(navigation image)
Home American Libraries | Canadian Libraries | Universal Library | Community Texts | Project Gutenberg | Children's Library | Biodiversity Heritage Library | Additional Collections
Search: Advanced Search
Anonymous User (login or join us)
Upload
See other formats

Full text of "Until the Day Dawn, 1942"

.. 








UNTIL THE DAY DAWN: An 

Anthology of College Verse, from 
Mount Saint Mary's College, Los 
Angeles (Brentwood), California. 
Valley Press Publishers, Kcdiands, 
Calif. 

We rarely find so much youth 
and beauty between the covers of 
a single book. These verses that 
nuch meaning are appro- 
priated' described by California's 
poet, John Steven McGroarty, in 
the dedication poem, "To Younger 
Poets." He refers to the poets as 
blowing on silver reeds to ease the 
heartbreaks with their songs. 

The brief verses in the freshness 
of loveliness, and in the dewy fra- 
grance of the morning can be real- 
ized only in reading each exquis- 
ite line. 

Here is the sincerity of true 
poetry, the ease to heartbreak that 
may be felt in a cloistered garden. 
This is not the riotous blossoms of 
a wild landscape, it is the intelli- 
gently cultivated garden of flow- 
ers. 

So perfect, so restrained the 
verse that the reader bows before 
the one who has guided the youth- 
ful thoughts into a flawless tech- 
nique. In the foreword by Sister 
Mary Dolorosa, president of the 
college, we are introduced to the 
leader in the classes of poetry, Sis- 
ter Marie de Lourdes, under whose 
instruction many of the students 
have received honors and first 
prizes in contests of poetry in the 
national colleges. She is the direc- 
tor and compiler of this volume. 

Sister Marie de Lourdes is af- 
fectionately remembered in Tuc- 
son as having been formerly Moth- 
er Superior of St. Joseph's Acad- 
emy, Tucson, member of the order 
of Sisters of St. Joseph of Caronde- 
let, St. Mary's Hospital and St. Jo- 
seph's School for Boys. 

Sister Mary Dolorosa in the fore- 
word indicates the atmosphere at 
Mt. St. Mary's College, for she 
writes that youth by nature is cre- 
ative, spontaneous and eager to ex- 
press its soul, but shy in expres- 
sion. Every one will feel that these 
poems are natural, graceful and un- 
folding. 

The poems are written not in the 



19th century worn meters and reg- 
ular rhythms, but in our newer and 
well accepted forms. Naturalness 
finds expression in irregular lines 
and free verse as well as in some 
French forms and the sonnets. 

The poems are original in 
thought and imagery. Words are 
well chosen and many strikingly 
apt in meaning. We cannot forget 
"A fringe of rain," "night that 
roams the hills velvet sandaled," or 
the sea at night "like a howling 
beast with sharp white teeth at a 
gruesome feast." In the poem "An 
Alms," its five short lines point 
the dandelions on the lawn as coins 
flung to the beggar rain. There 
are sonnets, too, pure Petrarchian 
in form to delight a poet's heart. 

It would not be possible in this 
review to mention for excellence 
any of the 48 poets of the 104 
poems. The three or four-line 
poems are as vivid as those cover- 
ing more than a page. 

This is a book for the war- 
scarred, weary folks to read, for 
the tender gladness of youth is 
I here in one exquisite hour of mem- 
ory. 

By Marilla M. Guild. 



UNTIL THE DAY DAWNS— An Anthology Archived 

oi College Verse, published by the students JASMC 

ol Mount St. Mary's College, Los Angeles, 
California. (No price given.) 

In presenting this little volume, 
Mount St. Mary's College "offers a 
group of original poems, contributed by 
students of its English department, 
with the hope of establishing a tradi- 
tion of encouragement of creative effort, 
no matter what the field." For this rea- 
son alone, the book's appearance is 
justified, even though the poems, for the 
most part, are not the finely wrought 
lines of the consummate artist. How- 
ever, there is spontaneity, a pleasant 
and interesting variety of verse pat- 
terns, and a determination on the part 
of the young singers to learn the tools 
of expert craftsmanship. No one expects 
young collegians to manifest the mid- 
day of achievement; yet the volume is 
redolent of promise and high hopes 
such as becomes the best traditions of 
Catholic song. Furthermore, these 
young people show much good sense in 
treating of subjects familiar to them, 
and in their hands the familiar Califor- 
nia flowers, seacoast and mountains ac- 
quire an intimacy that is genuine. 

Charles M. Carey. 



"... Until the day dawn, and 

the day -star arise in your hearts" 

— Saint Peter 11:1 



Digitized by the Internet Archive 

in 2012 with funding from 

LYRASIS Members and Sloan Foundation 



http://archive.org/details/untildaydawn194200vari 



. . . Idntd tite 3>af 2baum 

Anthology of College Verse 









Mount Saint Mary's College 
Los Angeles California 

MCMXLII 



Copyright, 1942 
Mount Saint Mary's College 



DEDICATION 



To Younger Poets 

You whose eager dreams are threads 

Of strings of the Homeric lyre, 
Upon whose fair uplifted heads 

Descends the bright Promethean fire; 
Your souls shall quest the world's sad needs 

Beaten and bruised by ancient wrongs. 
But, you shall blow on silver reeds 

To ease the heart-break with your songs. 

John Steven McGroarty 



FOREWORD 

Youth, by nature, is creative, spontaneous, eager to ex- 
press its soul; yet by a curious anomaly, it is marked by a 
certain shy reserve which can only be expanded by a tact- 
ful and gentle understanding and appreciation of its inter- 
ests and aims. 

The dawning, not the mid-day in its blaze of glory, 
symbolizes youth's awakening to the expression of its in- 
spiration, its hopes, and the unfolding of the spiritual 
beauty of its soul. Here is the point at which, realizing 
that the student who loves the best in poetry possesses a 
poet's soul and is adaptable to the acquisition of the spirit 
of the finest culture, judicious guides may furnish gifts 
whose value can never be lost. 

In presenting this little volme, "Until the Day Dawn," 
Mount Saint Mary's College offers a group of original 
poems, contributed by students of its English Department, 
with the hope of establishing a tradition of encouragement 
of creative effort, no matter what the field. 

Acknowledgment is due to "First the Blade," to Amer- 
can College Quill Club and other publications for permis- 
sion to reprint some of these poems. 

To Sister Marie de Lourdes, director of the work and 
compiler of the volume, to the Honorable John Steven 
McGroarty, who has favored it with a dedicatory poem, 
and to each of the contributors the Faculty offers best 
wishes for its success. 

Sister Mary Dolorosa, 

President. 



CONTENTS 

Ameche, Catherine 

Noel . . . .36 

Walking Home from School - - 74 

Barrett, Jeanne 

Because We Love Him - - 68 

Bowman, Beata 

Why - - 71 

Le Retour ....... 47 

Prophecy ....... 59 

Requiescat ' 64 

Brady, Bernice 

No, Nevermore - 60 

Brown, Barbara 

Sea-change - - 41 

Breen, Natalie 

Optimism . . . - 34 

Baby's Laughter - - 20 

Bryan, Mary 

To Saint Joseph .... - 50 

Condon, Mary 

Dusty Miller - 46 

Wild Lilac - - 26 

Corlett, Wanda 

Reluctance - - - - ' - 31 

Values - ... .30 

Crum, Renee 

Sunrise ' ' - 39 

Cutter, Ruth 

White Walls - . . 45 



Duffy, Kathleen 

Frustration - - 73 

Tranquillity ' - 73 

An Alms - - - 43 

Christ Watched Alone - - 32 

Scherzo .,*,,, - 43 

Emerson, Mary Helen 

Vow . . . . .71 

Embers 70 

Beachcomber - <- - 72 

On Waiting - - 69 

Shell Song - - - 72 

For My Daughter Laurel - 70 

Feenan, Gertrude 

Lace-maker - - - 27 

Kirby House ..... - 42 

David's Father - - - 25 

Francis, Mary 

Satiety ... . - 50 

Fitzgerald, Monica 

Kennings *..*,* 64 

Garnett, Patricia 

White Nostalgia - - - 28 

Gerber, Aline 

Bijou - - 68 

Gibson, Lorraine 

The Desert - 51 

Haviland, Cina 

Cinquains: Definition ... . 53 

Echo -53 

Announcement .... - 53 

To a Vagabond .... . 53 



Hidalgo, Genoveva Saavedra 

In the Old Pueblo - - 24 

From the Hill - - -24 

The Harp of the Winds - 23 

Mount Vernon - - - 21 

Haselton, Zella 

La Lune - - 65 

Hoyt, Margaret 

Wind Ways - 48 

Kelly, Catherine 

To John Steven McGroarty - - 58 

Old Pewter - - 29 

Laurendeau, Jeanne 

Mary, Queen of Scots ' - 45 

Mahoney, Peggy 

The Vigil ..... .63 

To an Irish Harp - - 61 

To One Dead . . . .62 

Marshall, Anna Jane 

The Vigil Light - -38 

McCullagh, Lucille 

Wind-Winged - 29 

December Seventh - 16 

A Tear - 28 

Milligan, Terry 

Change in China - - - 34 

Morning Glory - -47 

Garrulous Shepherd - - 22 

Aquarium - - -48 

Spring Fancy - - 30 

Mitchell, Elizabeth 

Medusa - - - 44 

Morris, E. Ayn. 

Like Unto Rain - - 65 



Moran, Margaret 

The Little People - 75 

Musil, Billie 

Things — A Fragment - - 49 

O'Connell, Margaret 

California - . - - 19 

God's Hands - - - 38 

Men's Hands 67 

Mount St. Mary's - 21 

Miner's Wife ' 66 

America . . . ., . - 18 

Diane 40 

Virgin Mary . . . . - 15 

To Sister Marie de Lourdes ' - 76 

Pierce, Frances Ita 

The Villain's Villanelle - - 56 

Comparisons . . . . 36 

Suburba - 37 

On Susan's Freckles . . . - 57 
The Gypsy's Jacket * «- - ' '55 

Spring Soliloquy .... - 69 

Pioneer Widow 17 

Shiftless? . . . . .37 

Spring 33 

Patrick, Joan 

To Mount St. Mary's - - 74 

Pinkerton, Joy 

The Wind Is a Robin 54 

Koko Head .... .63 

Age and Youth . . . 63 

Phillips, Mary 

Today 54 

Junk Shop ....... 52 

Psalm -39 

Purcell, Helen 

To Tatiana .... - 61 



Robinson, Lucylle 

Transition ' - - 44 

Ross, Mary Carmen 

Caprice - - 49 

Rossman, Nancy 

Sonnet ' - - 52 

Rumsey, Helen Elizabeth 

Summer Rain . . . - 46 

Sibilio, Mary 

Sea Foam . . . - 66 

Camel of the African Magi - - 32 

Tanske, Charlotte 

Monica - .... - 31 

Time of Birth <- - - 33 

Trounce, Kathleen 

Tanka - - - 75 

Weaver, Harriet 

Snow Magic ******. 62 
Evanescent ....... 57 

Williams, Frances 

The Poet's Praver - ' - ' - - 35 



.UNTIL THE DAY DAWN. 



VIRGIN MARY . Margaret O* Cornell 

Years ago they carved you, 

forgetting you had Jewish eyes 
and hair of shadow black. 

They gave you yellow harvest braids 
and eyes to match their rivers. 

They made you a queen and then forgot. 

I see you hiding now 

among wheat'sheafed land — 

as if you were a German sister 

working in the rows. 
You watch the wind trench down the wheat, 

the wind like soldiers shivering 

through the grass, 

the wind that whirrs 

like secrets of a creeping army. 

You watch and think of war. 

Where is the garden that they gave, 
the walls, high, brushed clean 
by wind'moved trees, 
walls rebuilt, not up, but down, 
where men grow damp to crawl 
and know what Siegfried means? 

Where is the garden 

covered now by land, 
wheat'smothered and unflowered? 

Page I T 



DECEMBER SEVENTH . Lucile McCullagh 

A peaceful calm of settled years 
encloses in its folds 
The flickering of swaying skirts 
and blue ha^e of sundown. 

The people sing 

of joys already spent 

Of matchless nights 

and love 

beneath an ageless and triumphant moon. 

The harbor sleeps in simple quietude 
and traced against the sky 
The shadowing masts and rocking hulks 
and barracks still — still in fathom deep. 

The soldiers dream 

of nights before 

Of lasy days 

and walks 

beneath an understanding and triumphant moon. 

A yellow beam outlines the giant wings 

a roar proclaims the might 

that could be theirs. A strike. 

Oh God: What anguish fills the air! 

The afflicted cry 
of deepened pain 

Page 16 



Of weakened bodies 

and hearts 

beneath a cruel and unrelenting moon 

They left a trail of bloody souls; 
brought back the wounds of time 
But freedom will again be ours 
to win, to keep, and love. 

The people sing 

of sweet and sacred peace, 

Of days to come 

and lives 

beneath an ageless and triumphant moon. 

PIONEER WIDOW . Frances Ita Fierce 

So long, so long, it seems, since she felt lace 

Around her throat and ruffled on her wrist. 

The most familiar pattern she can trace 

Is the plow handle, or a rusted twist 

Of iron from a broken wagon wheel; 

Yet sometimes, sloshing suds in the tin pail 

For supper dishes, she can almost feel 

The foamy mist that made her wedding veil. 

But that's behind, and there's no time to think 

With children to be washed and put to bed, 

When weeds are lapping at the pasture's brink, 

And cattle must be watered and be fed; 

Almost a stranger now, that youthful girl, 

Proud of her gold ring set with a seed of pearl. 

Page 17 



AMERICA . . . . Margaret O'Connell 

This is the land, 

this land of a land, 

a Gulliver with boots in the sea! 

Like Pygmalions we sculptured you, 

sifting clovcbrown earth and 

quarrying stones, 

and putting in your veins 

the livid blood of patriots. 

We put garlands on your head 

of forest leaves embraced 

by flowers. 

We fed you fields of wheat, 

like golden arrows quivering 

in the soil, 

and dammed the sweet cool rain 

to kiss your throat. 

We paved your way into the sky — 

tall buildings — for you to boost yourself 

and kept you warm with factory fires. 

We made you strong, broad Gulliver, 

that you might one day dip your hand 

into the sea 

and capsize little men 

who came to build new fences 

round our yards, 

to numb our tongues, 

to crucify our God! 



Page 1 8 



CALIFORNIA Margaret O' Council 

California, 

you are a church, 

adobed once, rebuilt with gold 

on dusty graves, 

fertile with the faith 

of Spanish monks and Indian races — 

graves catacombed beneath the cities — 

each a kneeling place 

upon your soil. 

Your pillars are 

the curving cedars from the south, 
Redwood pines, and pale-scarfed firs. 
Your carpet-moss is yearly plushed. 
Your windows are stained-glass 
of thin clouds filtered through 
with sun. 

The hill-sides are 

your altars banked with flowers — 
Buck-brush Holly, Owl-faced Clover, 
Azaleas, Asters from Sequoia, 
Lupine bluer than Brodiaea, 
chaliced Poppies flattered 
by the lighted tapers 
of the Yucca. 

The landscapes are 
your panels, symbol-filled 

Page 19 



and laid with pious folded Palms, 

with olive boughs and wind-shy corn 

that tans beside the 

gold-gowned orange, 

fat-throated doves, 

the locusts and wild honey. 

Swing the insense, Wind, 

from your flower-filled censer. 

The sacrifice is ready! 

Let high-priests come 

with purpled wines 

from grape-vine meshes, 

with sun-flushed plums and apricots, 

brush-brown fowls and muff -clad sheep, 

cotton smoothed to altar-laces. 

Bleach wind-cleaned wheat 

for breaded hosts. 

We take of your Communion. 



BABY'S LAUGHTER. . Hatalie Breen 

Radiant silver, like a dew drop, falls, 
Raising the doom of a baby tear; 
Wild burst of sunshine, tinkles and calls, 
Covers the thought of an elfin fear. 



Page 20 



MOUNT ST. MARY'S 

Margaret O'Connell 

My college is a multitude 

of fine tmngsT^/" 
A great white bird, with window-eyes 

a brooding on its wings; 
An opened iris blossom 

ethereal and wan, 
Sleeping like a fairy 

on a moonlight'furrowed lawn; 
The walls are white stone tablets 

leaning two by two, 
Knicked and scarred and stylus-marked 

by all its students do; 
A white and burning furnace — 

a squab claymoulding kiln — 
Firing hearts to lovccups 

for a college on a hill. 



MOUNT VERNON 

Genoveva Saavedra Hidalgo 

The willow 
Bent with grief 
Trails her tresses 
In the pool ■ — 
A lustre vessel 
To receive her tears. 

Page 21 



GARRULOUS SHEPHERD . . . . 
. . . Terry Milligan 

"Light the fires, comrades. It is cold upon the hill 

tonight, 
And I miss the sheep4ined cape once on my 

shoulders. 
All day my heart has pondered last night's fright. 
Holla! Benjamin. Come join us at the fire. 
We must watch our grazing flocks until the light, 
And they are restless since the star has filled the sky. 
What thought you, friends, of last night's apparition: 
As for myself, I know not what to think. 
Perhaps my eyes grow old with nightly watching — 
But, David, you are young and you, too saw the 

vision. 
It must indeed be God that lies so near in Ezra's cave 
To send those marvelous heralds on his mission. 
Such singing I have never heard, nor seen 
Such blinding light in all my vintaged age. 
Why were we honored — we poor shepherds of the 

green? 
We followed the beckoning figures, the youngest of 

the flock 
Upon my arm, to the cave door, and by this staff on 

which I lean, 
I swear the dismal place was lighted from within 
By that great star that we have wondered at for 

months 
There, on a manger, lay a new born Babe encircled 

by his kin 

Page 22 



'This is the Son of God, kneel and adore," the 

angels sang. 
The lamb I carried, pure as water, free as he from 

sin, 
Went scurrying on wobbly legs to where the Baby 

smiled. 
My sheep4ined cape I left upon the floor, in case the 

Babe was cold. 
I wonder at the mother's crying out, she who was so 

mild, 
When David's staff and mine were entertwined, they 

cast a shadow 
In a cross4ike pattern on the lamb and child. 



THE HARP OF THE WINDS . . 

. . . . . . . . Genoveva Saavedra Hidalgo 

The eucalyptus 

Playing with the wind 

Sways to his rhythm, 

Each musical leaf 

The sensitive string 

Of an Aeolian harp of silver. 



Page 25 



IN THE OLD PUEBLO . . 
Genoveva Saavedra Hidaho 

— Winter Cotton woods — 
Bare cottonwoods 

Screen the parched bed of the river, 
Spreading their fan of silver lace 
Across a turquoise sky. 

— Mission San Xavier del Bac 

"White Dove of the Desert" 

In purest spun'gold nest, 

A treasured bit of Spanish shawl 

Upon her hallowed breast. 

— Late Spring — 

By a silver thread of a stream 

Two dragonflies — 

One, a needle of burnished copper, 

The other, a stilletto of purest turquoise — 

Play hidcand'seek 

Among the water cress. 



FROM THE HILL 

Genoveva Saavedra Hidalgo 

Night roams the hill velvet'sandaled; 

Beneath me, 

The sky is a swarm of fireflies. 



Page 24 



DAVID'S FATHER 

Gertrude E. Feenan 

That's his house — 

The little grass hut on the side of the hill. 

He's not a hermit, 

Else those puddled footsteps would betray 

His frugal peace. 

I never say he paints; he blends the colours 

Of the sky and earth and sea. 

One would be least talented not to haven 

That gift in these surroundings. 

His wife died here. 

She painted fifty minutes every day, 

Cooked their meals, and sang in clock- work melody. 

He never minded. 

That smile was quite enough for him. 

He doesn't care for money; 

He'd rather see a molten dune at sunset, 

Or crack a shell beneath his heel. 

I wonder if he loves the fish 

He catches too incessantly 

And throws last'gasping forms 

To grovel in the sand. 

You expected someone young? 

Not with such a splendid son. 

You'd lose him in a net of sea-gulls 

Skimming over waves. 

A shadowed native in the sun! 

But, his father would not own him. 

Page 25 



Some think he is cruel — 

Raising David in the everlasting coolness 

Of these Hampshire hills. 

His mother drifted sand between her fingers 

Those nights she knew were fleeting 

Much to fast. 

She cried because the moon was full, 

And fragrant verdure sweated in the gloom light. 

This island has so much to offer? 

That man is lunging at its crest 

To find what it never gives — 

Never will. 



WILD LILAC Mary Condon 

Like foam 

On storm green waves, 

Shifting 

With every idle breeze, 

Drifting 

On trectop seas. 

Like lace 

On dusk green dress, 

Flaunting 

Delicate filigrees, 

Haunting 

Our memories. 



Page 26 



LACE-MAKER . . Gertrude E. Feenan 

She sits here 

melancholy. 

Fve seen her 

sadly 

watch the day, 

as if it were a frail good'bye. 

The pattern gains 

with the swift 

prismatic change 

of sunlight hours. 

White, her work — 

of still white threads. 

Still, woven 

in their unique closeness 

lies the bright, red vividness 

she knew of yesterday — 

the red she changed 

so carelessly. 

Did she fling it 

with the mad caress 

of the roguish love of Time? 

She left it listlessly — 

As the day 

will leave its toga 

at the door 

of the evening's sunset. 



Page 21 



WHITE NOSTALGIA. Patricia Garnett 

Gay leggings on 
A running child 
Chinchilla coat, 
And stockings lisled. 
Cod'liver oil — 
One lost mitten; 
A stinging wind 
Nose frost-bitten. 
Glass icicles 
Black leafless trees, 
Long underwear, 
A sudden sneeze. 
Deformed snow-men 
With clinker eyes — 
Dad's old top hat; 
Tart apple pies. 
A spitting fire 
Wood to splinter, 
Marshmallow roast, 
This is winter! 



A TEAR .... . Lucile McCullogh 



Spunglass on pink cheeks 

A glistening opal pool; 

But, ah! who knows 

The pain behind this single jewel. 



Page 28 



Intercollegiate Fellowship of Creative Arts 



CONFERENCE HELD AT MOUNT SAINT MARY'S COLLEGE 
12001 CHALON ROAD, LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA 

Saturday, October 16, 1937 



1. Welcome to visiting delegates 

Jeanne Callahan 

President of the Parnassians 

2. Introduction of delegates 

Mr. Richard Warner Borst 

of Fullerton Junior College 

3. Report of the Editor Club of 1933 

Barbara Williams, Managing Editor 

First the Blade, Tenth Edition 



4. Election of Editor School for 1937-38 

5. Readings by Snow Langley Housh 

6. Tea served in College Dining Room 



WIND-WINGED . . Lucille McCullagh 

Spiniker wind 

I board your plank 

ever racing to the sea. 

To feel the sting 

of fresh salt air 

and deck my bed 

beneath the frecblown clouds. 

Stalwart of the deep! 

Carry me to Kubla Kahn; 
To the land of Prester John; 

Stop awhile at Happy Valley 

And come to port at Estalan. 
Home again — I must, I must 
But my roving heart 
is ever figment with the sea! 

OLD PEWTER . . . Catherine Kelly 

Pewter, dully gleaming, 

Is like the splash of moonlight 

On my neighbor's roof — 

Pewter, burnished, glowing, 
Perfectly complements 
The deep color 
Of the blue night sky — 

Pewter, silvery soft 

Against the shadows of the night, 

Is like the black and silver 

Of my lady's gown. 

Page 29 



SPRING FANCY . . Terry MtiUgan 

Spring comes 

Like a young fawn 

Into the forest 

And lifts each bud 

From the tree 

With a whisk of his tail. 

Soon grass wakens 

To the sound 

Of prancing hoofs, 

And the trembling blades rustle 

As he nuzzles them 

With his gentle, prodding nose. 

The fawn licks 

The flowers clean 

With his wet tongue, 

And the warm breath 

Of his coming 

Leaves a mist in the air. 

VALUES . . . . . . Wanda Corlett 

A flutter of warmth thrills my pulse 
At the tone of your indolent voice; 
But, dear, since we last bade good-bye, 
Five others have served as my choice. 

You have but to half -close your eyes 
To melt my resolve to your plea. 
Yet why should I choose only you 
When five beg to sugar my tea? 

Page 30 



RELUCTANCE . . . Wanda Corlett 

A little while, please, just a little while 
Before you press fulfillment of my will 
To make my pleasure come to duty. Still 
Another day concede to youth's denial 
Of fateful, dooming, "Yes, I will." You smile — 
And I would clutch that sign, expand it till, 
Diffused through years of loving, it might chill 
My fevered present fancy that the style 
Of our affections can be changed. Such small, 
Quaint pleasures satisfy me now — like days 
All mine to spend alone, like stretching tall 
To kiss you when you go, like knowing ways 
To flirt — but these, once wed, I have to lose; 
So love, you are nd easy thing to choose. 

MONICA . . . . . Chariot Tans\e 

Her face holds, written, a thousand tales, 
Her eyes hold, burning, but one light, 
Around her heart hangs sorrow's veils, 
On her cheek the well-worn path of a tear, 
On her hands the scars of beads, 
On her breath a constant prayer: 

"Oh, God, whose Son climbed Calvary, 
Take my son to Calvary, 
Augustine, my son, to Calvary." 
Her voice holds a heaven-moving might, 
Her face holds, written, a thousand tales, 
Her eyes hold, burning, but one light. 

Page 3 1 



CAMEL OF THE AFRICAN MAGI . . 
Mary Sibilio 

I scorch my hoofs on the sands of Sahara. 
I cool my nostrils with the breath of the Nile. 
My throat is parched by the sun of Arabia. 
My goal is nearing with every mile. 
The waters of Jordan refresh and cleanse me. 
My eyes are blinded by Jerusalem's glare. 
My steps are guided to the shores of Galilee. 
And the Hand of the Child strokes my hair. 



CHRIST WATCHED ALONE . . 
. . Kathleen Duffy 

Below, silence-wrapped, 

His city slept. 

Night sang a canticle of stars; 

Crickets quieted their symphony 

For Jesus wept. 

il How have I longed to gather thee 

As the hen doth her chickens 

Under her wings 

And thou wouldst not." 

His plaint sighs 

Down the hillsides of the centuries: 

But cities, pleasure-wrapped, 

Dance to the jangle 

Of the world's calliope. 

Page 32 



TIME OF BIRTH . . Charlotte Tans\e 

This hour knows a stillness of motion and time 

The hush of its members 

Now touches an ancient awakening chime. 

Of still old Decembers, 

While the minutes fall and climb. 

Now sing out of Limbo a song the soul knows 

A soft "Agnus Dei. 11 

The insense of pagans is cooled by the snows; 

Now the Lamb born of Mary 

Is come with the cross and the rose. 



SPRING Frances ha Pierce 

A fringe of rain flung against the hills 
Falls to silken swirls in the hollow 
Here by the pasture gate. As twilight spills 
Over the valley's curve, I turn and follow 
Our water-ravelled roadway through the wood 
Remembering how past the fern-stitched pond 
Your light haloed the open doorway's hood. 
Each night I walk more slowly for beyond, 
The door is empty; now no high held lamp 
Scoops out the darkness underneath the eaves. 
Only the grey veil of the rising damp 
Floats from the pool under the dripping leaves 
To hide the meadow where new and tender grass 
Blots out the worn way you used to pass. 

Page 33 



CHANGE IN CHINA . Terry Milligan 

Sage of the Lotus pond, 

Part of the turbid waters 

And strewn white ladies of the lake 

On the calm surface of your dwelling. 

Let the Lotus flowers 

Drift, just out of reach; 

Enticement for a beauty 'loving mortal. 

Now she must stoop, and look into your eyes 

Before her hand can claim a flower. 

Look well, Sage of the pond. 

This is no Manchu princess 

With hair piled high and jadcringed fingers 

Peeping from the sleeve of an embroidered 

gown. 
This girl has known war, seen death. 
Her hands have helped the wounded. 
Look well, Sage, and rejoice that you have 

given 
A moment of forgetfulness. 



OPTIMISM liatalie Breen 

Today, I look with sadness 
At the passing of a tear. 
Tomorrow? Who knows but gladness 
May bring music to the ear. 

Page 34 



THE POET'S PRAYER 

Frances Williams 

{Horace, B\. I, Ode XXXI) 

What does he humbly ask of Apollo enshrined 
The poet ardent pouring from the chalice 
Autumn's vintage rare? Not the golden 
Sowing of fertile Sardinia. 

Not the pleasing herds of the sunny south, 
Not the gold or ivory of far India 
Not the fields which Liris, silent river, 
Eats away with peaceful, flowing waters. 

Let those press with the Calean sickle 

Whom fortune has given the ruddy vine; 

Let the wealthy merchant, drain from cups of gold 

The vintage bartered for finest Syrian wares. 

Traders these, who, dear to the gods, 
Three and four times yearly revisit without peril 
The Atlantic Sea; but the olive feeds me, 
And the endive, and yea the light mallow. 

Latona, I implore, grant me with strong body 
To enjoy what I posess, with sound mind 
To pass my days, not in a tottering old age, 
Nor in years lacking the poet's song. 



Page 35 



COMPARISONS . . Frances ha Pierce 

Yews clipped and trimmed, with shaven polls; 
New growth plucked out of oak tree boles; 
Lawns that preserve their barbered faces; 
Such represent our neighbors 1 places. 

But here, in free mysterious ways, 
The yews design their own dark mase; 
Green shoots and leaves hose oaken shanks; 
The lawn is host to weedy ranks; 
No gardner rakes up scattered petals, 
The rose leaf lies where it first settles. 

I like this best. I like to see 
The easy ways of bush and tree, 
And how your brown, delightful mop 
Is somewhat like our tousled crop. 
And bent above a flowering bed 
Your tousled, brown, delightful head. 

NOEL Catherine Ameche 

Had I been there 
That Christmas night, 
I would have sung 
To the whole world, 
Of joy triumphant 
Of Christ magnificent 
And hailed exultant 
God's new born son. 

Page 36 



SUBURBA Frances Ita Pier 



ce 



With the golden spurs of dawn against their flanks, 
Night and his mares fade into morning stalls. 
Like a familiar guest, the sunshine sprawls 
Across the rug. Outside the milkman cranks, 
And cranks and curses; then his bellowed thanks 
Echo a grinding gear. His motor bawls 
And shudders out of hearing. Our four walls 
Expand in silence to a shadow's pranks. 
Here there is peace. No light of evil dreams 
Intrudes upon me now. I write to you 
In sun, of simple things alien to fear. 
Here there is peace; hold fast the thought, my dear, 
When all your world listens to empty screams 
Of terror in a blasted avenue. 



SHIFTLESS? . . . . Frances Ita Pierce 

She contemplates with placid eyes 
The ragged patterns on her lawn 
Stitched by the weeds' luxuriant yarn. 
She smiles to see a bumpy patch 
Upon its rather threadbare coat 
Where toadstools make a neat, grey darn; 
And thinks it is quite nice to have 
Wild daisies button up those holes 
Between her porch steps and the barn. 

Page 37 



THEVIGILLIGHT . Ann Jane Marshall 

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 bloodied 

cup of my heart. 
Let it keep eternal vigilance before Your presence. 
Let it never die: let the warm flame leap higher with 

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

♦GOD'SHANDS . . Margaret O 'Council 

His hands have worked so many ways — 
To mast white clouds astern a peak, 
Or lift a world so high it stays 
Against the curve of God's own cheek. 
So strong they are, and yet so slim; 
They trace the hollow of a reed, 
Or leave a bud unbruised and prim 
In which they've scattered pollen seed. 
Fve felt Him lift His mystic hands 
To orchestrate for crooning bees. 
Fve seen Him scoop away the sands 
With shovels made of steel sharp breeze. 
But still, His hands are sometimes red — 
They scarlet my Geranium bed. 

* Appeared in The Parchment. 
Page 38 



PSALM MaryPMUps 

My love for you is the scent of sage 

After a summer shower . . . 
Or a yellow birch in the pale gold sunlight 

Of an autumn afternoon . . . 
Sometimes a mountain flaming with October . . . 
Then suddenly, a cedar heaped with snow. 

Your love for me, O God, 

Is sun 

And rain, 

Frost 
And snow. 

Your love for me, O God, is a Tree 

With far'fung arms . . . 
And Your Body — a broken flower . . . 
A strong cry of agony — with silence 

The only answer . . . 
Magdalen, Peter, and John . . . 
And Mary, my Mother, forever. 



SUNRISE Renee Crum 

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. 

Page 39 



DIANE Margaret Q'Connell 

Diane, my daughter, do you dance all alone, 
Away from your guests and the duke of Asthone: 
The moon's hase on the terrace cannot take the place 
Of your pink elfin slippers, dark eyes, and old lace. 
A star scorned the heaven when you left the ball. 
Why do you hide in this picture-filled hall? 
Of course, — this painting of you is the best; 
Your image is perfect; you were faultlessly dressed. 
The artist was Peter, yes, with art and no fame; 
So I loaned him your beauty to give him his name. 
Remember? — He frowned at your silent white face. 
It was youth made him say that emotion would race 
From the heart to a laugh, a smile or a tear. 
But you need no emotion; you have never known 

fear. 
One day he brought roses that still dreamed in dew 
And told you a story of a girl like to you, 
Whose dreams were the tree leaves hung high in the 

sky 
And her lover, a working'lad, "even as I," 
Do you know, my devoted, your pale beauty blushed 
To blend with your lips trembling, but hushed 
To hide some emotion your gray eyes implied. 
Perhaps Peter loved you; he foolishly cried: 
"Diane — that story — you could take the maid's 

part, 
For you dreamed in the sunlight; I could paint you a 
heart!" 

Page 40 



But I knew you were tired, dear; I sent him away. 
The picture, completed, came the next day. 
And soon silent beauty bewitched you once more; 
You were freed from emotions a painted heart bore. 
You have your cold beauty; your heart's in my 

trance. 
Thank me, Diane, and — come let us dance. 



SEA-CHANGE . . . . Barbara Brown 

The sea at dawn 

Is an agcold pewter 

Curling wisps of steam rise up 

The sea at noon 
Is a shining glass 
Reflecting myriad birds that pass 

The sea at sunset 
Is a gypsy queen 
In red, and yellow and gilded green 

The sea at night 

Is a howling beast 

With sharp white teeth at a gruesome feast. 



Page 41 



KIRBY HOUSE . . . Gertrude Feenan 

They have an organ 

at Kirby House — 

Kirby House that sits 

high and white 

upon a hill. 

Fingers touch its keys — 

at sun-tinged hours, and play 

until the piped heart cries out 

in oddly melancholy music. 

The fog comes swift 

about the door — 

the large, glass door 

of Kirby House, 

the house that waits 

like smoke upon a hill. 

A child, whose eyes are seldom lit 

with the expectant lights 

of hidden, never-spoken thoughts, 

looks out the misty pane 

upon the greyness 

of a world of shadows — 

looks out the misty pane, 

of high, white 

Kirby House, 

Kirby House upon a hill — 

a hill of listless shadows. 



Page 42 



SCHERZO Kathleen Duffy 

Perched on the bridge of a leafy boat 
A linnet whittles an a rougbrcut note; 
He drops the shavings here and there 
Letting them twinkle through the air. 

A cricket, afraid he will oversleep, 
Winds his watch with determined sweep; 
Then tunes his fiddle that he may be 
Ready at dark for the jamboree. 

A humming bird twits at a red-petaled door; 
A horsefly hums his own folklore; 
Bees gossip and bargain in secret code, 
Then stagger home with a pocket load. 



AN ALMS Kathleen Du) 

A proud wind rode by 

And left 

Scattered on the lawn 

Dandelions — 

Coins flung to the beggar rain. 



Page 43 



TRANSITION . . . Lucyllc Robinson 

Fall is dusk and burning leaves, 

Pumpkin pies and golden sheaves, 
Red-cheeked apples, frosted panes, 

A cheerful fire when daylight wanes. 
Winter-snowflakes, zero weather, 

Sleigh rides, times when families gather, 
Christmas trees and Auld Lang Syne, 

And March 15th — income tax time. 
Spring is lambkins, meadow-larks, 

Clear cool streams and blooming parks, 
New spring hats and longer days, 

Faster shopping (Father pays) 
Summer picnics, boats and trains, 

Fishing trips and sudden rains, 
Post-card views, and school days call 

Just in time to welcome Fall. 

MEDUSA Elizabeth, Mitchell 

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! 

Page 44 



MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS . . . 
Jean Laurendeau 

A tall, white candle flickers 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 
"Elisabeth, you cannot betray me!" 
"Both well — the pipes?" 
"No — only the wind in the trees." 
A short, worn candle sputters in the dawn. 



WHITE WALLS . . . . Ruth Cutter 

Four white walls and a ceiling overhead 
Are important things to a patient in bed. 
A white wall at the left and one at the right 
Punctured by a window to let in the light. 
A white wall in front and another at the back 
With a door at one end that closes with a clack. 
But the white ceiling overhead is my pride, 
With a brownish rain stain at one side. 

Page 4? 



SUMMER RAIN ........ 

Helen Elizabeth Rumsey 

In forest pathways, 

Dim and cool, 

Summer rain falls, 

Refreshingly, 

Upon the leaves 

With lifcbringing touch. 

Dust of the city streets, 

Washed away 

From faces and hearts 

Toil'wearied, 

Of journeyers 

Through forest pathways. 



DUSTY MILLER . . . Mary Condon 

Ivory, smoked by fog 
To coolest gray, 
Delicately carven 
By a sunbeams ray. 



Page 46 



LERETOUR Beata Bowman 

If I should go 

some fresh sparkling day 

We would bow politely 

To your far city by the sea, 

To each other — 

You from your comfortable new life. 

And I from mine. 

And yet perhaps on moonless 

Nights 

When the wild sea weeps 

Outside your window, 

I return, a small and pallid wraith, 

And you grow silent and bemused, 

Remembering that I loved you once 

And cried against your heart 

At parting. 

For you cannot forget me utterly. 

To forget were sacrilege — 

And you were ever reverent. 

MORNING GLORY . Terry Milligan 

They say that you close your violet eyes 
Against the prying of King Sun's spies 
Because you are timid; yet I would surmise 
That it's only because of the hours you keep 
And the stories you gather when shadows are 

deep, 
That when the sun rises, you have to sleep. 

Page 47 



AQUARIUM . . . . Terry Milligan 

Lace on coral fans, and black pearl eyes 
Simpering as crystal bubbles rise; 
Darting gold in moldering, haunted castles. 
Overhung by fluffy, jade-green tassels, 
Shifting colored pebble pawns of pleasure, 
Bright and useless now as dead man's treasure. 
Oh! the lonely silent desolation 
Of a lost and hermit civilisation; 
Deserted, small Atlantis of the sea. 

WIND WAYS . . . . Margaret Hoyt 

At dawn 

I see you swirl 

fog'laden, licking clean 

like a finicky cat 

branches and leaves; 

at heat's height 

you curl, twisting dirt 

and tumbleweeds; 

a cowman's twirling lasso, 

You scare cattle 

into the fence corners; 

at night 

you carry 

the day's grimed smoke 

out to sea 

for a tubbing. 

Page 48 



CAPRICE Mary G. Ross 

Mock turtles 

And two wooly lambs. 

A crocodile, 

Two butting rams, 

An elephant, 

A kangaroo — 

When the wind will play 

What a cloud won't do. 



THING, A Fragment . . . Billie Musil 

I have seen 

A nervous flame stop a candle's waxen height, 
A pale blue finger traced across a heavy sky, 
A tree's gaunt limbs out-stretched in beggary, 
White lilac plumes perched piquant on a desk, 
The shadow blue of fragrant, falling rain, 
A desert waiting for the sun to rise. 

I have known 

The minstrel wind's soft singing in the eaves 

A tumbling torrent's speech made dumb by quiet 

pool 
A fire fawn, lover 4ike, upon a tree, 
The immeasurable despair of deeds left unachieved, 
A battle with the sea whipped high in waves, 
The deep lethargic sleep that stills all pain. 

Pao e 49 



TO SAINT JOSEPH . Mary Bryan 

The love of Mary built a mighty fortress 

In St. Joseph's heart. 

It forged his courage straight and strong 

To be God's counterpart. 

It tempered his humility to power 

Sword-shining, brave, still 

To love and cherish her — but to renounce 

Her nearness, should God will. 

SATIETY . . . , . . . Mary Francis 

The earth 

After three days wind'scourge 

Lies quiet, 

Sated with torment 

Too apathetic to protest. 

The trees 

Drop their arms with weariness 

Not even reaching up 

To let the light 

Run through their fingers. 

The wind 

Slaked of its cruelty 

Touches with complaisance 

The victims 

Subdued to its will. 

Page 50 



THE DESERT . . . . Lorraine Gibson 

Dawn — 

Gold rimmed mountains 

Fortell the rising sun 

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 the cooling sands. 

Somber shadows of dim ranges 

Create fantastic images. 

Sifted silver moonbeams 

Diffuse everywhere a 

Fairy "like radiance. 

Page 5 1 



SONNET ?iancy Rossman 

The midnight sky is clear; the stars look down 
And tremble like the will'O^wisp's mad light. 
Across the desert sand the cacti might 
Be sentinels, so straight they stand. No sound 
Of beast or bird — but stillness all around. 
The cold, crisp air is life unto the night 
And blows against my face until I quite 
Forget all else except this sacred ground. 
I love it here, and here my life could spend 
In peace and prodigal contentment — yet 
I cannot. I must leave and follow new 
Unbroken paths, with Time alone to mend 
The deep'deft wounds of parting. Life, oh let 
Not memory my coward flight pursue! 



JUNK SHOP Mary Phillips 



Memory keeps a junk shop: 
Hurdy-gurdy tunes; 
Bits of broken laughter; 
Faded red balloons; 

Odds and ends of beauty; 
Fragments of old fears; 
Everything is second-hand, 
Slightly streaked with tears. 



Page 52 



CINQUAINS CinaHaviland 

Definition 

Your dimple 

Baby dear, is where 

God touched your cheek 

It is so sweetly soft 

Even He could not resist. 

Echo 

I stood 

On a mountain top 

Asking "Who can help me now, Dear God?" 

Across the canyon came the sonorous answer 

"Dear God." 

Announcement 
Look . . . 

With tiny muted clappers 
Bluebells are announcing 
The jubilant arrival 
Of Spring. 

To a Vagabond 

I pity you, Wanderer 

Not knowing 

The sweetness of familiarity 

You are a tumble weed 

Without roots. 

Page 53 



TODAY Mary Phillips 

Today my thoughts 
Are swift and cool 
As goldfish in 
A lily pool. 

Tomorrow, like as not, 
They 11 be 

Brown turtles blinking 
Hard at me. 

And I shall be 
As dull as they 
And blink back, too. 
But oh, today! 

THE WIND IS A ROBIN . . . . 
Joy Pin\erton 

The wind is a robin 

Out of the south, 

Singing a Malay song. 

The song is a hymn 

From out of the mouth 

Of an ancient Malay gong. 

Oh! The wind blows deep, 

And the wind blows low, 

And the wind recrosses the sea, 

And from out of the mouth 

Of a Malay gong 

The song comes back to me. 

Page 54 



THE GYPSY'S JACKET 

Frances Ita Fierce 

In the patched left pocket of my jacket, 

I have a ruby in a wax'sealed packet; 

Red as blood from a quick heart's chamber, — 

Look long into its pulsing depth. 

If you could see what blushes crept 

Up from her bodice over her cheek 

When we first met! Yes, a pleasant week. 

I cannot remember the name of the town, 

What she was called, or the shade of her gown. 

Yet she was fair as the jewel I kept; 

This jewel I took from her ear while she slept. 

HMo, wherever I go, 

I melt their hearts 

As the sun melts snow. 
Inside my jacket, in the lining pocket, 
A pearl nests in an etched gold locket; 
Pale as lilies laced with dew, — 
Feel the surface, you have my leave. 
Her throat was smooth as her velvet sleeve. 
She smiled, I stayed — the fire was ashes — 
Her father ordered fifty lashes. 
If she wept for me, she wept in vain; 
Her pearl was solace for my pain. 
I left with the jewel in my peddler's pack; 
It cooled the fifty welts on my back. 



Page 55 



THE VILLAIN'S VILLANELLE 
Frances ha Pierce 

A villain I am, and a villain Fll be. 

For although I know it's not comme il faut 

Fll pillage the land and Fll plunder the sea. 

The hardiest pirate will quail before me 

As I sail from Trafalgar to where the Trades blow, 

For a villain I am and a villain Fll be. 

Before my stiff blade even heroes shall flee 

And the fame of my exploits will flourish and grow 

When I pillage the land and I plunder the sea. 

Maiden and matron Fll bounce on my knee, 
Be their eyes like the sloe or as blue indigo, 
For a villain I am and a villain Fll be. 

Fll compass my day with a duel and a spree. 
I will frighten each foe as white misteltoe 
When I pillage the land and plunder the sea. 

As long as producers can beckon to me 
With a lusty, bloodthirsty scenario, Ho! 
A villain I am and a villain Fll be. 
Fll pillage the land and Fll plunder the sea. 



Page )~6 



ON SUSAN'S FRECKLES . . . 
. . . Frances Ita Pierce 

The year is turned to winter's pulse; 
Rain scampers over window glasses, 
But all the shadows leap to light, 
And suns come out when Susan passes. 

Now, I know maids — like Queen Anne's lace — 

Milky of nature, mood and face, 

Who think my Susan's burnished cheek 

A cabbage rose beside their meek 

Pretense at pink; see her pass by 

With lifted brow or lowered eye. 

And Susan, docile to the mode, 
Disdains an ardent sun's devotion; 
Strives to subdue her golden stain 
With pot and flagon, puff and lotion. 

Alas for Sue! Though she may heckle 
Her sun-dust veil, her every freckle, 
Like bubbles rising on champagne, 
Each minute sun comes up again; 
And Sue holds summer in her face, 
Though all she sees is brown disgrace. 



Page 57 



TO JOHN STEVEN McGROARTY 
Catherine Kelly 

California's golds and blues 

Greens and scarlets 

He makes his favorite colours; 

Playing reverently, he merges 

Them into a lovely thing, 

A Mission Play. 

Against the somber brown 

Of the Franciscan's habit 

He plays a melody 

That tingles and flashes 

To the measured swing of 

A black uniformed, 

Red'sashed hidalgo; 

To the rhythmic grace 

of a senorita 

Whose dark hair gleams 

Through the white lace 

Of her mantilla. 

Above the mission tower 

The sun rises; 

Across the blueness of the 

Peaceful waters 

Lies a path of molten gold; 

Across the transept 

Of the chapel 

Gleams a shaft of sparkling 

Sunlight. 

There is the steady, busy 

Page 5 8 



Murmur of low voices, 
Here the tenderness of a 
Brown-robed father's hands: 
There the radiant, smiling 
Eyes of a neophyte. 
A lesson of love is taught, 
A Latin office is chanted, 
A mellow Angelus is rung. 



PROPHECY . . . . . Beata Bowman 

In a little grey cottage in some small town 

I shall grow old in a checkered gown. 

I shall drink milk with my warm fresh bread, 

And never a night but safe in bed 

I shall rest well and never wake 

In the breathless dark with an alien ache 

For seas of purple and tropical stars 

And the flashing scarlet of strange bazaars — 

For the low-pitched note of a foreign tongue 

Murmured by those I pass among. 

I shall rest quietly there in the gloom, 

Quietly, quietly, there in my room. 

And though I walk to the corner store, 

Though daily I mop the kitchen floor, 

Though I can laugh and weep my tears, 

Fll have been dead for forty years! 



Page 59 



NO NEVERMORE . . Bernice Brady 

I run along the wild sea-shore, 
I shout above the mad wave's roar, 
Em giddy; charge like matador 
To drench myself in ocean's gore. 
I feel the pebble on the floor, 
It tickles me, I run ashore. 

I beg, I challenge, I implore 
The stately, ominous albacore 
To tell of rocky Labrador, 
Of salty tales of Singapore, 
Of Salvador, and Equador, 
Of Panama, and Theodore. 

My pleas, entreaties, he'll ignore 

And leave me here a curator 

To pick dry facts of magic lore 

From history books, where viking Thor 

Is found to be historic bore. 

No word, no tale will he outpour, 

Like Poe, he speaks, no nevermore. 



Page 60 



TO AN IRISH HARP 

Peggy Mahoney 

Full flutes, 

Pour out your bubbled notes; 
Roll their crystal cadence lightly 
On this callow soul. 

And let the throbbing trumpet 

Pour 

Gold'heated melody on youthful hearts, 

Till they rise, 

White 

And burned. 

And then, 

My golden harp, 

May you break their blistered beauty 

With one sob 

From your stringed soul, 

That is taut with a thousand years 

Of tyranny! 



TOTATINA . . . . . Helen Purcell 

Fragile were your lineaments, 

Fragile your feelings. 

Till now, 

I did not know 

How I trampled on 

The delicate edges of your thoughts. 

Page 61 



SNOW MAGIC . . . Harriet Weaver 

Snowswept, platinum night 
Star shadows, strange sight — 

Eerie, silver 'tipped 

Roofs, in moon-dust dipped. 



TOONEDEAD . . . Peggy Mahoney 

Infinitely wise — 

You now know 

Why storm-mad seas 

pound ton 'heavy fists 

on distant shores — 

and then retreat and loll 

on coral cakes, 

or grovel low upon brown mealy sand. 

You know now 

why day pulls low 

her crimson shutters 

when she hears night beating softly 

on starred mountain tops; 

and why, 

on ice-clear nights 

the stars are silver rivets 

eternally driven, 

deep 

on the floor of Heaven. 

Page 62 



THE VIGIL . . . . Peggy Mahoncy 

Broad hills that raise black breasts 

To midnight skies, 
And watch while man and child 
And lapping waters sleep — 
Caught in the craggy chambers of your heart, 
You keep the secret that lies locked 
In Virgin eyes. 

Jet sky, poise low your velvet heart, 
And bide the perfect hour 
When chorus thrums the golden joy afar 
And angel feet will bruise each burning star, 
And Christ will lie on straw at Bethlehem. 

KOKOHEAD . . . . . Joy Pin\erton 

The waves at Koko head 

Are wolves rending at the land's hard legs. 

They leap, leap, again and again 

To be spurned, and their own life spills. 

What pretty patterns the blood makes on the ground. 

AGE AND YOUTH . . Joy Pin\erton 

Two old women 

Weeping over a cross 

In the snow. 

Beside them a young boy 

Scuffling his feet 

In an agony 

Of impatience. 

Page 63 



REQUIESCAT .... BeataBowman 

May you lie quietly 
On that far hill 
You who were joyous — 
Whose laughter is still. 
May you rest tranquilly 
Under the sod 
You who were merry — 
Whose soul is with God. 
May you sleep peacefully 
Your golden voice dumb 
You whom I love so — 
Rest till I come. 

KENNINGS . . . . Monica Fitzgerald 

Eiderdown quilts 
on cherubs' beds 
Pathways white 
for angels' tread, 
Rolling ripples 
on shore of gold, 
Wind-heaped pillows 
for eagles bold, 
CoraMined cloak 
for Lady Moon, 
Lasy sheep in 
meadows at noon. 

Are clouds mere 
atmosphere? 

Page 64 



LIKE UNTO RAIN . E. Ay n. Morris 

Rain is poet's voice 

That sings through trellises 

in the white cool night. 

Rain is a martyr's prayer 

On a worn altar. 

Rain is the flutter of wet wings 

That falls on dark earth 

In the tulip beds. 

Rain is like you — 

Young, with a dust of power 

Stained in the scent 

Of mellow honeysuckle. 

LA LUNE . . . . . . Zelh Hazdton 

La lune est une jolie femme ce soir, 
Mais a temps elle se cache 
Derriere un nuage delicat 
Parcequ'elle est une femme modests. 

Plus tard, la lune est devenue 
Une femme mysterieuse, 
Elle se cache sa beaute radiante 
D'une voile de nuage sombre. 

Alors les millions yeux anges, 
Qui sont les esoile d'or, 
lis voient la goddese de leurs cieux 
Qui parait dans sa gloire. 

Page 65 



MINER'S WIFE . Maroaret O'Connell 



- 



You have not seen the sun for twenty years. 

Before each dawn you tramp into a land 

of canyon dusk and pan there from the sand — 

grey mealy sand of river-beds — the tears 

of fine gold dust. Your fingers haunt the crags 

for gold. At night, your clothes are steeped in rank 

and earthen odors from the canyon dank. 

With Midean touch you fill your buckskin bags. 

You never wonder how I spend my hours. 

I walk to fields of amber shafted corn 

or watch the golden haloed sun-flowers sway. 

I cry beneath eternal sun-strung bowers 

that you have spurned my gold; and yet each morn 

you pan some from my hair and leave it grey. 



SEA FOAM . . . . . . Mary Sibilio 

Frothy lace fluffs about 

the soft, warm throat 

of land, 
And flutters back 

to leave lace patterns 

on the sand. 



Page 66 



EVANESCENT .... H. Weaver 

I grasped a swift'sailing star one night 
Through my fingers it slid, burning bright. 
I shall never grasp a star again — 
Too fleeting the joy, too long the pain. 



MEN'S HANDS . . Margaret O'Connell 

I see men's hands point down towards earth today — 

the soil'brown hands that cull war 'fields for dead; 

the hulks of hands less living flesh than clay 

that lie like pruned or broken limbs instead 

of fair white stems of living trees. The oils 

of guns have left their yellow grinning stains, 

and tunneling acids — gas of science spoils. 

Can they be washed with tears or years of rains? 

O when will men lift up their hands again 

to raise a baton and feel music surge 

instead of blood; or paint a grass'napped plain 

or fold their hands — palm kissing palm — and purge 

their souls of rankling hate by hallowed prayer; 

then, reach up to their God and find Him there. 



Page 67 



BECAUSE WE LOVE HIM . . . 
Jeanne Barrett 

He is too young dear God, and not too wise. 
Oh yes, his limbs are tall, but in his eyes 
There lies the deep blue wonder of a child. 
His smile is warm, his voice is mild. 

He is too young I fear, to fight the old 

Hypnotic bidding call to savage charms 

That beats a wary cry on the bravest hearts . . . 

To Arms! To Arms! 

He is so fresh and clean and free from stain. 

He sleeps in heater spray and walks in rain, 

It is the closest thing he knows to tears. 

God, guide him past the battleground these years. 



BIJOU Aline Gerber 

I had a little French dog 

That carried well the name 

Of "Bijou," little jewel 

Of wide and wondrous fame. 

For "Vive la France" he stood and bowed, 

At "Bas les Bodies" he lay and growled. 

He romped and played upon the soil 

Of France still free from rod. 

But now beneath the ground he lies 

And German feet his small grave trod. 

Page 68 



SPRING SOLILOQUY 

Frances ha Pierce 

I am not sorry love must grow upon 
You slowly; the green bud, unshaped and dim, 
Leaves all its fragrance where the bloom has gone 
To sculpture fruit weighted against the limb. 
Never would I assail a rigid bough 
To see a summer fruit before its season, 
For half the harvest lies in watching how 
Pale fruits blush with a sunny secret reason. 
Love me you will, and, if your love is slow, 
I am no fool who thinks the spring a w T aste 
While wishing summer bent the tree top low 
To meet the level of his touch and taste. 
Yet do not think me one to lie and nap 
Until the fruit has tumbled in my lap. 

ON WAITING . Mary Helen Emerson 

I went out to the edge of earth today 

And sat with legs hanging over, 

To ask the sea, "Why?", 

The up'wind, "When", 

And the gulls that knew them, "Whether?* 1 

I went out to the end of land today 

And heard, where sand sprouts clover, 

The spray sing, "Love!" 

The birds, "Not yet!" 

And the breeze that blew them, "Never!" 

Page 69 



EMBERS . . . . . Mary Helen Emerson 

Here on the hearth 

Kept from the snow, 

These bits of Summer are all we know 

They are her tears, 
Warm, latent, bright, 

Heaped by the North Wind who saw her 
flight. 



FOR MY DAUGHTER LAUREL . 
. . . . . . . . . . Mary Helen Emerson 

I shall love you much 

And yet, be afraid. 

For in your eyes will lie my sight, 

And in your mouth, my song. 

Your sealot'heart will hear 

My heart's decree. 

And I shall be afraid 

That one so young 

Could fathom me. 



Page 70 



WHY Beata Bowman 

I want to know why 

White violets bloom and perish . . . 

And winter comes — 

Then spring . . . 

I want to realise 

The slow smooth turning 

Of the universe — 

Why stars in their courses 

Sometimes fall — 

Why the oriole's throbbing throat 

Gives forth a silver spray 

Of music . . . 

Yd know all this, 

Perhaps 

If I knew why 

You love me. . . . 



VOW ...... Mary Helen Emerson 

I would not have sworn 

To be back, my love, 

If I had seen Cathay. 

If I had known the wonders found 

In seeking a sailor's way. 

Page 11 



SHELL SONG . . Mary Helen Emerson 

Come to the calling of the side-slipping tide, 

Follow the foams ebb for a guide 

Down to the meadows of the waterlogged sky, 

Where no one lives but the green and I. 



BEACHCOMBER . Mary Helen Emerson 

The droning voice 

Of busy waves 

Who tattle on the seas, 

The silent sweep 

Of soaring gulls 

That drift back with the breeze, 

The warm, brown sand 
That cradles those 
Born children of the sun, 

Is song, is grace, 

Is love of wife, 

To me, who would have none. 



Page 12 



FRUSTRATION . . . Kathleen Duffy 

I wanted to shout 

With the rowdy wind 

That raced up the mountain side. 

He tugged at my sleeve 

And offered his wings 

If I would come for a ride. 

The fog walled me in 

With the silent rebuff 

Of a vigilant chaperone; 

And the braggart wind 

Slunk down the ravine. 

I stood a prisoner — alone. 



TRANQUILLITY . . Kathleen Duff: 

A lily moored 
Among sky pictures 
On a pond 

Opens its golden heart — 
A star held captive 
In waxen whiteness. 



Page 73 



TO MOUNT SAINT MARY'S . 
. . . Joan Patric\ 

Your white spire 
Is a flame 
Searing the sky; 
Its brave light 
Is an aim 
Aspiring high. 
Its clean length 
Is a sword 
Flashing for truth; 
Its tall grace 
Shields the Word 
Speaking to youth. 



WALKING HOME FROM SCHOOL 

. . . . Catherine Ameche 

Four corners marked by staccato red and green — 
House corners outlined with grey rainpipe — 
Sand'bulged corners of overall pockets — 
I lean them in the corners of my mind. 



Page 74 



TANK A Kathleen Trounce 

That white sail fluttering . . . 
The quiver of a handkerchief 
Waving goodbye 
To those who go 

To war across the sea. 



THE LITTLE PEOPLE 

. . . . . . . . . . Margaret Moran 

Have you ever seen a fairy, 

Or known a leprecaun, 
Or met an elfin walking 

At the coming of the dawn? 

Have you heard wee elfin music 

From out an ancient tree 
Rouse fairies from the rose leaf beds 

To dance with morning glee? 

Have you heard sweet tinkling laughter 

And seen a fairy game, 
And had a fairy kiss you? 

(You'll never be the same). 

Page 75 



TO SISTER MARIE DE LOURDES 
. Margaret O^Connell 

We follow her whose eyes are humble brown 

as two shy monks at matins, 

whose black robes whisper-kiss 

the path-ways as she goes, 

her fingers fretted on her blessed beads. 

She shepherds us to class 

upon the hill-top, undesked and undimensioned; 

and like a Socrates or Francis, 

odes all of Nature's liturgies. 

She bids us write of sunlight 

stalking through the trees on stilts, 

of vines that hang 

by stockinged toes in jester's green, 

or satined buds that gypsy 

with the foppish weeds in ragged tippets. 

She puts prisms in our hearts 

to laud the color 

of a mauve marauding shadow, 

Water-blue cupped up in ponds, 

or hectic red in sunset's plumes. 

She is a handmaid of the grey-browed bird 

and gold-etched moon — 

awakener of the dormant-hearted poet. 

Still more to me, 

she is my living answered prayer, once plied, 

that God would light my soul 

like saffroned sun 

with love for all His winnowing fingers touch. 



LINES ON HAVING READ "TO SISTER ;^FIF DE hOURDP S" 

Look, Sister, Z * N °' /^ 

I wish I could say it. 
Say it like your nice little kids! 

Say it in poetry with rolling sure cadence and meter secure. 
But taking my dumb-struck means^ 
Having to hand only a pig-iron set of words. 
Having no ruffled and lacy chain of semantics^ 
I tell you this. I tell them this, your nice little kids. 
Don't talk to me of Sister with her eyes like brown doves. 
I f ve seen her when they were hot embers'. 
When they were candles in trie wind 
When they were rain-soaked leaves. 
Why don't they tell of the banked fires in you. 
Dear heaven, have they only seen your class-room face 
With features placed in seemly symmetry for a morning class. 
What do they know of long gray days and longer nights 
'When "Ster" was all there was of sanity and balance. 
When knowing "Ster" was there, although unseen, unheard. 
There in her wisdom and humanity 
Was all there was of anything, anywhere. 
How dare they know no more of you than what they do. 
Are their gleanings so thin, so meager? 
Why don't they tell of your fine, high scorn for the commonplac] 
Why don't they tell of your sense of the balance of tilings? 
Why don't they tell of the things that are yours to give? 
Of your reverence and respect for the power of words. 
Only in after years. 
Only then, little kids, 

Can you know deeply what is hers to give. 
So sit still and take it. 

Have the wisdom to cup your hands and gather it in. 
Hear it from me. 
Hear it from an old girl. 

Know that "Ster" is something you can hang your life on. 
Snow that when you need it 
She has a whit-leather toughness, 

A singleness of purpose achieved and attained by few. 
Brush away the miasma of obvious virtues and know her. 
'Take it from me in my clumsy way. 
\ Believe my hammered and tortuous phrasings. 
Believe me when I tell you this. 

Have sense, little kids, have sense to hold still and t ake it. 
, Know it while it is yours to know. 
1 Know her pilgrim soul. 



i 



Set in twelve point Kentonian type, two'point leaded, with 

captions in letter-spaced capitals and italics. The paper is 

seventy pound Corsican Ivory antique text. 



VALl€3 Pfi.€SS * PU6U5HtRS 
RfDlAfUlS, CALIf. 



\