Muse - December 1961

DECEMBER, 1961

Compliments of

JOHN FRANKS Men’s and Boys’ Apparel

W estfield and P lainfield

MUSE DECEMBER, 1961 1: Prose and Poetry A Modern Argosy, John Klein ............................................................

The Ersatz, Bronson Van Wyck ............................................................

T o T u rn Back Time, Emery Otvos ....................................................

The Use of History, M r. Herbert F. Hahn ...........................................

The Search, Joseph Weissberg ..............................................................

The Show-Off, Lou Diamond ..............................................................

I Sit in a Chair, John Fort ...................................................................

The Redemption, Laurie Paulson ...................

The Sea, Skiing in the Morning, Peter Lawson ...............................

Parker Pond, Maine, James Rosenberg................................................

There’s a D oll For You, Jonathan Dee................................................

2: Poetry Pink, Roger Lewis .................................................................................

Spoken to my Cat, Andrew Ullrick ....................................................

Berkshire Pool, Robert Fagen ..............................................................

You are Cool, Pools of Water, John Fort .........................................

When T w ilig h t Came, Edward Prevost .............................................

The Wind, Curtis M artin ...................................................................

Life is a Voyage, Robert Eisenhauer ................................................

Coroebus, Victor of Olympia, 776 B.C., Kenneth Wachter ..............

Cover by Albert Accettola

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T O O UR READERS — We, the editors, would like at this time to thank all those who helped to make Muse possible: those who contributed articles and suggestions, both students and teachers, our advertisers, and the Board of Trustees of Pingry.

There w ill be one more issue of Muse this school year, in May 1962.

RO BERT FAGEN ROGER LEWIS JOSEPH WEISSBERG December 15, 1961 C. B R E T T BOOCOCK, Faculty Advisor 1

1 A MODERN ARGOSY COSTA sat at the tiller, steering his small boat eastward across the blue Aegean towards southern Turkey. The sun was hot against his face, and he thought about the good time he would have with Maria when he got back home to Kos. He could picture her standing in the same sun picking lemons from the few trees that they had on the hillside in back of their tiny white house. “ Hey, Costa, I ’ll bet you’re thinking of Maria,” Michael yelled from below deck. Costa laughed but did not answer. He had been friends with Michael for as long as he could remember. Both had left school early to get jobs, and now they had bought a small fishing boat, which was occasionally chartered by well-to-do tourists.

Ever since they had left the port of Kos, Costa had been wondering what was in the crate that they were taking to Turkey. A shifty little man had driven his big car down to the docks just a few hours before and chartered Costa’s boat. Costa had never seen him in the village before. Instead of wanting to go on the boat himself, he had offered Costa a considerable amount of money to sail to a small port in southern Turkey w ith nothing on board except a heavy, coffin-shaped crate.

Michael broke in on Costa’s ponderings by coming up the tiny stair­ case from the cabin. “ I sure wish we had a motor,” he said wryly. “ We could go a heck of a lot faster.” Costa knew that Michael was also thinking about some­ one special, and he smiled absently. He was still thinking about that crate. “ Michael,” he said, “ what do you think is in that box?” “ Don’t ask me. I don’t know what it could be, but I sure hope there aren’t guns or something in it. I sure don’t want to get into trouble w ith anybody anywhere. Say . . . it wouldn’t hurt to take a peek, would it, Costa?”

Costa did not need much persuading, so he lashed the wheel and went below. They pried open the crate, but inside they found nothing more than a statue. I t was a good-sized, marble figure of a powerful man with a trident. Michael recognized it at once to be the ancient god Poseidon. “ Holy Mother of Christ, Costa! Look what we have: a statue,” Michael yelped. “ T hat man wants us to smuggle this statue right out of Greece,” said Costa thoughtfully. “ Phew, it ’s not guns anyway. I t ’s only a statue,” said Michael w ith relief, “ and we got a good price for the passage. I t ’ll be all right, Costa,

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for sure.” He paused and then tried to turn the whole thing into a joke. “ Poseidon might get mad at us for taking him out of Greece.” They both laughed.

Michael nailed the lid back on, and they went back on deck. The hot sun was faintly overcast, and little whitecaps appeared on each wave.

Instead of the nice warm breeze blowing on Costa’s cheek, a biting wind whistled in the ropes. A storm was brewing.

Costa told Michael to trim the sails, and he steered. But a sudden gust of wind brought the boom across the ship and knocked Michael into the sea. By the time Costa had the ship turned about and Michael aboard, the storm was upon them and Michael had a broken arm. Costa could see land far away to starboard, and they headed the boat in that direction. Costa fingered the cross inside his shirt. “ Let me see Maria again,” he prayed silently. “ I ’ll give the money for the passage to the Church, and—and . . . I ’ll save Poseidon.”

By morning the storm had about blown itself out. The two men were exhausted, as they had not been able to sleep at all. Costa looked at the island they were now approaching. He knew it was Rhodes.

Barren cliffs rose high above the water. On top, some broken columns were silhouetted against the sky, and he could see a monastery perched there like a little white bird. They headed the boat into a cove right beneath the heights. “ We w ill leave the statue here,” Costa stated solemnly. “ I t w ill be in good hands.” As soon as they set the crate on the sand, both men felt as if a great burden had been lifted from their shoulders. Costa knew the sea would be calm for their journey home.

JO HN K LE IN , V T H E ERSATZ The Eiffel lofty, so my spirits.

Esteem, as yet, Napoleon’s resemblances.

This all before; but Now! Light owes patience Time.

My time doth not be Relinquished.

A mentor’s glance received Too fast to perceive.

Like October’s End, Dark comes Faster Fast ERRE. BRONSON VAN WYCK, V 3

TO TURN BACK TIME BOMBS are exploding all over the city; from my concrete fortress their muffled sounds are like the booming of drums. Yes, they are like the drums that resounded through the “ Great Square” only a few years ago. Those were happy sounds, as were the shouts of my people. That was the night I became dictator, but that was years ago, too long ago.

T o turn back time, if only I could start all over, what changes I would make!

The crashing above me is more rapid; it is becoming unbearable.

The throbbing seems to be in my brain. I cannot endure it—blackness. “ General, General, . . . ” I awake, and the blackness fades. My secretary is standing beside me saying, “ There is no hope, sir. Aserdican troops have moved w ithin a hundred miles of the capital. Do not let them capture you!” My secretary holds forth a bottle.

Poison? Poison? Is that the answer? What else can the solution be?

The empire is gone. Oh, if only I could turn back time, I could make so many changes, but I cannot— I reach for the bottle . . .

Wha—, what happened? I feel groggy, as if I had awakened from a long sleep. “ Dictator, your people are awaiting you. ‘“ Who is that man? I do not recognize him. “ Dictator, I do not think it wise to keep them waiting. “ I rise and walk to the balcony. There, out there— thousands of people, all of them are standing in the “ Great Square.” “ I have done it! I have turned time back!” “ You have done it?” I t is the man next to me; he repeats, “ You have done it?”

Now I recognize him. He was the dictator before me. But I had him assassinated. A ll this is strange; the people are silent, dead. No, I have not turned back time.

Everyone and everything is fading, fading into the oblivion of time.

Now I feel as if I am flying; I am caught in a cold, w hirling wind. I have become a part of the chaos composing the three great imponder­ ables: Death, Space, and Time.

EMERY OTVOS, I I I THE USE OF HISTORY T H E CHARGE is frequently made that the average American has no sense of history. The schools try to make young citizens aware of their country’s traditions, but the feeling persists among “ practical” Americans that a knowledge of history is chiefly a cultural ornament without direct bearing on the day-to-day concerns of the busy individual.

Americans do know a lot of history, but they do not know what to do with it. The average American cannot make any use of past history 4

to illum inate the present. His suspicion of history springs largely from the fact that he learns no lessons from it that he can apply to the prob­ lems he faces as a citizen. The difficulty at bottom is that he has a false notion of the uses of history. He expects it to give him answers to ques­ tions of the day which are very real and very pressing. When it doesn’t, he tends to ignore it as of “ no practical use.” So his mind remains clut­ tered with a mass of historical information which has no appreciable effect on the intelligence of his actions.

The trouble is that the average American does not know how to think about history. His mind tends to over-simplify it by regarding only concrete data. As w ith other matters, he shies away from argu­ ments of a theoretical nature. Causes and effects are ignored in favor of picturing an event as an isolated instance w ith a single clear-cut meaning. Such an approach distorts the complex reality of human affairs. The result is that the average man makes no real use of history.

The possibility of action towards solving current problems is lim ited by his failure to appreciate all the ramifications of a situation.

How did he get that way? We have all heard the remark, “ History is my worst subject; I can never remember dates.” Unconsciously, this reveals the very root of the matter. History is usually conceived as a series of separate facts to be memorized. They are not thought of as parts of a whole situation or as illustrations of a general trend w ith preceding causes and resulting effects. The untrained mind does not fathom the real complexity of historical events. The richness and color of history, the counterpoint of movement in history, entirely escape the student who treats it as a series of standardized items to be learned.

The fault lies partly in our teaching. A history course should be something more than having pupils “ learn the book.” The development of a historical sense means the power to make generalizations from apparently diverse data, and, conversely, the ability to recognize differ­ ences in facts that are superficially similar. The object of historical study, in short, is to train the mind to think. The present need not seem so appallingly new and chaotic as it does to the average commen­ tator on the current political scene. I f one has developed the ability to see similarities in the past, he can judge the present with some per­ spective in terms of its origins and antecedents. The past need not seem so utterly foreign as it appears to one who finds no instruction in it and reads history, if at all, “ merely for amusement.” Nor need it seem so irretrievably lost as our lamenters for “ the good old days” make it appear. I f one has developed a sense of cause and effect, the differences that the past displays take their place in a train of development leading up to the present in an intelligible progression. The whole meaning of history is in the relationship of facts, in the analogies or contrasts 5

between them, in the chain of cause and effect that links them together.

T o understand the significance of facts, not to store up a mass of facts, is the proper objective of historical study.

And so, the function of history in the schools is not to induct the learning of a mass of standardized material; or is it indoctrination in a set of traditional cliches. The best purpose that the history course can serve is to make students think. That means, instead of learning facts for their own sake, reading with the mind open to see similarities and differences, and to note cause and effect. Facts should be treated, not as sterotypes of a few broad generalizations, but as complex structures in which the nuances may be as revealing as the surface features. Over-sim­ plification is the great danger. Human society is extraordinarily varied.

The student w ill get closer to understanding it only as he is given a feel­ ing for its complexity. The use of history is not what one can do with historical facts but what the study of history does to one’s mind. His­ tory should fill our minds not with information but w ith judgment.

H. F. H A H N T H E SEARCH My search began in lonely streets.

In darkened alleys and murky halls.

Amidst the smog of urban secretion.

Behind closed doors and frightened walls.

I found the offal of human strivings: Selfish passion and wretched desire; I saw a world of merciless malice: Man the wood and man the fire.

And then I sought the peaceful shade Of nature’s luscious array Of golden valleys and fertile fields.

Of azure skies and mists of grey.

I found a world of solitude.

Of lonely life and barren beauty; I saw a lovely, lonesome flower: Man the thief and she the booty.

Alas! I searched the wide expanse Of God’s domain in every part.

Only to find the joys of living Securely entrenched w ithin my heart.

JOSEPH WEISSBERG, V 6

THE SHOW-OFF CRACK! I t was a sharp ground ball to third. B ill ran to his left, dived for it, caught it while he was still in the air, and threw the Bayside player out from a sitting position. “ That Falon kid is good,” replied third base coach Tom Price. “ Yeah, and knows it,” answered manager Devine, whom everyone called “ Grouchy.” “ Ever since that kid ’s come up from Dallas he’s been nothing but trouble.” “ He could be in the majors right now if he wasn’t such a showboat,” returned Tom. “ Showboat or not, without him the Blues won’t win the pennant this year.”

The object of their discussion was B ill Falon, third baseman for the Blues, and their leading batter. B illy was six foot one and weighed one hundred and ninety pounds. He had a blond crewcut and blue eyes.

His wide shoulders and narrow hips marked him as the fine athlete that he was.

Now it was the Blues’ turn at bat. The score was 8-7, in favor of Bayside, and it was the last of the ninth. Leading off was Sandy Smith, the centerfielder. On a 3-2 pitch, Sandy rifled a double into deep left field. Patty Burns, the Blues catcher, h it a deep sacrifice fly to right field, enabling Sandy to reach third. B illy stepped into the batter’s box.

Looking at Tom Price, he received the bunt signal for the third pitch, a squeeze play. The first pitch was low, ball one. The next pitch skimmed the inside corner, strike one. The pitcher wound up, Sandy headed for home. The pitch was right down the middle. W ithout a moment’s hesitation, B ill whipped the bat around. Crack, ball met bat, and the next thing anyone knew. B ill was trotting around the bases, tipping his hat to the cheering fans. A fter his fabulous home run, he entered the dugout. Grouchy barked, “ T h a t’ll cost you fifty dollars, Falon.” “ The signal was for you to bunt.” “ But that pitch was perfect; it won the game.” “ Maybe someday you’ll learn to follow orders, and not grandstand.

Teamplay wins games, not individualism.”

Up u n til this time, B illy had roomed alone. That night, after the game, B illy was reading his newspaper clippings when he heard a knock at the door. “ Come in,” said B ill. “ H i,” replied the newcomer, “ I ’m your new roommate, Rocko T ribiano; Rock to my friends.” “ Come on in and sit down,” said B ill.

As Rocky walked into the light of the room, B illy got a good look 7

at him, and, to his surprise, he found Rocky to be barely five feet tall. “ Not much of a giant, am I?” quipped Rocky. "B ut you know how it goes ‘The bigger they come, the harder they fa ll/ ” B illy liked Rocky, and he liked him even more the next day when he saw him on the diamond. Rocky was a real pepper-pot. He was in perpetual motion, quite the opposite from B ill who never talked it up.

Midway through the practice, a group of the players walked over to Rocky. B ill caught the glances that were headed his way, and he knew what the conversation was about.

A fter practice that night, Rocky walked into their room where B illy was reading. “ Don't; bother w ith apologies," said Billy. “ What are you talking about?", asked Rocky. “ You're gonna move rooms, aren't you?" “ What for? Don’t you want me?" “ Yeah, but what about those guys today at the—" Never heard a word they said," said Rocky. “ They must have been talking about two other guys."

During practice that week, there was a sudden change on the field.

Between the hot corner and the short stop there was a constant flow of chatter. Besides this, there was another tall flash for the other players on the team. There was no showboating on the part of B illy Falon.

T hat was the story of the game against Bridgeport on Saturday.

There was a wave of chatter that would have shamed a monkey, and no showboating. The rest of the team was shocked about B illy—all except Rocky.

Then it happened. I t was an easy double play ball, a grounder to Billy. He caught it clean and threw it to Rocky at second. Just as Rocky was about to get rid of it, the big Bridgeport player slid into Rocky with his spikes up. B illy went charging across the field to help Rocky. As he approached, the Bridgeport player took a swing at Billy.

Before the umpires could do anything, there was a free-for-all in session.

Sitting on the bench after that inning, Big Pete turned to the players and said, “ We really showed them for taking a swing at the best guy on our team!" And even with a fat lip, everyone could see the big smile on Billy's face.

LOU D IA M O N D , I I I I SIT IN THE CHAIR I sit in the chair next to yours and hold your hand and see two parallel lines which run through your eyes and meet in eternity.

JO HN FORT, VI

THE REDEMPTION A COLD, bitter wind swept like a rushing wave down the grey street. The transformation had arrived again. A ll the stark, barren shop windows had wreaths or holly or signs which said “ Merry Christmas” in gold letters. The frowning faces and unpleasant dispositions exhi­ bited by all those who trudged their way solemnly and unconsciously all the other seasons of the year wore a deceptive mask of holiday gaiety and Christmas spirit. The ones who hardly dared express any emotion but bitter indifference any other time, hummed “ Deck the Halls” and smiled at passers-by. I t was sad to think that in one short week they would be back to frowning at the weather.

John Walsh knew about these people carrying the packages with the department store names. He saw them all year. He knew most of the good w ill was a false front, but by now he couldn’t care less. He really didn t like the Christmas holidays much. Perhaps they reminded him too much of the past. There really had been happier times as a child, he thought. There had once been a big house on some street with a nice-sounding name—he didn’t see how he could forget it—Maple Drive. He would breathlessly count the days u n til Christmas Eve. Then they all, his fam ily and he, decorated a big, spreading, stately tree. I t used to stand in the parlor. Afterward they’d sing Christmas carols.

Finally on Christmas he’d rush downstairs'—but that was a long time ago. So was the cold, crisp, fresh air. So was the h ill they used for sliding and so were the snowball fights. So was the g irl in the next block whom he used to push on his sled. He hated to think about those times. By now he knew the unfriendliness of a closed shop at night, with one dim light burning in the rear of the store. He knew the loneliness of a deserted street and the gloomy street lights. He knew what it was like to be lost in a world that had once been bright and prosperous for him.

The Santa Clauses standing at the curb couldn’t help, and neither could the happy shoppers. On the whole, he gathered, it was a false sort o f world, where temporarily righteous people sang about goodwill to men and piously dropped money into little pans but didn’t really care about the next person. John Walsh kept on walking, methodically and mechanically. He passed the little church where the pastor had let him sleep one night; he passed the little park where he often sat and thought.

He went down the grimy steps to the subway, where he had often stood and watched train after train p u ll up and start away, w ith laughing college girls carrying bulky packages and old ladies with dolls for their grandchildren, going home. The rumble of the approaching train stopped, then started again as people headed home to Maple Drive and a big tree in the parlor. John Walsh turned and walked up the steps.

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As he neared the top, he suddenly felt strangely happy. He bounded up the rest of the way and came joyously out into the open air. He looked up at the sky and felt exalted. I t was snowing.

LA U R IE PAULSON, I I I

THE SEA AT NIGHT The sea is calm. Moonlight trails across the water leaving a thin white path through the silent darkness of the sea. The only sound is that of the pathetic little waves trying their best to pound the shore. The white sand looks soft and inviting. People sit on the tops of the gentle dunes looking at the sea, the moon, and the tranquil stars, tw inkling in the creamy blackness. The sea is resting.

The people have gone; the dunes are desolate. A cloud smothers the moon and the stars. The waves grow larger.

SKIING IN THE MORNING The cold sun slowly smothered the stars and the sleepy moon. A few inches of snow had fallen during the night and had blanketed the steep slope w ith smooth perfection. The dark green pines on either side were laden with the white powder. A light breeze played with snowy wisps from the tops of gentle moguls. From the summit to the base there were no marks on any of the narrow, twisting trails, or on the open slopes.

A black speck suddenly appeared at the summit; it hesitated for a moment and then started to glide silently down the white ribbon. I t gained speed and plummeted from between the trees into a wide, open slope. I t leaped gracefully over the moguls and disappeared at the bottom, hidden by the shadows of the trees. The patient breeze again smoothed the surface of the slope. Another black speck appeared at the summit.

Both by PETER LAWSON, IV

PARKER POND, MAINE Nestled among the pine-covered hills of central Maine are several crystal-clear, island-studded lakes. None of them, however, can compare to Parker Pond, a medium-sized irregularly shaped, and rather isolated lake of many moods. A t every time of day, in every type of weather, from every vantage point, Parker Pond reveals a new aspect to its splendor.

For all bass fishermen the lake holds a particular attraction, but for me its significance goes much deeper.

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Morning on Parker Pond is generally a time of the utmost serenity.

The water is unrippled, and huge, jagged boulders like the ones that line the shore can be seen to a depth of twenty feet. Often one can observe the smaller fish lurking in their rocky hideways while trying to decide whether or not to go for our bait.

By noon, the sun has long since penetrated the haze, and the breeze has picked up. Since the fishing is either slow or non-existent about this time, we generally have a picnic lunch at one of our favorite haunts.

Devouring a steak on a secluded island seems so much more natural than carefully indulging in a delicacy at some swank New York restaurant.

Noon is a time of rest from the morning’s activities and of anticipation of the afternoon’s fishing.

In many ways, late afternoon and early evening is the most enchant­ ing time of all on Parker Pond. For one thing, the fishing is almost always at its best during this period. Furthermore, the increased wind adds a new power and majesty to the lake. The ripples become frolicking wavelets, capped with white; their incessant murmur against the awe­ some, rock-lined shore creates a new dimension of excitement. Even in rain, the afternoon is a time of extreme loveliness. How vividly I can remember the six of us in our two tiny boats withstanding the onslaught of rain as we continued to fish! Although evening is the most beautiful time for me, it is also the saddest; we p u ll in our string of fish, put away our gear, and head for shore.

I t is not beauty alone that sends me four hundred miles to spend three or four days at Parker Pond. Perhaps the prim itive rawness of untouched nature holds me in its grasp. I t is difficult to describe my emotions as I watch a hooked bass defiantly break out of the water to gain its freedom; I have fished for hours without a bite, and still I must go back. Above all, Parker Pond is for me a symbol of peace, of escape from a frantic, rushed urban existence. A man on that lake is humbled by his feeling of utter insignificance. The cares of the world fly away before a felt greater presence, perhaps the presence of God. JAMES ROSENBERG, VI

THERE’SA DOLL FOR YOU “ SOMEWHERE there’s a D oll for you, too.”

A well-publicized doll company recently claimed that the era has arrived when there is a doll on the market to suit every taste, whim, and fancy. This statement provoked me into making a personal investi­ gation, and after a thorough study of toy catalogs, newspaper ads, and television commercials, I enthusiastically endorse this claim. In fact, I 11

now feel fu lly qualified to guide and direct your selection of dolls for yourselves and your fam ily and acquaintances.

Let us start with the budding Ballenciagas, Schiaparillis, and Chris­ tian Diors among your younger friends. You can choose from a lavish group of high-styled fashion-model dolls (with prices at least as high as the styles), who are the present reigning queens of the doll world. M im i, for example, is famous for her thirty inches of vinyl appeal, and she also has made quite a name for herself by her ability to run up larger clothing bills than any other members of your family. Only the finest is good enough for M im i—from her chinchilla stole and satin ballgown to her latest French bikini. M im i, incidentally, boasts that she is jointed in twelve places, has a dimpled chin and can even stand unaided on one leg, if properly balanced.

For sheer magnificence, M im i’s only rival in the competitive world of dolls is Garloo the Monster. Garloo’s blood-curling ugliness would instantly endear him to the heart of any “ T w ilig h t Zone” addict. Garloo runs on three electric motors by remote control in any direction and can pick up almost anything in his spongy hands. In this respect he definitely outclasses M im i. But Garloo, unfortunately, cannot stand on one leg unaided, even if properly balanced.

Most heartwarming is the realization that in this doll-happy year of 1961 you can solve your gift-giving problems w ith psychological sim­ plicity. I f you have a shy, tongue-tied introvert on your shopping list, Chatty Kathy is without a doubt the doll he has been waiting for. Her extensive vocabulary of eight different sentences w ill fill any lu ll in the conversation w ith sparkling witticisms. Thumbelina is my personal choice for short friends w ith inferiority complexes, for what could be a better ego-builder than a thumb-sucking companion of such minute dimensions? Any hypochrondriac would be enraptured to possess Marybel—The-Doll-Who-Gets-Well. Marybell arrives fu lly equipped w ith her own m^asle-spots, band-aids, gauze, and arm and leg crutches. The Rock-a-Bye-Baby with the rock-a-bye eyes is guaranteed to lu ll insomniacs to sleep in a few drowsy blinks, though for really hard cases of insomnia, perhaps the lullabies of Baby Melody would be more effective. As for those lonely-hearted, love-lorn acquaintances, no longer need they be deprived of warm and affectionate female companionship. For only $13.95 you can present them with Kissy Doll, an irresistably huggable bundle of the softest plastic, who w ill obligingly pucker up with a real kissing sound the moment her hands are pressed together. What more could anyone wish for?

W hich brings us right back to where we were at the beginning— somewhere there’s a doll for you, too.

JO N A T H A N DEE, I I 12

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P IN K Pink is the color of flowers, and pink is the nose of her face, and pink are her lips and her tonngue, and pink is her petticoat lace.

Her napkin is blotted w ith lipstick pink as a new valentine, and her nails are coated with colors pinkish and carminnine.

Oh, pink is the way to describe her whose eyelashes swish w ith each blink and whose hat is adorned with four feathers and w ith fu r indescribably pink.

ROGER LEWIS, V

SPOKEN T O MY C AT Where were you last night, my mischievous friend, That makes you so tired today?

You lie in the sun with an all-knowing smile, Licking various wounds that must mend By tonight, so again out the door you may sneak, And partake in (Lord knows) such delights, That I, though I search, w ill never find out.

And of which, I'm quite sure, you won’t speak.

And I know, as you haughtily stare up at me, T hat you think not of day, but of dusk.

And of night, w ith its friendly, concealing black cloak.

And of all the w ild times that w ill be.

A N DREW U L L R IC K , V 13

BERKSHIRE POOL High-sweeping swans in swift formation fly Through fluted clouds across an autumn sky.

The world is not quite still; the trembling air Runs deftly through the willows whispering there.

And while it settles, silent, still, and cool.

And while the willows glow with evening light, Far down, a deep but clearly flowing pool Awaits the certain coming of the night.

Brush smolders on the slopes across the pond.

Dark wood-smoke rises from the shadowed h ill.

I t shifts and dances, for the breeze beyond Refuses to become completely still.

A tree branch shivers with the coming cold.

Forgotten m idnight rain awakes; set free A pebbled storm explodes, and hundredfold The ripples dance away in nervous glee.

But soon, in shame, the troubled depths subside And peace and measured calm at last abide.

RO BERT FAGEN, V

POOLS OF WATER

YOU ARE COOL You are cool: as cool as the center of Alpha Centauri as cool as a summer day as cool as a new possession as cool as the sixth sense as cool as the fourth dimension you are as different refreshing soothing exciting ALIVE.

Pools of water are curled, bent. eddying around four rubies embedded in tar on the street outside our house.

In spring, Children on the pavement mistake the stones for shattered window-panes, but you and I know what they are.

Both by JO HN FO RT, V I 14

WHEN TWILIGHT CAME When tw ilight came one balmy summer day W ith all my worries gone, as was the light.

The eve took hate and snatched it from my sight, W hile soft melodic breezes came to serenade.

I listened, and the strains of “ Moonglow” seemed T o bring the pleas’ntest thoughts into my mind; Of love and peace, which are of such a kind, That fears were gone in my delightful dreams.

When I awoke, the sun brought back by fear Of pride and hate, the sins I would commit.

L ife ’s morals which had been so definite Had then become, in meaning, not so clear.

But then the thoughts came back of that one time When sin was not, and all the world sublime.

EDW ARD PREVOST, V

A WIND A soft sigh of wind came, unsure at first.

Then catching hold, a poor but steady breath.

Born of the black void of lifeless night, And then on warmth and moisture nursed.

I t grew to be a lonely draft.

Its presence barely felt when fu ll in strength.

Trees stood unbent when at its worst.

Bending and turning on its unset course, The wind swirled about in an aimless way In a short and winding visit on the earth.

Then from its quiet fury its force was spent.

I t passed on, moisture buried, warmth cold.

CURTIS M A R T IN , V

LIFE IS A VOYAGE When man explores on new-found seas, His bark by wind and wave is tossed.

And when the wind his ensign flutters.

And salt brine beats against red cheek.

Life is a joy, his bark a heaven.

When wind stirs not his outstretched sail, But leaves sea glass, and ratline slack, The bliss of former times is crushed.

Then song alone of aged tar Breaks the still of becalmed bark; In lead boat is each sinew strained. ’T il all hear kicks of canvas speak, W hile prow deep blue and whitecap cuts, To green^ shores oaken bowsprit points.

Home is near, journey nigh done.

Now calm, peace, and solace beckon; For him no more vie wind and wave.

RO BERT EISENHAUER, IV

COROEBUS—VICTOR OF OLYMPIA, 776 B.C. Oh, do you care that I unearth your name.

Buried in mountains of old history, A fter so many years a travesty Of the sad glory of long-lingering fame?

Proud victor of the first Olympic game, Crowned with the olive wreath, strong, joyful, free, You mastered life; you did not live to see Yourself forgotten in your dead’s acclaim.

But who knows Coroebus? He who won T hat race whose story through the centuries Survived is but a name. And though time spare The knowledge of some deed I may have done, And though in my name in strangers’ reveries Live on—my self can true fame never share.

K E N N E T H W A C H TER , I I I 16

Colby & McGowan, Inc. Elizabeth N. J.

BORDEN M ETAL PRODUCTS CO.