shelf; 

I wish I knew why I, 
That is, in truth, myself, 

Would want to put another book 
Upon that cluttered shelf— 

ANNABELLE JOSSMAN 



64 



If KEEN TO THE COILING SEASON'S 
TURN I GREW 

Jetson flung out the vortex of event, 

I lay beside the bank of time and saw 

Year follow lazy swirling year— no rent 

To mar their mimicry— flow without flaw. 

Keen to the coiling season's turn I grew, 

Nursed corn and crept on insects, swift and sly, 

Gave stolen bones to stray dogs that I knew, 

And watched Orion stalk the winter sky. 

Time took slow form to one at once aloof 

And in the heart of it. It was a thing 

Of ebb and flow, a phoenix, for the proof 

Lay near in death and resurrection of each spring. 

Yet watching young corn's annual skyward race, 

I chafed, somewhat, at my own season's pace. 



GUY NUNN 



^[FANTASY 

We'll take a journey through the night, 
To yonder star we'll stray, 
Through silver clouds and mad moonbeams. 
Perhaps we'll go to stay. 

So take my hand and hold on tight, 
Who cares what brings the day? 
As long as it is you and I. 
Come, let's be on our way. 

Up to the heights of myriads 
Through comets' tails that spray 
Like golden rain on thistle-down. 
Oh, what a place to play. 

65 



We'll visit the Lion in his den 
Or call on Orion brave. 
We'll feed the Bear on lolypops, 
If we can find his cave. 

We'll drink sweet mist from the dipper's rim, 
And when we've had our fill, 
We'll travel back to earth again. 
Come, you be Jack, I Jill. 

OLA ORRELL 



II TO DESCARTES 

You are another, yes, another one, 
Who freshly struck with neat coincidence 
Of digits, forms and spaces, has begun, 
With swagger and a schoolboy confidence, 
The soul's dissection. 

Oh keep the slide rule out of metaphysics! 
Your theorems keep to angles and the line. 
The mind's no prey for hungry analytics. 
Empiricism never can untwine 
The soul's perfection. 

GUY NUNN 



| DISARMAMENT 

Canyon 

Corridors stand 
Immutable, where 
Ringing silence 
Rends the 
Breathless air. 

WILLIAM D. MCALLISTER 

66 



If THAT'S DIFFERENT 

So you're her brother? 
I've heard so much about you 
And now at last I meet you. 
How does it feel 

To be back in the small home town 
After four years in the city? 
Is it true you're now a doctor, 
Ready to start on your own? 
It must be grand 
To be ready to enter life 
With a purpose and goal in view. 
I've often wondered how you would look, 
But I never expected anything like this. 
You're positively handsome. 
Have you seen the town 
Since you've been back? 
Oh, no, not in the daytime. 
I mean the nightlife— 
We have that now. 

What's that?— Your wife doesn't like crowds? 
Your vuife? I didn't know- 
Well, that is— you mean you're married? 
Why, she didn't tell me that! 
But I'm glad I met you; 
I always said any brother of hers 
Is a friend of mine. 
I'll be seeing you. 

ROSALIND ODELL 



6 7 



If FIRE ENGINES 

Through the city's noise arise 

Fire sirens' eerie cries 

And city walls and streets of stone 

Are sudden jungle grown. 

Along its trails the engines bay 

Like prehistoric beasts of prey. 

Streetcars in their streams of steel 

With protesting shriek and squeal 

Pause like hippopotami 

To let the raging engines by. 

Buses halt like elephants 

Which trumpet, but dare not advance. 

Stopping short at corners, trucks 

Paw and stamp like angry bucks; 

While automobiles, smaller deer, 

Tremble side by side in fear. 

Pedestrians scramble to the curb 

And chatter like a monkey horde. 

From the flame feast back they stalk, 
Their swiftness now a pompous walk, 
Disdaining lesser cars that dare 
Escort them, though in manner ware. 
Like purring tiger cats, their deep 
Contented rumble shakes the street. 



HARBISON PARKER 



68 



U WHAT CAN A POEM DO NOW? 

("Under the sun two things at least are true, 
Nothing ever is the same— and nothing's new"— 

Chas. Recht) 

What can a poem do now but sift the ashes; 
What can a poem recall but pain asleep 
in the heart's dead song? 

What is there left to whisper of a love 

unmeasured in a broken sky, 
To indicate that flight went east-west separate 

over the trail of little things, 
To say instead we might have soared together 

to the lonely afterwhile 
Content to weave our modest pattern there 

in some beautiful double way, 
Lifting each other over falling stones with no more 

effort than two sparrows pausing in the sun. 

What can a poem do now but stir an empty dream? 
What can a poem reflect but shadows on the wall? 
And love is a bitter afterthought until 

the last embers of the mind are cold. 

Where shall I seek today another song to share 
sincere enough to brave this naked light, 
eager as breakers to clasp the shore? 

What can a poem do now to bridge the if-time space 
of the mind's desire 
with the world's grim touch? 

WILLIAM PETERSEN 



6 9 



I THE SALT AND THE SEA 

I am alone, as I sit here down by the sea, 

Except for the millions of stars, 

Whose councils have led me to many far shores. 

Once, long ago, I answered the challenge of the open sea. 

The moon captained my ship through spiritual and 

earthly seas. 
She sailed the lonely ocean, and breasted the slashing 

wave. 
Dancing the mad rhythm of the stormy sea, 
She beat out a tempo too fast for me. 
I did not heed, nor wished to see the warning lights of 

shore, 
For I was drunk in the smell of the salt, 
The romance, and the glamor of the sea. 
Alone, a castaway, I sit down by the sea. 
Shipwrecked on its rocky shore. 
I sit and watch each ship sail by. 
Will she, too, dance to that mad rhythm that sails my 

ships no more? 
Below me, the surf continues to roar, 
Swishing and swirling, calling me. 
I am coming, why? 
Because I know that I am at the mercy 
Of the salt and the sea. 

LOLA M. PAYNE 



-^ 



7« 



If ALMA MATER 

I am leaving thee tonight 

Oh home of friendship, 

Knowledge, kindness. 

To be borne thus away 

By circumstance 

Is but an act of time. 

I leave thee now, to seek 

New plains for time to bury. 

Behind I see warmth, life, 

Sparkle, happiness, and love; 

Before me I see utter blankness. 

The past shall turn from 

An object to a tool itself, 

And I must seek 

New materials to mold 

With that tool 

Of the past that is mine. 

I am leaving thee tonight 

But I am thy product; 

So will all my future life 

Be part of thee. 

LYDIANE VERMEULEN 



If SOUND AT NIGHT 

It is the wind that calls, 
Crying down the night; 
Swift against the walls, 
Softly singing fright. 
Whispered at the doors 
The word of bending trees 
And the rumor of the moors. 

FRANKLIN PATTERSON 

7 1 



If TO A MAGNOLIA 

Pale, delicate flower 
Perched like a butterfly 
On the strong branch 
Of the sturdy mother tree, 
You are like some sweet spirit, 
Trying to remain unspoiled 
In a cruel world of reality. 

May you be safe in your sheltered place; 

May those who see you 

Be not overcome by your beauty, 

So that they spoil your loveliness 

With eager, clumsy fingers. 

ELIZABETH ROBINSON 



If FLIGHT 

I will go up to the hilltops, 
Away from the tumult I'll flee, 
And there I'll shake down the shackles 
That bar me from Infinity! 

I'll lay bare the wounds of my soul, 
And probe the proud flesh here and there 
With forceps forged from a spear of grass 
And soothe with an unguent of air! 

MARYE PAYLOR 



7- 



Tf THE MAKING OF SI APO 

Tap . . . Tap . . . Tap . . . 

Sina is making siapo cloth; 
She sits in the shade of a mango tree 

And pounds with her mallet constantly: 

Tap . . . Tap . . . Tap . . . 

She stripped white bark from the mulberry branch 
And wet it with water, then pasted it flat 

On a board; with a clam shell she scraped it down smooth 
And then rolled it up into strips that were fat. 

Tap . . . Tap . . . Tap . . . 

She's pounding them steadily, one at a time; 
From inches they're widening slowly to feet 

And becoming like beautiful gossamer weave, 
Nearer a lava at every dull beat. 

She'll join them together— the pounded out strips— 

And paint on a vivid design by degrees 
With black from the candlenut, turmeric gold, 

And red from the seed of the sandalwood trees. 

Tap . . . Tap . . . Tap . . . 

Sina is making siapo cloth; 
She sits in the shade of a mango tree 

And pounds with her mallet constantly: 

Tap . . . Tap . . . Tap . . . 

JOHN READE 



73 



If cows 

The last long rays of sun 

Glance off the tawny hides of kine 

And yield themselves to twilight. 

A steady line of cows 

Passes slowly along the path 

Trampled to hardness through years, 

Along the rock-strewn, green-edged path 

Winding its gradual way towards home. 

For years the cattle cross the wide-flung valley 

Swiping a luscious clump of grass at intervals, 

Drinking the waters of the rocky creek 

With lusty swallows. 

They follow along the timberland 

Scratching their backs in the thorny thicket, 

Switching their tails at persistent flies, 

Munching the tempting leaves of low-bent oak 

Contentedly. 

The lowing herd curves slowly 

And reaches the hilltop clearing, 

Follows the barbed wire fence 

Through the open gate into the barnyard. 

Cows! 

Long slow lines of cows 

Swaying their gentle heads 

With steady pace, 

Trailing with patient tread 

The beaten paths of years. 

JOSEPH LANGLAND 



74 



TfCAT 

Little furry friend 

You gently press your head 
Against my cheek 

Content, in vibrant purrs 
Of love to speak. 

You pat my pencil as I write 
And murmur in my ear 

What only I, in all the world, 
Must hear. 

We have our language, just we two, 
The verbs are gentle throaty cries 

And nouns full glances 
From slant yellow eyes. 



THELMA STARK RICH 



Tf DEFEAT 

They'd played their best. 

They'd hoped to win. 

But all in vain I guess. 

Defeat had hovered o'er the field. 

Midst silence they were getting dressed. 

The treasured trophy gone like that! 
'Twill rest in halls of rival schools. 
Dejected, tired, forlorn, they sat—. 
Defeat was master of the rules. 

DICK LITTLE JOHN 



75 



Tf ODE TO GREY HAIRS 

Grey hairs, life's coronet to reverence, 

Are beautiful to see around your face. 

Night's forsaken 

They show so much of tenderness; 

They plant so much of wisdom 

In the furrowed lines upon your brow; 

They hold so much of love, of joy, and sorrow 

In their silver strands. 

They speak of patience mellowed with the years, 

Of wisdom filled with smiles and bitter tears, 

Of courage growing with your age, 

And all those many things that one must know 

To pass through years 

And still be lovely in a natural way. 

When I am old, oh life, give me grey hairs! 

JOSEPH LANGLAND 



| MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS 

A tall, white candle nickers in the night 

The crucifix grotesque, distorted 

A figure draped in agony 

A white mask painted with black terror-filled eyes 

A shadowed, pleading mouth 

Soft hands clutching a heavy rosary. 

The measured tread of sentries 

Moonlight— pale and ghastly 

A hideous structure outlined in granite shadow below 

"Elizabeth, you cannot betray me!" 

"Bothwell-the pipes?" 

"No— only the wind in the trees." 

A short, worn candle sputters in the dawn. 

JEANNE LAURENDEAU 

7 6 



If PAPER BLOSSOMS IN THE 

SNOW 

That was her place. That windy 
Street-corner where she stood 
Ankle-deep in snow. 
Her shabby, hooded-cloak, worn 
Smooth and thin by park benches. 
Fitful gusts of wind 
Revealed a pain-pinched face 
Too old for any child to have. 
Her hands, blue— bare, sheltered 
Paper blossoms from the wind. 
Yesterday she left her corner early 
With tears frozen on her cheeks. 
The paper blossoms lay forgotten 
In the snow. 
Today— she did not come. 

MARGARET RAU 



77 



^y FAITH 

Oh, God of glory and of might. 

Lord of Eternal Day. 

We cannot see Thy Holy Light, 

Here on our devious way. 

And still, Thy Love lives as of yore, 

As strong and true for man, 

Although the dark mist of this shore, 

Obscures Thy Noble Plan. 

Here on this path so dark and steep, 

Sharp thorns bestrew the way, 

While in the shadows serpents creep— 

Our sins of yesterday. 

But when we lift our eyes, Dear Lord, 

Up to the vaulted skies, 

We sight a realm of sweet accord— 

Thy Work and Thy Device. 

MARIA J. RODERIC 



78